King Herbert—Writing

He was a small leopard frog who would not leave.

An I-87 bay native, “Herbert” had crossed many lanes. And though the boy scarcely knew him different from the rest of the bay’s brackish legs, the leopard frog’s murky home stunk of fowl meat and rotten eggs, and the two of them, the boy and the old man, stowed the leopard frog “Herbert” into an open-halved milk gallon.

They hadn’t set out to bring Herbert home, no. Nor had they believed they were fated a leopard frog companion. But nevertheless, Herbert followed them through the meadow grass, past the reed field, up the ridge to the highway shoulder’s edge where even Herbert paused at the yellow sign that read “Turtle X-ing,” to which the three of them laughed.

They had hatched a plan last night to plant a brackish turtle inside of the woman Lucille’s bath. She would come home in her habit, the unit below theirs, hang the keys beside the counter, drop her store-bought bags on the dresser and strip herself clean, bracing one arm over the bed. It wouldn’t be until later though, after all of her makeup had left, when she had finally allowed herself a good, clement breath, that the woman Lucille would turn the bath water hot and fill the tub without paying its contents much attention. In the living area, she would ask her smart television rudimentary questions like the score of the Phillies game, tomorrow’s weather, and subsequently what time it was again. She’d fix herself tea — double hazelnut cream — sip it tempestuously until she remembered the water was running. And then, in a rush of just-realized content, she would storm the bathroom door open only to find her ivory-white palace drowned in a murky brown instead, and the high king Herbert hailing supreme.

But after ten, maybe fifteen minutes of driving along Rio Grand, far enough that the ocean breeze could no longer clear the marsh’s sulfuric-stink, they had discovered that there were in fact no turtles crossing there. The boy was frantic, gripping the edge of the car seat. What was it that he wanted, craved even, about this cheeky little plan? Nothing more, nothing less than the sound of the woman Lucille pounding the ceiling overhead, above which the boy and the old man slept, cursing them of their antics, their leaping on and off of their beds, only a few feet of rug-shag between them.

We must uncage all of the hermit crabs, the boy said. From every shop on the boardwalk. This was the night before last. The people will remember it as “The Great Uncaging,” the young boy declared.

The old man tossed a mustard-yellow ball in the space between their beds. The young boy caught it.

But the boardwalk, it is far too busy to go without a lay of the lan — three harsh pounds sounded just beneath them. The boy looked to the old man, then laughed at the routine-ness of it. The woman Lucille had made a habit of doing this after seven. Pounding the ceiling with the rubber-bottomed end of her walking cane any time they passed the ball between them. Yes, it was a nuisance, and yes, perhaps they shouldn’t have, but the woman Lucille knew better, for the old man fetched her groceries on Sundays and yes, he paid for them. It had been this way since the boy could remember, and so commenced the confusingly capricious relationship between them. One day the woman Lucille would be gracious, benevolent, and another, she would be sick and tired of their godforsaken shit — her words — and in dire need of a bath.

It occurred to the old man then that it had been too long since they had acted so unhinged. Laying there on the bed, just the thought of a plan as large as releasing all of the boardwalk’s hermit crabs felt a world away from them. It was too big to grasp.

We are in need of a trial run before the hermits, the old man said. We are not ready for so much orchestration.

The boy bounced the ball on the floor and back to the old man. That is why we must do a stake-out beforehand, the boy said. We must get a lay of the land.

I worry it will not be enough, the old man said.

Four pounds came from the woman Lucille’s cane beneath them.

The old man squeezed the ball knuckle-red. We must be calculated. A plan like this is out of season for us, we are not ready for its breadth.

Two more thumps came from the woman Lucille’s rubber-cane end.

What then? The boy asked. Cracks between the wooden blinds let the sound of the waves in. The room was wet with ocean mist. Their pillowcases stuck to their necks. Another strike for spite from the woman Lucille, and the boy picked up his head. I have it, the boy whispered.

The old man peeled the pillowcase from the back of his neck.

The woman Lucille will be our trial test.

And under the hum of a third cane jab, the boy and the old man grinned — wildly devilish, unrepentant — the hunt for King Herbert began.