El Dorado Avenue. When Mrs. George thought about it, that name fit only if your eyes were right; the street was not paved with gold, nor did it lead to a golden city. But it did lead somewhere, somewhere she'd been, somewhere she tired to show others who happened by her place. Beginning at the western edge of Kittle Park, perpendicular to First Street, El Dorado snaked away to the west, narrowed, and ended in a tangle of weeds and tall grass; the river passed on close by. Houses had not been planned but seemed to spring up here and there out of the very ground; most of them predated Mrs. George, and she'd been there from time immemorial. The only house that could be seen from First Street, and the only house worth looking at, was hers, and it sat like a lighthouse on the corner. Its front faced the park and First, and the southern side reached down into El Dorado.
Made of wispy willow branches, Mrs. George's chair comforted her; from the corner of her wrap-around porch she listened to the summer day: the chatter and play of the constant gaggle of children, a wasp or two searching out the coolness of the eaves, Dan, the aging mail carrier, pacifying expectant K-9s, and always the creaking of the wood siding around the living room picture window: it popped and groaned in the sunlight, and she kept time by it. Here, the early morning sunlight crawled up her porch steps, danced its way over her head, and set like a red medallion just beyond the avenue's end. And it was here, with the coming of the night, that she watched.
"There's nothing new under the sun," Mrs. George said to her one-eyed tabby cat. "Yes, you settle down here, Lily, you've had your dinner." Lily's purr rose over the whir of locusts. "Oh, you silly cat -- get on with your dance and lie down already. Good. There, now. Keep your ears open for me, Lily. Tonight has that feel to it." She scratched the animal's head and smiled. "There's no storm, but you know what I mean. Like the night Mr. Donald walked -- or rather, ran -- down our street; remember him? He's the one who taught you to love the taste of frog legs." She rocked several times back and forth before she continued; Lily warmed her lap, and the comfort it brought helped her memory along. "You do so remember. He meant to pass on by once he made it through the park; yes, he rushed along First, headed to the city, no doubt. But he was surprised by El Dorado." A smile, small and meaningful, lilted to one side of her face. In the silence, the cat perked up her ears and itched its blank eye socket on Mrs. George's thigh. "I know, Lily-cat, I shouldn't laugh, but it's true. He was surprised. So many are."
When the night came on, neither Mrs. George nor Lily moved. The nightsounds rose with the moon, and the old woman of El Dorado remembered aloud the plight of Mr. Donald.
Mr. Donald crawled out from Kittle Park, wet and sore, covered not only in thorns but also a layer of scum. He'd somehow slipped and fallen the full length of the hill. The thickets slowed him, which was a painful grace, otherwise his head would have been crushed by a rock or a tree trunk. However, he was in no position to see such a grace, and the moment he exited the park his only thought was to get away from the large frog that followed in his trail, and to do so without losing the package he carried. Its neck-skin thinned and stretched until the head seemed doubled in size, and then it croaked and hopped toward the horrified Mr. Donald.
This is when Mrs. George saw him. She had just remarked to Lily about the deep color of the setting sun when the strange shape of Mr. Donald took her off guard. She understood after a minute's observation.
"Excuse me," she said. "You'll have all sorts of trouble if you carry on that way."
The frightened man slowed, but didn't stop. "What was that?" He asked, never taking his eyes off his follower.
"You'll need to drop that package and come over here." Mrs. George stood up, walked to edge of her porch, and motioned with her free hand -- the other held Lily, who kept twitching her tail so that it brushed Mrs. George's floral dress.
"I can't drop the package -- "
"You mean you won't."
These words stopped Mr. Donald, and the leaper got dangerously close as he considered them.
"Come up here, on the porch. Sit awhile. Lily will keep your friend away while you listen to me."
Mr. Donald was not in the habit of listening to old women -- he was not in the habit of listening to anyone, really, which is one of the reasons he'd been walking through Kittle Park so late. Yet he heard the authority in her voice, and she'd been right about his package. He said, "Well, I can't stay long." It was his way of shielding his dignity.
"Sure. You have places to be." The twinkle in Mrs. George's eye was a private twinkle, and anyway it was too dark for Mr. Donald to see, even if he'd looked. He was too busy crossing the street, trying not to fall as he managed the contents of his hands and checked on the frog. "That's right, now come on up here. Lily will keep that creature at bay while you sit a spell."
"I'll stand, thank you." Mr. Donald watched the cat. Lily paced the top step, her tail painting swift shapes in the air while she guarded the porch. "It's not really following me, is it? That's in my mind." He ran his hands over the brown paper that covered the package, not intending to be answered.
"Oh, he is though. I'm afraid he is," Mrs. George laughed at the sight he was, and continued. "Those thorns must be painful, I can help, Mr. -- "
"Donald, Mr. Horatio Donald -- and I don't need to put this down, thank you."
"Well." Now her mirth had faded and in its place a word for Mr. Donald grew up, a word she knew would rot inside her if she did not speak it. "Mr. Horatio Donald, I want nothing to do with that. You need to come on over here, where the light on the porch is; hear me."
He wavered. Clutched and repositioned the weight in his arms. "No, I'm late already. So, I'll stand and wait for that, that thing to go on."
"He can't hear me, Lily-cat. Shame. Well, I got to say what you can't hear anyway. Look at me at least -- " she turned fully toward him, removed her large glasses, which up to this point had hidden a large portion of the top of her face, and tapped her cheek just under her left eye. "See here. This eye, it's white and useless. Sees about as much as the eye of a needle. That is, without help."
Mr. Donald recoiled and gasped at the sight of the clouded eye now searching him. At the same moment, Lily shot through the opening in his legs, causing him to yell and stumble.
Mrs. George's voice was steady as she said, "This one closed to the world, Mr. Donald. A lifetime ago. The finger of God reached out and closed it to this world. Do you know what I'm sayin'?"
He couldn't speak, only shake his head.
"No. You don't. Maybe this will be the only thing you hear: drop that. Drop it now, or it will only grow and get you crushed. Maybe eaten up. Do you hear? This is your chance to escape." She straightened to her full height and fixed her good eye on him. In a booming voice she repeated, "Drop that," but she took care not to touch what was his.
What exactly Mr. Donald heard was not clear, but he somehow followed that she wanted him to throw his baggage away. Whatever it was that blocked his ears also fogged his mind; he saw Mrs. George and her warnings as a threat, and he backed away from her.
"Now, don't do that," she said. "Your friend is out there. He's waitin' for you, you know that. Come on. Stay," her voice softened, she reached out a hand. "Ain't nothin' gonna happen to your things unless you say so -- come on. I have a chair for you next to mine. They's gettin' cold, Mr. Horatio Donald, come on -- "
But the poor man, who was now struggling to maintain his grip, continued down the stairs, mumbling to himself. "This is mine," he said. "I won't set it down."
"I know." Mrs. George put her glasses back in place. "Look there, Mister. Your friend's got some friends."
What came next happened quickly: Mr. Donald turned to see not only the first frog, which was already leaning toward him, but also streams of frogs crossing First Street. In his growing panic, it seemed to him that the lawn itself quivered and moved at him. He watched, frozen, until he saw the tongues flash out, grabbing here and there -- the larger frogs began to snatch up the smaller ones, their squirming legs dancing on the hungry, never-ending grins of the insatiable monsters. His screams awoke the night.
"Run!" Shouted Mrs. George. "Run toward the setting sun! Down El Dorado -- it's your only hope, now -- go! There's a house by the river; get to it!"
Whether Mr. Donald actually understood what she said was unclear, however, he did run down El Dorado, frogs in his wake.
"Lily, dear, looks like the plague of Egypt on my grass." She sighed. "You'll have to go see for me. Will you? I want to know what happens to that man. Maybe he'll be saved yet." At the moment, Lily was stalking down the porch, waiting for the right moment to pounce, but Mrs. George's desire to know what would come of Mr. Donald won her away from her game. The cat ran after him.
"Now." Mrs. George rocked to the rhythm of the insect hum that surrounded her and tried to put horrible ideas away. "Well. He's headed in the right direction. That's a start."
What felt like hours later, Lily bounded onto Mrs. George's lap. She sat bolt upright and stared into the old woman's face. "No dancing, then? Alright, I know -- let me take these glasses off, and we'll have a look." Soon her clouded eye came to life; set directly across from the cat's blank cavity, the white fog stirred and for several minutes became a storm of activity. "Oh, I see. And he passed right on by." Mrs. George sat back, her hand reaching for Lily. "Good girl. We tried, didn't we?"
This is what Lily showed her: The running Mr. Donald, just ahead of the largest frogs, stumbling, clutching at his possession -- and the longer he ran, and the more he held tightly to the package, the heavier and more elusive it became. Once the pavement gave way to brick, his feet were tripped up here and there, but it was the soft turf by the river's edge that finally made him fall. Of course, as Mrs. George had expected, he didn't see the refuge he so badly needed: It didn't look like much, the house she told him of, but for those who know they need it, it is peace in the midst of horror. Mr. Donald had forgotten. Yet, as is the case for some at the end, when he fell and his pursuers jumped upon him -- even as they began to tear him and one another apart in their cannibalic frenzy -- a certain kind of memory came over him. He did get a glimpse of the house, of the ancient chimney, and the sight of steady smoke ascending into the purple sky reminded him of nights he'd spent with his father and mother, of their music, their talk. It was a flash of a moment.
"Yes, Lily, tonight has that feel to it." Mrs. George looked as far down El Dorado as she could. "He had a look on his face. Didn't he? You remember. I wonder what that look was about -- they'd knocked his hands loose, that's sure." She scratched Lily's head and listened. "And that night -- didn't it feel like this? Now what? Don't go far, dear," she said and set the cat down.
Lily stretched and yawned, then she sat where she could see First Street and the shadows of the park. For several minutes she was still -- an unblinking statue.
"You hear it, too, don't you? But they're not quick steps this time, are they?" Mrs. George closed her eyes and tried to picture the figure that now approached. "A woman, that's sure. Light feet. Oh, don't we hope for her, Lily? Don't we hope she knows the house by the river?" And she rocked with her eyes still closed until she heard Lily's purr, and she knew, she felt, the presence at the bottom of the porch.
"Excuse me?" A voice spoke, clear and even. "I know it's late, and I'm not sure quite where I am -- may I come up?"
Mrs. George opened her eyes and smiled. "Child, do come and sit. Rest. It will be hard enough when El Dorado calls you further." She beckoned with her hand. "Don't mind that cat; she's headed for her supper. Frogs have been on the menu all summer long."
Made of wispy willow branches, Mrs. George's chair comforted her; from the corner of her wrap-around porch she listened to the summer day: the chatter and play of the constant gaggle of children, a wasp or two searching out the coolness of the eaves, Dan, the aging mail carrier, pacifying expectant K-9s, and always the creaking of the wood siding around the living room picture window: it popped and groaned in the sunlight, and she kept time by it. Here, the early morning sunlight crawled up her porch steps, danced its way over her head, and set like a red medallion just beyond the avenue's end. And it was here, with the coming of the night, that she watched.
"There's nothing new under the sun," Mrs. George said to her one-eyed tabby cat. "Yes, you settle down here, Lily, you've had your dinner." Lily's purr rose over the whir of locusts. "Oh, you silly cat -- get on with your dance and lie down already. Good. There, now. Keep your ears open for me, Lily. Tonight has that feel to it." She scratched the animal's head and smiled. "There's no storm, but you know what I mean. Like the night Mr. Donald walked -- or rather, ran -- down our street; remember him? He's the one who taught you to love the taste of frog legs." She rocked several times back and forth before she continued; Lily warmed her lap, and the comfort it brought helped her memory along. "You do so remember. He meant to pass on by once he made it through the park; yes, he rushed along First, headed to the city, no doubt. But he was surprised by El Dorado." A smile, small and meaningful, lilted to one side of her face. In the silence, the cat perked up her ears and itched its blank eye socket on Mrs. George's thigh. "I know, Lily-cat, I shouldn't laugh, but it's true. He was surprised. So many are."
When the night came on, neither Mrs. George nor Lily moved. The nightsounds rose with the moon, and the old woman of El Dorado remembered aloud the plight of Mr. Donald.
***
Kittle Park lies like a bulging levee against the growing town beyond it -- rocky and wild, it protects El Dorado and allows it to sleep. Sound and electric light ebb but do not flow beyond its strong arm. One steep hill, which runs across its entire length, leads to a slope that is busy with all manner of overgrown brush. Thorns the size of a child's finger reach out in all directions, and only newcomers venture too close. Gnarled trees grow at the bottom, as though fleeing the thickets, and each year new willows confuse the unkempt banks of the creek that twists away to the south.
Mr. Donald crawled out from Kittle Park, wet and sore, covered not only in thorns but also a layer of scum. He'd somehow slipped and fallen the full length of the hill. The thickets slowed him, which was a painful grace, otherwise his head would have been crushed by a rock or a tree trunk. However, he was in no position to see such a grace, and the moment he exited the park his only thought was to get away from the large frog that followed in his trail, and to do so without losing the package he carried. Its neck-skin thinned and stretched until the head seemed doubled in size, and then it croaked and hopped toward the horrified Mr. Donald.
This is when Mrs. George saw him. She had just remarked to Lily about the deep color of the setting sun when the strange shape of Mr. Donald took her off guard. She understood after a minute's observation.
"Excuse me," she said. "You'll have all sorts of trouble if you carry on that way."
The frightened man slowed, but didn't stop. "What was that?" He asked, never taking his eyes off his follower.
"You'll need to drop that package and come over here." Mrs. George stood up, walked to edge of her porch, and motioned with her free hand -- the other held Lily, who kept twitching her tail so that it brushed Mrs. George's floral dress.
"I can't drop the package -- "
"You mean you won't."
These words stopped Mr. Donald, and the leaper got dangerously close as he considered them.
"Come up here, on the porch. Sit awhile. Lily will keep your friend away while you listen to me."
Mr. Donald was not in the habit of listening to old women -- he was not in the habit of listening to anyone, really, which is one of the reasons he'd been walking through Kittle Park so late. Yet he heard the authority in her voice, and she'd been right about his package. He said, "Well, I can't stay long." It was his way of shielding his dignity.
"Sure. You have places to be." The twinkle in Mrs. George's eye was a private twinkle, and anyway it was too dark for Mr. Donald to see, even if he'd looked. He was too busy crossing the street, trying not to fall as he managed the contents of his hands and checked on the frog. "That's right, now come on up here. Lily will keep that creature at bay while you sit a spell."
"I'll stand, thank you." Mr. Donald watched the cat. Lily paced the top step, her tail painting swift shapes in the air while she guarded the porch. "It's not really following me, is it? That's in my mind." He ran his hands over the brown paper that covered the package, not intending to be answered.
"Oh, he is though. I'm afraid he is," Mrs. George laughed at the sight he was, and continued. "Those thorns must be painful, I can help, Mr. -- "
"Donald, Mr. Horatio Donald -- and I don't need to put this down, thank you."
"Well." Now her mirth had faded and in its place a word for Mr. Donald grew up, a word she knew would rot inside her if she did not speak it. "Mr. Horatio Donald, I want nothing to do with that. You need to come on over here, where the light on the porch is; hear me."
He wavered. Clutched and repositioned the weight in his arms. "No, I'm late already. So, I'll stand and wait for that, that thing to go on."
"He can't hear me, Lily-cat. Shame. Well, I got to say what you can't hear anyway. Look at me at least -- " she turned fully toward him, removed her large glasses, which up to this point had hidden a large portion of the top of her face, and tapped her cheek just under her left eye. "See here. This eye, it's white and useless. Sees about as much as the eye of a needle. That is, without help."
Mr. Donald recoiled and gasped at the sight of the clouded eye now searching him. At the same moment, Lily shot through the opening in his legs, causing him to yell and stumble.
Mrs. George's voice was steady as she said, "This one closed to the world, Mr. Donald. A lifetime ago. The finger of God reached out and closed it to this world. Do you know what I'm sayin'?"
He couldn't speak, only shake his head.
"No. You don't. Maybe this will be the only thing you hear: drop that. Drop it now, or it will only grow and get you crushed. Maybe eaten up. Do you hear? This is your chance to escape." She straightened to her full height and fixed her good eye on him. In a booming voice she repeated, "Drop that," but she took care not to touch what was his.
What exactly Mr. Donald heard was not clear, but he somehow followed that she wanted him to throw his baggage away. Whatever it was that blocked his ears also fogged his mind; he saw Mrs. George and her warnings as a threat, and he backed away from her.
"Now, don't do that," she said. "Your friend is out there. He's waitin' for you, you know that. Come on. Stay," her voice softened, she reached out a hand. "Ain't nothin' gonna happen to your things unless you say so -- come on. I have a chair for you next to mine. They's gettin' cold, Mr. Horatio Donald, come on -- "
But the poor man, who was now struggling to maintain his grip, continued down the stairs, mumbling to himself. "This is mine," he said. "I won't set it down."
"I know." Mrs. George put her glasses back in place. "Look there, Mister. Your friend's got some friends."
What came next happened quickly: Mr. Donald turned to see not only the first frog, which was already leaning toward him, but also streams of frogs crossing First Street. In his growing panic, it seemed to him that the lawn itself quivered and moved at him. He watched, frozen, until he saw the tongues flash out, grabbing here and there -- the larger frogs began to snatch up the smaller ones, their squirming legs dancing on the hungry, never-ending grins of the insatiable monsters. His screams awoke the night.
"Run!" Shouted Mrs. George. "Run toward the setting sun! Down El Dorado -- it's your only hope, now -- go! There's a house by the river; get to it!"
Whether Mr. Donald actually understood what she said was unclear, however, he did run down El Dorado, frogs in his wake.
"Lily, dear, looks like the plague of Egypt on my grass." She sighed. "You'll have to go see for me. Will you? I want to know what happens to that man. Maybe he'll be saved yet." At the moment, Lily was stalking down the porch, waiting for the right moment to pounce, but Mrs. George's desire to know what would come of Mr. Donald won her away from her game. The cat ran after him.
"Now." Mrs. George rocked to the rhythm of the insect hum that surrounded her and tried to put horrible ideas away. "Well. He's headed in the right direction. That's a start."
What felt like hours later, Lily bounded onto Mrs. George's lap. She sat bolt upright and stared into the old woman's face. "No dancing, then? Alright, I know -- let me take these glasses off, and we'll have a look." Soon her clouded eye came to life; set directly across from the cat's blank cavity, the white fog stirred and for several minutes became a storm of activity. "Oh, I see. And he passed right on by." Mrs. George sat back, her hand reaching for Lily. "Good girl. We tried, didn't we?"
This is what Lily showed her: The running Mr. Donald, just ahead of the largest frogs, stumbling, clutching at his possession -- and the longer he ran, and the more he held tightly to the package, the heavier and more elusive it became. Once the pavement gave way to brick, his feet were tripped up here and there, but it was the soft turf by the river's edge that finally made him fall. Of course, as Mrs. George had expected, he didn't see the refuge he so badly needed: It didn't look like much, the house she told him of, but for those who know they need it, it is peace in the midst of horror. Mr. Donald had forgotten. Yet, as is the case for some at the end, when he fell and his pursuers jumped upon him -- even as they began to tear him and one another apart in their cannibalic frenzy -- a certain kind of memory came over him. He did get a glimpse of the house, of the ancient chimney, and the sight of steady smoke ascending into the purple sky reminded him of nights he'd spent with his father and mother, of their music, their talk. It was a flash of a moment.
***
"Yes, Lily, tonight has that feel to it." Mrs. George looked as far down El Dorado as she could. "He had a look on his face. Didn't he? You remember. I wonder what that look was about -- they'd knocked his hands loose, that's sure." She scratched Lily's head and listened. "And that night -- didn't it feel like this? Now what? Don't go far, dear," she said and set the cat down.
Lily stretched and yawned, then she sat where she could see First Street and the shadows of the park. For several minutes she was still -- an unblinking statue.
"You hear it, too, don't you? But they're not quick steps this time, are they?" Mrs. George closed her eyes and tried to picture the figure that now approached. "A woman, that's sure. Light feet. Oh, don't we hope for her, Lily? Don't we hope she knows the house by the river?" And she rocked with her eyes still closed until she heard Lily's purr, and she knew, she felt, the presence at the bottom of the porch.
"Excuse me?" A voice spoke, clear and even. "I know it's late, and I'm not sure quite where I am -- may I come up?"
Mrs. George opened her eyes and smiled. "Child, do come and sit. Rest. It will be hard enough when El Dorado calls you further." She beckoned with her hand. "Don't mind that cat; she's headed for her supper. Frogs have been on the menu all summer long."
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