To Sing Frogs Chapter 17b

Amy and Bill Jenson

Bill’s voice was chipper as ever despite having just completed an equivalent trip to Amy’s and mine. I called him in his room just after checking in at the Hyatt Incheon and we agreed to meet in the hotel restaurant after Amy and I showered and changed.

Bill looked fresh as morning when Amy threw her arms around him for a long embrace. Bill is one of “those” guys. He’s a chick magnet. He was sixty-eight years old and still a chick magnet. Some guys say you should take a kid to the park to pick up women. Others tell you to take a puppy. Neither could be anywhere near as effective as having Bill along. Amy says it’s because he’s so sincere. That can’t be all there is to it. I’m sincere and it never did much for me. I guess my wife means Bill is nice and sincere in his niceness. The “nice” part must be a requirement of the equation.

Bill is nothing if not nice. He’s never on a conquest, either. Maybe that’s what Amy means by sincere. It’s a good thing for Bill’s wife, Joan, he isn’t a hound, but she doesn’t really get it. It must be one of those situations of just not realizing what you’ve got. Joan once broke out her rarely used sarcasm and told Bill if he ever had the chance at a hot babe to knock himself out. If Bill knocked himself out every time he had a chance at a “hot babe,” he’d be stuck in a perpetual round of illicit affairs and slobbering unconsciousness.

Bill smiled, shook my hand, and then held out the other directing us toward the restaurant. Forget age before beauty, Bill would never go first. I had tried to out wait him in other instances. It never worked. He was always the last in line and never shotgun in the front seat of the car. It was consistently left to someone else as he raced for the back—in the middle if there were three.

“After you,” I said while holding out my own hand. Bill just smiled. He didn’t mind waiting. I delayed until it got uncomfortable. Then I relinquished. I never give up in a war but in this friendly conflict with my other dad I had never won a battle. Nobody “out-nices” Bill.

“How’s Chris?” Amy had been dying to talk about her friend ever since we started talking to Bill. She was his daughter-in-law, married to my friend, Brent, and one of Amy’s best friends.

“She’s great. She’s busy like moms are. I guess I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”

“And Joan?”

“She’s fine too; always busy. We cross paths once in a while,” Bill exaggerated. “Tell me about my new grandkids.”

We’d sent him pictures and talked about them on the phone from time to time. It wet his appetite so he was hungry for more. My kids had always called Bill and Joan Grandpa and Grandma. Amy had kind of latched onto them as surrogate parents and the grandpa-grandma thing seemed to follow naturally. Bill was as happy to add more to the list of those who called him grandpa, as he would have been if Amy was pregnant; maybe as eager as if one of his own kids was having a child. It’s all part of his niceness.

We told him about how excited Katya was to see his picture in the soft book and to know she would have a dyehdushka. Grandpa. We told him about spoiled little Luba and he waited eagerly for more with a sincere smile. Bill had raised some princesses of his own. My friend’s eyes glistened and Amy cried when she told him about Kirrill, his history, and the pain he would eventually have to face.

Water slowly spilled over large rectangular granite stones during our reunion. The cut rock was stacked up to form fountain features in the restaurant. The washing sounds calmed us and filled the air with soft splashing shahs and skas even when we were silent.

I didn’t tell Bill about beautiful little Marina. I don’t know why I thought about that.

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