My Darkest Secret

    I have a story to tell you, about a dear friend of mine and his untimely demise. It's very serious, so pay attention.

    When I was about eight years old, I lived in a low white house in the simmering oaken woods of western Arkansas. Not the most charming of places, but my siblings and I made the most of it. Nowadays when I think about those labyrinths of dusty briars and the enormous quantity of glimmering blue and green lizards sunning on the stones by the carport, I shudder. To a bunch of kids in battered jeans looking for their next adventure, however, it was paradise.

    I grew extremely quick at capturing those lightning-slithering reptiles, and nothing pleased me more than to gently place my dear lizard/toad/turtle into a spare cardboard box, hop into the kitchen with it, and cry, "Mom, look what I found!"
    "Get that thing out of the house," she would say calmly.
    "Can I keep him? Can I feed him something?"
    If she was in a good mood, she would say, "Just for the day. There's some lettuce in the fridge."
    If she was not feeling charitable toward the animal kingdom (for example, when our dog, Buster, enjoyed a frolic with the trash cans on trash-truck day) she would say, with an air of crushing finality, "go put it back  where you found it." And it was on one of those days that I met my good friend the Toad With No Name.

    Back then I possessed the prudent habit of looking beneath rocks for creatures of interest. (It's a mercy I was never bitten by a copperhead, what with all the horrid stuff I got up to.) There was always something special under there, even if 'twas only a sweet little grub or roly-poly. And one day, when I was hot and bored and looking for an extra companion (three siblings aren't really enough, you know), I found a true prize.

    He was a beautiful, benevolent, bumpy, absolutely enchanting little toad. My favorite animal of all (and now the only animal I really love, period.), and he was waiting there as though heaven-sent to be a friend to me. He napped peacefully there in a depression beneath that great stone, and goodness knows how he managed to squeeze under it. One of the great mysteries.

    As soon as I disturbed him, he me made a quick hop for it, but as every young person knows, this is really a display of deep affection. I caught him smoothly, thinking of the good times we would have together.

    But we ran into some trouble in the kitchen. It came like this:
    "Go put that thing back where you found him."
   
    Well, I thought dismally, this wasn't really goodbye. I could probably catch him again when I wanted. Toads were faithful creatures and tended to stick around.

    Once again out in the thick heat of the great outdoors, I had a stroke of inspiration. As a parting token of my devotion to him, I would replace the toad in his cool, earthly little haven beneath the rock, so that he would not have to lift a little webbed foot for the rest of the day, and he would be struck by my thoughtfulness. So there I put him, saying a fond farewell, and lowered the stone.

    I suppose it would have been better for my overall mental health if I had just let well enough alone. But later that day, I just had to check on him. What I found will haunt me unto my death.

    Upon lifting that rock, I saw that a change had come over my toad. That is to say, I must have misjudged precisely where his little open space in the dirt was, because somehow the rock had squashed him. I had squashed him. What had once been a perfectly lovely, healthy toad was now a queer mass of congealing blood and bumpy brown skin. Even now my heart constricts at the thought.

    I gently laid the stone back down and returned indoors, sick with horror. I, a good, kind, law-abiding little girl, had accidentally killed my chum. And it was about seven years before I told anyone about it.

    Mary was the first to know. There was actually a little laughter in the conversation, during which she called me a "toad murderer". There was even more laughter when I told the story to Mother and whatever siblings happened to be around at the time. But there was a spark of tenderness in Mother's eyes as she smiled, for she can recognize a touch of regret even when I'm joking about.

    Anyway, I'm really, really sorry, Mr. Toad. I hope you forgive me. Your spirit will linger in all our hearts, and I hope you have some great-great-great-great grandchildren hopping around the creek somewhere, to carry on your legacy.