Читать книгу The Complete Collection - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 41

That evening Billy shows up. I’m asleep and Mother’s still up watching the Johnny Carson show.

It’s amazing she didn’t drop over dead. The first thing I know is the damned intercom beside my bed buzzes. It’s Mom, practically hysterical.

‘Jacky, come! COME! Billy’s here!’

My brain’s spinning. ‘Billy here? Billy’s in Santa Cruz. He can’t be here.’ I come staggering out in my sleeping ex-running suit, portrait of the lost athlete.

But there he is. I haven’t seen Billy since he left Paris for school. It’s damned nice to see him. We give each other a semi-hug. My God, he smells like a whore’s shoes. I step back and he’s a sight! He looks undernourished, pimply. When Billy doesn’t eat right, he breaks out. His clothes are filthy, his shoes falling off his feet.

Mother’s standing there, her hands in little fists over her mouth. I have to admit, he’s enough to make anybody cry. He looks like an overgrown edition of a drawing for a Boys’ Town Christmas seal.

He tells us he got a letter from Vron saying Grandma’s sick. He asks her how she’s feeling, but she still can’t talk.

I tell him Dad’s sick now and is in the hospital. I’m trying to maneuver Mom into a chair. I don’t know how much to tell Billy about Dad here in front of Mom.

I’m figuring where to put him. The best is the garden room where I’ve been sleeping. Out there it’s less chance he’ll bug Mom. I’ll move up here to the side room. I’ll give him a key and tell him to keep that place locked up. The way he slops his stuff, beds unmade and all, it could be too much. I can see she’s already working up a scene.

I’m somewhat disturbed myself. If he looks bad to me, he must look ten times worse to Mom. Before I know it, she’s dashed into the bathroom and started a bath. I drag her back to the chair. I ask her to go to bed but she doesn’t move.

‘Please, Mother. It’s late.’

I know every minute she’s out here looking at Billy she’s digging her grave. I help her from the chair and lead her to the bedroom. I ease her into bed, get a glass of water and Valium. I put these on the night-stand.

I dash back and tell Billy to get those clothes off, and take a bath.

‘Put the clothes you’re wearing and any clothes in your sack into the clothes hamper. I’ll wash them tomorrow. Here’s a bathrobe and a pair of Granddad’s pajamas.’

I’m not waiting for Joan, I’ll take those things to the Laundromat myself; if they’re around the house too long, we’ll need to fumigate.

‘Bill, you take a good long bath, wash your hair and relax while I help Mother get to sleep. There’s some shampoo under the sink.’

I go back to the bedroom. Mother’s having a fit. She hasn’t taken the Valium. Her head’s on the pillow but she keeps lifting it to talk. I sit on the edge of the bed and insist she take the Valium.

‘What’s the matter with him, Jacky? He looks sick. What’s he been eating? Is that the way they dress in college these days? He looks like a hippy. Does he take drugs, Jacky? Ask him, Jacky, you ask him! I won’t have any drug addicts in my house!’

On and on.

‘He isn’t even’s clean as a hippy; he looks like a bum. I’m amazed the police let him walk the street like that.’

I listen and wait for the Valium to take effect. Everything she says is vaguely true. That’s the way with Mother. She doesn’t actually invent so much as she grabs onto rag-tail ends of things and elaborates them into personal fantasies.

Finally she settles down. I quietly sneak away. Billy has just finished his bath and comes out of the bathroom, dripping wet, wearing Dad’s second bathrobe. He comes into the living room, turns on the TV and plops into the platform rocker with his feet on the other chair. Billy’s expert at moving in, making himself at home.

I go into the bathroom. Everything’s soaking wet and the tub’s still full of dirty water! I guess when you’re into taking showers, you don’t know how to handle a tub. I’m sure he wouldn’t leave it on purpose; he just doesn’t think. I wipe up the mess, throw his clothes in the hamper and clean the tub. I’m not going to say anything. Mostly, I want to find out what he’s doing here, why he isn’t at school.

When I come back to the living room, I turn the TV down so it won’t wake Mom. Billy needs everything two decibels higher than I can take. At the station break, I get up and turn it off.

‘Billy, Grandmom isn’t in very good shape. She’s had two severe heart attacks and is barely holding on. Every day she gets under her belt now is to her advantage. She’s had what’s called an occlusion. She can’t have any shock or strenuous exercise.

‘But Grandma isn’t the real problem, bad as that is. Dad’s the one.’

I tell him what’s happening and I can see his face turning white. All our kids love Dad. He has a knack for playing with little kids. He’d always have something new for them to play with, a new trick or a toy he’d made, or darts, Ping-Pong, a BB gun; something. This was part of Mom’s proof he wasn’t ‘quite right. That’s where Joan gets it; it’s part of that crazy Tremont streak.’

Billy’s stopped rocking, and leans forward. I don’t want to make it hard, but I want him to know the problems.

I tell how Dad doesn’t know us, can’t talk, has to be cleaned and fed. Billy wants to know what’s wrong. I tell him what Ethridge and Santana have told me, how it’s a sudden onslaught of senility.

Then I let out my own feelings about the kind of care he’s been getting. It’s something I haven’t talked about to anybody, not even Joan. I express my doubts about both Dad’s treatment and the diagnosis. I’m feeling strongly it might be something truly physiological, more complex than simple senility. I’m also thinking in terms of some fault with the anesthetic or perhaps a blockage in the artery feeding his brain, perhaps a clot formed as a result of the operation. I’m only fishing; I know it; I don’t have enough knowledge.

I reveal my doubts, my worries; I need to talk. I hadn’t realized before how, after Vron and Joan, he’s the next closest person to me. It snuck up.

‘I tell you, Bill. Dad’s shown less evidence of senility than most men his age. Sure, he isn’t fifty, but senile he isn’t.’

Finally, I ask what he’s doing down here. He says he’s dropped out of school; it wasn’t meaning anything to him.

I can live with that. If you don’t know what you want, school’s only another way to put in time. But Billy was always such a good student.

I ask what his plans are: job or what. That’s when he mentions coming back to France.

Now, Vron and I’d be happy having him near us, but if he isn’t going to school he’s got to work; he can’t hang around the house. Billy has his own lifestyle; and it doesn’t fit ours; no more than my ways fit here in California. He’s flown out of our nest.

But we drop it there; neither of us is ready to go into it. We talk about Dad and then he goes out to the back bedroom. I go in the side room and I’m asleep faster than I thought possible; maybe just anything not to think.

The next day Joan comes; she gives Billy a hug and a tug on his long hair. Billy and I throw his laundry in the car. Joan says she’ll clean house while we’re gone. She’s brought food and will cook supper for us, too.

After the Laundromat, we drive to the hospital.

Billy stares at Dad, lying flat out with his eyes open. Dad doesn’t recognize either of us, even when Billy gives him a hard hug and kiss. Billy’s so positive, so violent, he almost pulls off the IV. Dad stares at Billy, his head and neck stiff, his lips moving.

He’s on catheter again. I peer under the covers and it’s indwelling. He’s becoming a living piece of meat. If he were anything except human, we’d let him die. He’s going fast and it seems there’s nothing to do; I don’t think he could’ve survived another day of my amateur care.

Billy’s badly shaken. He goes out in the hall while I stay with Dad; I’m stroking his head, talking to him softly. Dad watches me passively, without emotion or interest. Billy comes back; he’s stopped crying but his light blue eyes are rimmed red. We go down in the elevator and out to the parking lot without saying much. The daylight is glaring out there. I take Dad’s sunglasses from the glove compartment and give them to Billy.

‘What’s happened, Dad? What could’ve happened to make him like that?’

I go through it again. I tell him I don’t know and I’m not sure the doctors do either.

We get the clothes at the Laundromat. Together, we fold Billy’s things, also the sheets and towels. We still aren’t talking.

At home, I tell Joan it isn’t worth going; Dad won’t even know she’s there. She’s going anyway. I know how she feels. It tears you apart; but you have to.

Mom wants to know what we all want to know.

‘What’s the matter with him, Jacky? Is he crazy?’

I try convincing her he’s not crazy. Mom gives me what’s meant to be one of her long, penetrating looks.

‘He never was exactly right in the head, I know! I’ve lived with him over fifty years! He is not an ordinary man.’

What floors me the next days is Billy with TV. Maybe all those years without it in our house is catching up with him.

He spends hours watching. It doesn’t make any difference what’s on. I swear he doesn’t bother changing channels, he keeps staring right on through the commercials. He watches soap operas, talk shows, cowboy movies, the police series; he even watches a baseball game. He watches as if it’s an eyeball marathon.

Mom’s happy having somebody to watch with her. She brings Billy up on what’s happened so far in the soap operas; who’s been sleeping with whom and who has an illegitimate baby by what and who’s trying to steal whose husband or wife. Billy stares straight on through it all.

I know where I’ve stashed an old box of paints. I roust it out, clean the brushes in turpentine and go through the tubes. I might keep some sanity if I can paint. I hate to admit this, but there is a therapeutic aspect to my painting. It shouldn’t be that way for me, a professional, but it’s there.

When I can control my private world, take things from out there and recast them the way I want, it heals me.

I ask Billy to keep an eye on Mother; I go in back, find a pair of old-time white dungarees, a sweat shirt and cap. I’ll use the canvases I left for Dad.

I have the box on my back and I’m on the motorcycle before I even think to ask what I’m going to paint. I’d completely forgotten where I was. One possibility would be to paint the insides of garages. But I want to be outside in the sunshine; I’ve had enough looking inside at people’s personal garbage. I want to see long distances.

I don’t want to paint these rows of suburban houses either. I know it’s a big part of America, but I don’t want to paint it. I know from experience I only paint well things I want to paint. If the push doesn’t come from inside, it’s only work.

But there’s one thing that has turned me on; it’s those Venice beachfront stores and old houses. I roll down and park where Rose Avenue runs into the beach. I rock the bike up on its stand and stroll along in my dungarees, deep pockets for nails, small pockets in front for a folding rule and flat carpenter’s pencil. I lean forward with the box on my back. My insides are settling slowly like a glass of beer going flat.

I stop at an old brick motel, a strange-looking building with an up-slanting courtyard. It’s got dark green faience tile roofing with tiles missing. French doors close off the courtyard from the wind. The sun is trapped, held in that courtyard. It’s something to paint. It’s a California version of Mad Ludwig’s Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria; not some grotesque imitation like Disneyland but the same kind of mind, a romantic mind, a mind that didn’t want to build another ordinary motel.

This is a fantasy in brick and tile. There’s even a tower in back with wooden stairs leading up to it. I’d love living in that room back there on top of that tower, and once I’m inside this painting I will.

It’s amazing how fast painting comes back. It’s as if I’d put down the brushes yesterday. I’m right into it, no loss at all.

I’m putting the last licks on the underpainting when I look up and the sunset is happening. I can’t believe it. Holy cow, they’ll think I’ve run out on them!

I pack my box and jump on the bike. It feels like old times, smelling of turpentine, moving on a motorcycle with the box and a wet canvas flapping on my back. In Paris nobody pays much attention to me; I’m part of the scenery. But here I’m getting hoots and hollers from passing cars; I guess they think I’m another California clown. I pull over and turn the painting upside down on the holder.

At home, they’re still glued to the TV. I go out back and change into my regular clothes. I use the garden hose and a brush to scrub the paint out of my hands. I start dinner and tell Billy he can eat with us or take off and do whatever he wants. I give him five bucks, the keys to my motorcycle.

Dinner doesn’t go too badly. Billy stays and is on his best behavior. There’s no overt lip-smacking; no farting, not out loud anyway, no belching. He claims he gets stomach aches if he doesn’t fart and belch on schedule. Mom’s behaving, too. We get through the meal fine but I develop indigestion waiting for something to happen.

After dinner, Billy leaves. I wash dishes and sit with Mom in the living room. For some reason, the TV isn’t on. Maybe Billy’s maniac approach satiated even Mother. I want to talk about how it was when she and Dad were young, how they met, what they planned. I know I’ll never get it anything like straight. I know too, she won’t actually be lying either. Her fantasies, even more than with most people, get realer, truer, to her with time.

I’m interested in listening. I’m beginning to realize I’ll soon be the oldest branch on the male end of our particular genealogical tree. With Dad gone, I’ll have no more direct access to tribal family information. I should’ve talked more with my grandparents to find out what they were like, what they thought. I’m needing cementing. There’s something tenuous about being male, nothing in line, all so zigzag. I want some Mother glue to help stick myself together.

It’s astounding what Mom doesn’t know. She doesn’t know how many brothers or sisters her mother had. She knows a bit about her father’s family, the black Protestants, but nothing about her mother’s. My God, we all disappear so quickly, so easily.

She tells how she met Dad under an awning outside Wanamaker’s in Philadelphia. She was fifteen and it was raining. She’d snitched her older sister Maggie’s hat to look dressed up and older. The rain was ruining it and she was crying. Dad shared his umbrella with her.

I can’t imagine Dad carrying an umbrella, especially at eighteen, but times change. For the greater part of his life, Dad wouldn’t even wear a hat in the rain; said it was good for his hair, made it curl. That all changed when he went bald.

At this time, Mom is only a year out from under her nervous breakdown and working in a candy factory. According to Mother, from the beginning she knew Dad was the man for her. I wish I’d talked with Dad about what he remembers.

Mother had been dating another fellow, ‘a very nice Jewish boy from a very well-off family’, to use Mom’s exact formula. I’ve heard of Sidney Parker often enough all my life. ‘He didn’t have a Jewish name, but he was Jewish.’ Probably every woman has some man she brings up as the one she might have, should have, would have, married. Maybe men do this, too, and I just haven’t noticed it.

Mom switches on the TV. She has a fairly consistent evening schedule of particular shows. There’s also a Dodger game, but Mom doesn’t like baseball. We compromise. I see the second inning through two out in the third, then all of the seventh and eighth. By this time, the Dodgers are behind eight-three, so I imagine they lost. Johnny Carson takes preference.

Between the third and seventh innings, we watch a show called All in the Family. Mom insists the star of this show looks like me. He’s called Archie Bunker, a sort of hard-hat, hard-nosed jerk with all the racial, cultural prejudices of the poverty mind. I think he’s supposed to be basically sympathetic.

Maybe it’s like seeing yourself by accident in a three-way mirror at Sears. You see things you don’t let yourself see usually: the thickness of your neck, the real extent of your pot, the generally crappy posture; but I can’t accept myself that way.

Sure, we both have blue eyes, OK, but then so did Adolf Hitler. We’re both cursed with turned-up noses; how about Bob Hope? But Bunker has white hair and I don’t. Maybe it would be white if it hadn’t fallen out; who knows? The main thing is, he looks so stupid, tight-together pig eyes. But I might look stupid, too, if my hair hadn’t receded, making me look as if I have a high forehead. I hope my soul isn’t as hidden from me as my physical identity.

‘See, doesn’t he look like you, Jacky? Doesn’t he? Even the profile; see that? If only you didn’t have a beard.’

I triple-resolve to never never shave off my beard. Also, I start on an instant diet. It lasts three days.

I like to eat; I won’t look in mirrors. What the hell, fifty-two is fifty-two; I have to look like something; I can’t always be a boy.

It’s amazing how much they squeeze into those situation comedies. Eleven minutes of any half-hour show is reserved for ads and station breaks. So they work it all out in nineteen minutes.

No wonder everybody’s anxious and feeling there’s no meaning or continuity to things. You watch TV long enough, you get a warped view of the world. Normal-paced living seems slow, boring.

After Johnny Carson, I put Mom to bed, with Valium beside a glass on the bedside table. I don’t want any more of the drug-addict business. If she can’t sleep she can take them; it’s her life. I’m learning, but slowly.

Now I can’t sleep. I find myself staring at those ‘by the numbers’ paintings Dad did of The Blessed Mother and The Sacred Heart. For some reason they’re hung the wrong way. Usually they’re hung with The Sacred Heart on the left as you look at them.

I can’t say I’ve ever consciously noticed a special way to hang these pictures but it must have seeped in during nine years of parochial school.

I don’t think enough, ideas come out of nowhere. Maybe that’s what thinking is. But right then an idea comes. At my age now, I’d consider Jesus, even at his oldest, thirty-three, as a snot-nosed kid, a hotdogging post-adolescent. I lie there in the semidark. Johnny boy, you’re getting old all right.

When I was a kid, the beard made Jesus look older, like another breed of human being, more serious, a grandfather or father figure.

Now the kids are the ones with beards. Having a beard is the same as wearing jogging shoes or sweat shirts, a cheap shot at staying young.

I look at Mary. She couldn’t’ve been more than sixteen or seventeen when she had Jesus. Now, let’s say the archangel Gabriel really did come down and tell her about God being the father and the baby being God, too, and telling her what to name it; would she still be believing that seven, eight months later?

And Joseph, if he’d really had nothing to do with her, what’s he thinking?

And what happened to Joseph? You never hear about him after Jesus is twelve. Even if he isn’t Jesus’s father, they could at least say he died or ran away or got run over by a rampaging donkey; something.

And what a lousy day they chose to celebrate Saint Joseph’s birthday, two days after Saint Patrick’s. They don’t actually know when either of them was born, so they could’ve picked any day. Joseph is limited to holding off donkeys and cows while Jesus is being born; then to giving a few carpentry lessons.

Next, there’s the marriage feast of Cana. Mary’s all of forty-six, forty-seven; nice age for a woman, fully mature and no real decrepitude set in yet. So Mary pushes Jesus into his career before he’s ready; wants to show her friends what a hotshot son she’s got. I wonder if he did a few parlor tricks at home first, to practice.

Or maybe Mary was tired of having a thirty-year-old galoot of a son still hanging around the house.

I’m looking at these two pictures and spinning. I’m for fantasy but this was supposed to be real. This whole mystique invades the psyche and changes you. I’m wondering how much of it’s left in me; I’m sure there’s a lot. I lie out there in bed having these sacrilegious thoughts, wondering what it’s all about.

The next morning we get a call from Ethridge. Mother takes it; she’s holding the receiver against her chest, making exaggerated whispering mouth movements. ‘He wants you, Jacky.’ I pick up the living-room phone. She can stay on her line and listen.

Ethridge comes on in cool, masterful tones. This call must have been fairly high on his list; it’s only quarter past nine.

He goes through the basics of Dad’s condition, spreading the old medical jargon. I listen. Finally he comes to the crux of the matter.

‘I’m scheduling your father for release today, Mr Tremont. You can pick him up after twelve o’clock.’

I’m stunned. I can’t believe it.

‘You mean he’s recovered, Doctor?’

‘Well, no, but he’s in a stable condition.’

‘Then how can you release him? As he is, he can’t live outside a hospital.’

‘Well, Mr Tremont, your father’s condition is stable, medically; there’s not much we can do for him. He’s basically custodial.’

‘What does that mean, Dr Ethridge? What does custodial mean in this case?’

‘Mr Tremont, we just cannot hold hospital beds for patients who can’t profit from medical care.’

I’m still having a hard time believing it.

‘But, Dr Ethridge, we tried having him home. I slept with him, fed, bathed him, spent all my time with him and still couldn’t keep him alive. He does need hospital care.’

There’s a slight pause. Ethridge is gathering his limited patience.

‘Mr Tremont, your father should probably be in a convalescent home. I’ll give him an extra day so you can have time to find a place. The social-services personnel here should be able to help you.’

He hangs up.

I sit there not knowing what to do. I hear Mother shuffling up the hall. She’s in a state; shaking her fist.

‘I always knew that Ethridge was an SOB! Daddy liked him just because he came from Wisconsin. I know he made a mistake on that gall-bladder operation!’

I lead her to a chair.

‘Take it easy, Mom. Having another heart attack won’t help anything.’

‘Who’s been paying money for over twenty years so they could build their big new hospital? We pay and pay; now when we need them they throw us out. A bunch of kikes and niggers, that’s all they are.’

She’s crying.

‘Jacky, I don’t want Daddy going to any old people’s home. Think of it. All the years we’ve worked and saved, taking care of you kids, and now he winds up like this.’

‘It’s a convalescent home just like the one down the street here, Mother, not an old people’s home.’

‘Don’t tell me; I know. It’s only a fancy name for the same thing. Daddy and I would look in at those poor souls down the street and we’d feel sorry for them. We were so glad we had our own place and now it’s happening to him.’

She’s crying now. I wait. I want to phone Joan but things here need settling first. What choices do we really have? I don’t know how I can force the hospital to keep Dad. I know there’s no way I can sustain him, especially with Mother here. He has to go into a home, that’s all there is to it. Finally I calm Mom down; and phone Joan.

I explain the situation, tell her how upset Mom is. Joan asks me to put her on the phone. I sit back.

After about five minutes nodding and saying yes, bringing up complaints but backing off, Mother passes the phone to me.

‘I think Mom understands, Jack. It’s psychological more than anything else. There’s the whole Irish business about the poorhouse. She’ll be all right. You go to Perpetual and talk to the social-service people.’

It gets resolved just like that. I make breakfast for Mother and myself. She’s still vacillating between acceptance and resistance. Billy comes in from the back and I tell him what’s happened. He’s set to go burn down the hospital. He starts Mom up again. Behind her back, I desperately give him the signal to cool it. Lord, it’s hard enough.

After being shuttled around the Horn three times, I find social services in the hospital basement. The woman who’s assigned to me is a nice person; a listener. She phones and verifies, calls for Dad’s records. She’s not rushing or pressing in any way. She explains the nature of Perpetual-run homes for members. She shows me the names of other places accredited by Perpetual.

I’m shocked by the prices. Mother’d be wiped out in short order. I ask how Dad can qualify for one of the Perpetual-run convalescent extensions. These are covered by the insurance plan. I’m feeling like a cheapskate copping a plea.

She smiles, speaks with a little Scottish brogue or something, is about my age, maybe younger; graying-black hair, light blue eyes.

‘Well, Mr Tremont, if he needs medical as opposed to custodial care, he could qualify.’ She goes carefully through Dad’s records, looks up, smiles.

‘It shows here your father has an indwelling catheter; that would definitely be classified as medical. If he’s dismissed with that catheter, you should have no trouble.’

She’s happy for me, for Dad. My stomach sinks. Am I willing to keep a catheter on for maybe thirty dollars a day? Is it my decision to make?

I thank her and say I’ll be right back. I slink upstairs and hang around the urology clinic till I catch Sam at an off minute. He remembers me immediately.

‘It sure is too bad about your dad, Mr Tremont. I’ve never seen anybody take such a bad turn so fast.’

I ask about the indwelling catheter. He says Santana has scheduled it to be removed this afternoon. I ask if it can be left in. He looks at me. I explain the situation. He shakes his head.

‘You’ll have to check with Dr Santana. He’ll be right out; talk to him.’

When Santana comes, I step up. He backs off two steps.

‘Dr Santana, could you leave the indwelling catheter on my father for another week or so?’

He looks at me; wishing me away.

‘Medically speaking, that could make sense, Mr Tremont. Do you have a special reason?’

‘The convalescent home where I’d like to place him would prefer it.’

I leave it at that, hoping he’s not up on the details for this kind of thing. He looks at me again. He has papers in his hands he keeps going back to.

‘All right, Mr Tremont, we’ll leave it in.’

He walks away. I go to Sam and start explaining. He’s leaning against the urology sign-in desk, holds up his hand.

‘I heard. OK. He’s scheduled for discharge tomorrow, right?’

‘That’s right. Thanks a lot, Sam; thanks for everything.’

We shake and I head back downstairs.

I tell the lady, whose name is Mrs Trumbull, the catheter will stay in. She glances over her cards.

‘There might just be a place available at Cottage Villa. I’ll call.’

On the phone, she goes over Dad’s situation. She looks up at me and smiles as she hangs up.

‘There’s no opening right now but there will be soon. They want you to come for an interview.’

She pulls out a card with an address and signs it. Cottage Villa is about a half mile away, on top of a hill near the San Diego and Santa Monica Freeway Interchange. I drive there.

From the outside, the place looks great. It’s built with an open U-shaped front enclosing a large lawn with flowers. There are colored umbrellas spread around and picnic-type tables. It could be a low-priced golf club in Palm Springs.

Extending back from the turns of the U are two long corridors. The wheelchair in all its variations is the main theme; stainless steel and strained faces, pale wrinkled skin, white hair, everybody in dressing gowns. I work my way to the office.

The lady there tells me how convalescent homes are 70 percent women; the men die young. I’m in luck because there’s a man who should die within the next forty-eight hours; Dad can have his place.

She asks if I want to see the room but I don’t have the courage. She shows me another that’s exactly the same. It looks like a small motel room with high-sided beds. There’s a door on the corridor and a window to the parking lot. A man is sitting in a wheelchair by the window playing with himself.

She says she’ll call the hospital and tell them when to move my father; the hospital will supply the ambulance. I tell her about the indwelling catheter and ask if it can be removed soon as possible without Dad losing Perpetual coverage.

‘Don’t you worry, once he’s here we do what we want; the doctors are very understanding.’

I’d hoped it would be something like that.

God, it’s good getting outside again. I look up at the sun, then across the green to an almost motionless scene on the patio. I feel footloose, carefree, potent. I swing without pain into the car, gun her up and charge out of the parking lot, something nobody back there will ever do again.

At home, Mother comes shuffling up the hall. Before I open my mouth she starts. She can’t accept the idea of Daddy in a home. Couldn’t we hire a professional nurse and have her stay here with Daddy in the house? We could fix up the back room so she could live there.

It’s something I hadn’t thought of. I’m just feeling I have everything settled, now this. I sit down to get my breath, listen to her, nodding, trying to make it fit.

I pick up the phone and call Joan. It’s the best way to tell Mom about the home without being interrupted. There’s something magic about a phone. Most people will interrupt if you’re talking to them or talking to somebody else in the room but won’t interrupt if you’re talking to someone else on a phone. I explain the situation to Joan, including the indwelling catheter. Joan agrees to it all.

‘Remember, Jack. It isn’t the end of the world. If we don’t like it, we can always take him out.’

I bring up the new idea of having a nurse. Joan says she’ll talk to Mother. I hand over the phone, go back in the bedroom, stretch out on the bed, pick up the receiver and listen.

Joan’s doing it again. She’s already worked out an angle.

‘Look, Mother. It’s no different from having him in the hospital, only it’s closer. He’s getting medical care, something we can’t give him. It’s not so far to visit. While he’s there we can start looking for a nurse to stay at the house. We can’t just find somebody overnight, it’ll take time. We’ll call the Catholic Welfare Agency.’

I put down the receiver and try to relax. I’ve been tense all day and my blood pressure’s pounding. One of Mother’s Valium and a glass of water are beside the bed. I slug it down, stretch out and wait.

It’s amazing how fast it works. Maybe it’s all in the head but I feel myself unwind. The creeping worries around the edges of my unconscious recede and fade. I don’t feel like sleeping but only staying in this rested, as opposed to restless, state.

Mom comes back to me after she hangs up. Just walking down the hall, it seems, she’s changed her mind. She starts off with how nobody cares about old people.

‘Even if you have money, they only want to tuck you away somewhere with strangers. It didn’t used to be that way. Oh, no! My sisters and I took care of my mother for seven years when she was half paralyzed. Then when she died we shared Pop around too.

‘And you sure can’t count on a visit or a phone call from grandchildren, even if you’ve had two heart attacks and your husband’s dying in the hospital; they couldn’t care less. Nobody cares about you when you’re old.’

She isn’t crying, only tolling off these facts as if she’s repeating some kind of litany. I can’t argue with her.

I’m still riding loose on Valium. I’m listening to Mom but she isn’t bugging me at all; I’m almost enjoying it. I feel like the master guru, ready to advise the world.

Next day, Joan begins looking for a nurse. Mother’s willing to pay eighteen dollars a day, room and board; but she’s never going to get any trained person at that price.

And Mother has so many restrictions. This person has to be Catholic, can’t drink or smoke; of course, can’t be black or Mexican or Cuban. Mother has a special category for Cubans. In fact, it can’t be anybody with a foreign accent of any kind. And nobody too young or too old. We’re looking for an ugly female, over forty, under fifty, who’s competing for sainthood. I’m glad this is Joan’s end of things.

I’ll spend as much time as I can at the convalescent home. I want to see what kind of care Dad gets. I’ve heard the usual horror stories of mistreatment, oversedation, neglect. I’m hoping he’ll only be there a week or two till Joan finds somebody.

The next morning I get a call from Perpetual; Dad’s being released to Cottage Villa. He’ll arrive there before noon in the hospital ambulance. I tell Mother, give her breakfast and go over.

He arrives on a stretcher. He has the indwelling catheter. I walk beside the stretcher while they wheel him to his room. I help the nurse settle him into bed. He’s anxious, jerking his head around, watching but unaware. He doesn’t recognize me and doesn’t respond.

The attendants start with the lunchtime meal. It’s on Dad’s chart that he’s to be spoon-fed. A lovely, pale brown woman, with one brown, one almost green eye, settles down to the job. We crank up the bed; Dad’s wearing a restraining belt attached to his waist and wrists. She opens up the containers, talking to him all the time in a soft voice. She’s gotten his name from the chart but pronounces it ‘Mr Truman’. I give her Dad’s pronunciation. She asks for his first name and starts feeding, calling him ‘Jack’ to get his attention. Dad’s eyes are riveted on hers but he opens and closes his mouth when she touches his lips with the spoon and he’s swallowing.

‘That’s the way, Jacky, that’s a good boy; now let’s have some carrots.’

She has a sweet voice and a lovely body. I wonder why she’s taken a job like this, what she feels about all these old people. I hope she can work up some commiseration for the people here, that it seems worthwhile.

I stand on the other side, watching, trying to pick up pointers. She smiles at me between bites and we talk.

She pushes some custard into Dad’s mouth.

‘You don’t have to hang around here if you don’t want; I can feed your daddy just fine; he’s no trouble at all.’

‘Is it all right if I watch?’

She smiles a quick smile.

‘It’s perfectly OK with me if you want to watch. I don’t mind.’

I talk to Dad as she feeds him. He pays no attention. His eyes are on the girl and he’s cooperating with the feeding. He begins opening his mouth for more food soon as he’s swallowed, even before she touches his lip with the spoon.

I watch her. Her arms are full but not plump or fat; the white uniform is crisp and presses against her body. It’s a lightweight material so I can see the difference where the hem is turned up at the end of her sleeve compared to where the cloth is directly against her skin.

When she’s finished, I ask if I can take Dad outside to sit on the patio.

‘I think that’d be real nice for him.’

We take the restrainers off, get him tightly bundled up in his dressing robe and transfer him to a wheelchair along with his urine bottle. There’s a little holder for the bottle on the bottom, under the seat. He looks better sitting up; any stimulation is better than lying in bed, scared.

I push him through the halls. He’s gotten into the habit of hanging his lower lip open; it’s so unlike him. One of Dad’s characteristics all his life has been a firm mouth and tight jaw. Now, with his lower jaw slack, his lip out in a pout and his head down, eyes peering from under eyebrows, he’s like Charles Laughton playing Captain Bligh. He doesn’t look like himself.

Outside, I find a table with a sun umbrella and park Dad in the shade. I sit down in the sun beside him. I talk about how relaxing it is, how good the sun feels. I talk about the flowers, naming some of them. We sit there for almost an hour. I’m tending to run down, letting the dead calm of the place leak into me.

Then he begins talking. First, he’s talking to himself, mumbling; his voice is so low, so rusty, I can’t catch anything. I lean close from behind not to distract him. His eyes and head are moving, tracking. He’s seeing something across the lawn, out the gate toward the overpass to the freeway. I lean closer.

‘You know, Ed; we ought to start picking them cucumbers.’

He looks back at me, through me, looking for affirmation. I nod my head. I want to keep it going.

‘You’re right there, Jack; we’d better do that.’

‘The pickle factory’s payin’ seventy-five cents a barrel; now’s the time to sell.’

‘That’s right, Jack; do you think we can get them in tomorrow?’

He looks at me closely. There’s more Wisconsin twang in his voice.

‘Don’t forget, Ed, we gotta help Dad muck out the barn tomorrow. Remember that.’

‘Yeah, that’s right, Jack. I forgot.’

‘But we can start soon’s we’re done, then get the last after milkin’. We can borrow the rig and haul ’em in Saturday.’

‘Good idea, Jack. We’ll do that.’

He sits there, leaning forward, shaking his head, smiling. I wait but that’s it. Nothing I say can start it up again. When it begins to cool, I wheel Dad in and fix up his bed, tucking and buckling restrainers. She says her name’s Alicia.

I tell her mine’s the same as Dad’s. I tell her about living in Paris, about being an artist, about coming because Mom’s sick. I know it doesn’t sound real, not even to me anymore.

‘How do you like working here?’

She makes a face, shrugs, sighs.

‘It’s so depressing. I been working in different places like this for five years. You always lose; nobody gets better from being old.’

She goes around to the end of the bed.

‘But when you’re alone and have a little girl, you gotta work, and jobs just aren’t all that easy to find. Here I can usually make my own hours, too. It ain’t so bad.’

She looks at her watch; says she’s going off duty. The other nurse will feed Dad dinner. I ask if I can give her a lift anywhere. She looks at me quickly.

‘Thanks a lot, that’s nice, but Missus Kessler, the lady who runs this place, would blotch the ceiling if I went out with you.’

She giggles, looks at the floor, shakes her head. I think she misunderstands.

‘It’s only I’m going home to check my mother, then come back here to help with Dad’s dinner. I thought maybe I could drop you off someplace.’

She looks at me, cocks her head.

‘Man, you sure are nice to your folks. Nobody comes to see these people here. There’s some I know haven’t had a visitor or even a letter for years.’

She turns, pauses at the door.

‘Even if you was black, Missus Kessler would make us a scene.’

When I get home, everything’s OK. Billy’s slumped into Dad’s chair and they’re watching some show. I tell him I’ll be back soon as I feed Dad and he can take off for the night. Mother insists she’s perfectly all right and doesn’t need people baby-sitting her all the time.

In back with Billy, I help clean things up. Billy says he doesn’t know how long he can take it. Mother’s bugging him about his hair, his bare feet, his uncut toenails, his pimples, his smells, his farts.

He tells me a friend of his from Santa Cruz is coming down and is it all right if they stay in the back room. I tell him I’ll check with Mom. I feel it’s going to be hard. Probably his friend will also be barefoot, bearded and play the same damned twenty songs on the guitar. I won’t have much to say about how he acts around Mom, either. Things are getting away from me and I’m running down.

The third day I go help Dad with his midday feeding. I find him tight and tense. His lips are quivering, he’s chattering madly and his eyes are flickering.

I can’t get him to eat. It’s hard to get his mouth open; then, when we do, he bites down hard on the spoon. It’s the way it was when he had the Elavil.

I ask Alicia if they’ve been giving him his blood-pressure pills, or maybe he should have some Valium; anything to get him off this crazy high. She gets his charts, comes back and shows them to me. There’s nothing about medication. Perpetual didn’t forward his medication records or his medicine!

I go out and tell the head of the home to phone the hospital. I run to the car where there’s some Valium I just picked up for Mother; my cuff’s there, too, and I grab it. When I get back, Dad’s practically trying to fly away. He’s pulling at his straps, straining to get up, being jerked back again. He’s gritting his teeth and groaning.

I work the cuff onto his arm and pump up. He’s two forty over one twenty. Alicia goes to get the RN.

The RN whips out her own cuff, gets the same reading. I want her to give him some Valium, a sedative, something. He’s liable to stroke. But she’s afraid without a doctor; she’s waiting till the records get here from Perpetual.

I charge out to the office phone and bulldoze my way through to Ethridge. The alarm must have gone out, because I get through fast. I tell Ethridge what’s happened.

‘That’s too bad, Mr Tremont. We’ll get on that right away. The medical records are being forwarded.’

The bastard’s still very arrogant, just the peasants getting in the way of the leaders with the great mission.

‘This is too much, Dr Ethridge! Nobody’s giving my father proper care! What is it; are you all hoping for him to die to get him off your consciences?’

‘Come now, Mr Tremont; let’s not be hysterical.’

‘God damn it, I’m not hysterical; I’m only trying to keep my father alive and I’m not getting much help from you or the rest of the Perpetual staff.’

That does it. He blows his stack. He starts off very coldly identifying himself as a doctor of medicine committed to the Hippocratic oath. He rolls on self-righteously for about two minutes. I interrupt him.

‘Look, Dr Ethridge, could you settle down long enough to prescribe for my father? He might well be dying while you’re telling me how great you are.’

There’s silence. I’m expecting another ‘hang up’.

‘I’m informing you now, officially, Mr Tremont that I am no longer your father’s doctor. I disassociate myself from his case. I shall make arrangements for another doctor to be assigned.’

I shout back before he can hang up.

‘You’re already disassociated, Dr Ethridge! And don’t bother looking for another doctor, I’ll find one myself!

‘I’m warning you now, officially, that you’d better check if your malpractice policies are paid up because you’re going to need them! It was your direct responsibility to have those records forwarded and you are definitely in tort!’

I hang up. Mrs Kessler is staring at me, her lips pulled tight together. She doesn’t want trouble. She wants to keep her relationship with Perpetual. It’s all in her eyes, in her mouth.

I say to myself, ‘Now what have you done, fool? God! How does this help?’

I go into Dad’s room, tell Alicia not to watch, and pop ten milligrams of Valium into Dad’s mouth. He chews it but swallows.

I sit there holding his hands and wait. He gradually subsides. I keep the cuff on and take his pressure every five minutes or so. It slowly goes down to one eighty over a hundred. He drifts into sleep and I take it off.

I’m stinking with nervous perspiration. I hate to leave but I have things to do. I need to find a new doctor at Perpetual or, if I have to, change hospitals altogether.

I go home to Mother’s. Tom, Billy’s friend, has arrived; terrific timing. He’s everything I expected, only Jewish and quiet. He has even more pimples than Billy and wants to be a psychologist.

Mother’s having fits. She’s not running a flophouse and so forth. It seems Tom came in, dropped his backpack on the floor at the door while Billy and Tom hugged each other.

Do I think Billy’s queer? You never know with those hippies. They’ve got everything all mixed up. I’m hardly listening.

First things first. I take Billy and Tom out back. I suggest they’ll be more comfortable camping on the forty acres in Topanga. Billy’s worried about leaving me alone with Mom. I assure him it’ll be all right. Maybe he can come down once in a while to spell me for an afternoon or an evening. I tell him he can take my motorcycle up if he wants.

Tom has a tent and sleeping bags in the back of his car. I’m wishing I could go with them.

I use the phone in the bedroom. I call some medical friends. One’s the head of medicine at GWU. I give him a brief rundown of what’s happened and ask if he knows anyone he can recommend here at Perpetual. He doesn’t know anybody. He does know somebody at Wadsworth General and suggests I call her. Her name is Dr Smith. She’s in internal medicine and urology. He says I can use his name.

I make another call to a neurosurgeon friend in Cincinnati. Max listens to the whole story. He tells me just what neurological procedures should be followed. He volunteers to fly out if it gets desperate.

I call Dr Smith at Wadsworth. I give the name of my friend at GWU and review the problem. She’s very sympathetic and says she’ll ask around for someone good in the area and phone back within the half hour.

After fifteen minutes fending off Mother, the phone rings. Mom picks it up before I get to it.

‘It’s a woman for you, Jacky.’

It’s Dr Smith. She’s found a good man named Dr Adam Chad at Perpetual. He’s young but everybody recommends him highly. I thank her and promise I’ll forward her best to Jens at GWU. I hang up, take a deep breath and phone Perpetual. I ask for Dr Chad. His secretary says he’ll call me back.

I go out and tell Mother I’ve canned Ethridge.

‘But, Jacky, Daddy’ll have a fit. You know how much he liked Dr Ethridge. Why, he’s been Daddy’s doctor for almost fifteen years.’

You never know with Mom. I explain what happened at the convalescent home. I tell her I’m convinced Dad has not been getting the kind of treatment he needs. I admit I’ve just made two long-distance phone calls consulting doctor friends and now have the name of a good doctor at Perpetual.

Mother wants to know what Dr Ethridge did, what he said. I tell her I accused him of just letting Dad die and not really trying. This fits her prejudice, so now she’s with me. The phone rings.

It’s Dr Chad. I explain who I am and that my father is a patient in a Perpetual convalescent extension home. I mention how highly recommended he is by Dr Smith. I ask if he’ll add Dad to his case load.

He asks who Dad’s doctor is now. I tell him Dr Santana recently operated but Dr Ethridge is his regular doctor. I tell how I’ve already spoken to Dr Ethridge and he’s in agreement with the change.

Chad won’t commit himself but says he’ll look at my father’s record and check with Dr Ethridge. That’s OK with me; Ethridge’ll yammer but he’ll be glad to get off the case.

I sit down at the typewriter in the middle bedroom. I normally use an electric at home and it takes awhile adjusting to pounding the keys of this old, stand-up Underwood. I think best on the end of a broom, second best on the end of a brush and third best at a typewriter.

I try to put it all together, all that’s happened to Dad, all that I’ve noticed. Then I retype the whole thing to make some logical sense. It goes to ten pages single-space. It helps, just getting it out and looking at it.

I call up a friend from UCLA student days. Now he has his own practice in Santa Monica. I make an appointment to see him.

I think about calling Joan but decide against it. I’m not ready for any calm advice or the reasonable approach.

The next day I go for my appointment with Scotty, my lawyer-ex-art-student friend. He’s gotten fatter, grayer; looks old. I imagine I look old to him – Archie Bunker without hair. Time is a bitch. Mother keeps saying ‘old age isn’t for sissies’; middle age isn’t either. None of it is.

Scotty goes over what I’ve written. He asks some questions and takes a few notes. He peers up at me when he finishes and bounces the papers against the desk.

‘It looks like a malpractice suit to me, Jack; but I’m not an expert. Perpetual is a big outfit and has some tough lawyers. Also, they have control of the records; doctors will lie like hell to protect themselves. This is an in-house situation, none of them are going to testify against each other.’

I’m feeling he’s giving me the brush-off, but he goes on.

‘Still, it looks as if they’re vulnerable.’

He gives me a lawyer’s cool stare, razor smile. God, think! They can do this even to an ex-art major.

‘Look, Jack, two of the best malpractice lawyers in the country operate right out of Santa Monica here. Both doctors, both lawyers; husband-wife team. They don’t lose. If they’ll take your case, you’ll win.’

That sounds more like it; I’m tuned to fight.

‘How do I get in touch with these people?’

Scotty phones and makes an appointment right there, now. I thank him. He won’t take anything.

‘Save it for Knight & Knight, Jack; you’ll need it.’

The Knight & Knight offices are in a dark brown glass professional building on Wilshire and it’s a huge suite. I’m ushered past a row of secretaries, through ankle-deep rugs, past solid mahogany walls covered with first-class decorative paintings.

In the inner office, the pair of them look like an ad for yachting clothes tucked behind those enormous black leather-topped desks.

We shake hands and I give them the résumé. She sits and he stands to read over her shoulder. These are California beautiful people. I’d hate like hell to have them on the other side. They look lethal, smooth and invulnerable.

She finishes first, looks at me through her tan, through sea-crushed eyes.

‘What is it you actually want, Mr Tremont?’

This seems like the dumbest question in the world. Then I realize it is the question and I haven’t thought it through; I’ve been too mad to think. I’m slow responding.

‘Well. First I want my father to stay in the hospital where he can get the kind of care he needs.’

She stares at me, calm as a hunter. Her husband looks up now. They glance at each other. Now he speaks.

‘There’s a suit here but it would be a long and hard one. We’ve entered into litigation with Perpetual eight times so far and won each time; the first three, in court; the last five, settlements. They’d probably settle out of court with this, mostly on our track record.’

His wife looks up; they thin-smile at each other, bridge partners with all the trumps. She takes over again. It’s like one of those mind-reading acts where the wiggle of a fingernail or an eyelash tells your Social Security number and how much money you have in your left pants pocket.

‘We can assure you, you will get good care for your father; you’ll be able to request and receive any treatment necessary. Is that what you want?’

I quickly write off a half-million-dollar settlement; it could pollute my mother, me and our descendants for generations. I couldn’t live with it either; Perpetual’s wrong but not that wrong. I hear myself say it out loud.

‘That’s all I want.’

She reaches into a small space hidden behind the pen-holder. She pulls out a card with her tanned hand, well-veined, slightly liverspotted and garnished by a silver-set emerald worthy of Paulette Goddard. She signs it. He takes the pen from her hand, somehow a subtle act of intimacy. He signs too. She hands the card across to me.

‘Take this to Dr Benson, the administrative director of Perpetual. Tell him you have engaged us concerning a potential malpractice suit; show him this document you’ve written, just as it is. Tell him we’ve seen it. Also, write out any and all treatment or consultation you want for your father and mail it by registered letter to his physician in care of the hospital.’

During this speech, her husband has strolled silently from behind the desk and around beside me. I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes off him; I know he isn’t going to pull out a silencer-extended Luger and fit it cross-armed in the crook of his elbow but I think of it. He’s only anxious to make a quick trip in the Maserati to the courts; tennis, that is. He snaps a brief stiff bow.

‘We’re certain this card is all you will need, Mr Tremont.’

I take the card. She stands. This is it; I’m dismissed all right.

‘Thank you very much for your time and consideration. What do I owe you for your services?’

She’s pulling a hand-knit Irish sweater over her shoulders.

‘The secretary will bill you. Please let us know if you wish to pursue this matter further. And would you have the secretary nearest the door make two Xerox copies of this statement for our files?’

‘Goodbye, Mr Tremont. I don’t think you will need us anymore.’

They usher me to the door, smile as they pass by: empty-handed, no sails, no rackets, no golf club, no Luger.

The secretary makes the copies and tells me I’ll be billed at the end of the month. It turns out to be a hundred dollars for that little card, a hundred dollars well spent for an ace of spades I can stick in my sleeve, a card I can shove up Ethridge’s ass.

I go home and try explaining things to Mother. Now she’s afraid Perpetual is going to throw them out of the plan.

‘You know, Jacky, they don’t have to keep us on. The union pays most of the insurance, we only pay twenty-three dollars a month.’

I try convincing her they can’t throw them out just because we insist on proper care. And actually it doesn’t matter. With Medicare they’re mostly covered anyway. I listen to her hammer away. I’ll think she’s stopped but she’ll start up on it again.

Another thing about the poverty mind is there’s so much shadow-boxing, threatening, but when it comes to standing up to some ‘boss’ figure, the poverty person usually collapses completely. They’ve been so brutalized, dominated by life, they get deeply scared at the first sign of combat. The fear of losing what little security they have totally incapacitates them.

I go feed Dad. I’m holding back with my card. Let Ethridge simmer some, and I’ll concentrate on Dad.

I decide to paint him. That way I can get something done at the same time I’m sitting with him. I’ll do it out on the patio. I can’t see how Mrs Kessler or anybody can object to that. Also, I can prove to Alicia I really am a painter from Paris, France.

Alicia’s already feeding him when I get there. The medical records and medicine have come.

‘Man, you really threw it through the roof, didn’t you? Gawd almighty, Missus Kessler was fit to be tied. Now look, Jack, your Daddy here’s a nice man; don’t you go and mess things up for him.’

I take over the feeding. She has others to do and now she knows I can do it.

Dad’s in much better shape. His attention still wanders but he’s not trying to get away. He half watches me, or at least my hands, as I put a bit of food on the spoon and tilt it into his mouth. I do it the way Alicia does, the way you do with a baby, mixing the bites: a bite of peas, then a bite of chocolate pudding, then one of meat; next a drink of milk. Constantly changing around seems to work better than feeding one thing at a time. I get it almost all down in less than an hour. I have my cuff and take his pressure: one ninety over a hundred, still high but better.

When I’m finished, I put a light sweater on under his robe and move him into the wheelchair. I tie him in with the belt of his robe and wheel him outside. I’ve left my painting box beside the main door to the patio. I set up my box, keeping an eye on Dad. I’ll do a three-quarter view, just the head.

I start the drawing and as I do it, I see how much he’s changed. It’s as if a whole layer of civilization, of superego, has been wiped off his face the way an actor wipes off makeup with cold cream. It’s his face, but much younger, much less used, not lived in. The face isn’t my father. I want to paint it true, true to what I think I’m seeing and true to what I’m feeling.

I’m getting into the underpainting when Dad begins mumbling, then talking. I slide closer to hear. He turns to me and speaks quite clearly.

‘Ed, what do you think we’re going to do?’

I’m Ed again.

‘I don’t know, what do you think we should do, Jack?’

‘Geez, I hate seeing us lose the old farm; I can’t even remember any other place. I don’t want to live in Manata and go to a town school. I know I won’t like that at all.’

I wait.

‘Yeah, Jack, that’s right.’

I look to see if anybody can hear us. Nobody’s near and nobody’s looking.

‘What happened, Ed? Dad always works so hard. He’s out in the fields before sunup and works till dark; even in the wintertime, he’s always working. Nobody could ever say Dad’s lazy, nobody.’

‘That’s right, Jack.’

Dad peers toward me, into me, as if he’s trying to see through a blur of time and memory.

‘What’d he do wrong, Ed? Why’s he have to sell out to Uncle Bill? I don’t get it.’

We’re into something I know a little bit about. I know my grandfather sold his farm and started a store in Manata, but I’d always been told it was so the girls could go to high school. I never knew he sold it to his brother. I try staying in there; I nod with him. The last thing he says I can barely hear, like a radio station drifting off band.

‘I’ll never understand it, Ed. Dad’s a good farmer; he don’t want to run no store; he’ll never be no good being a store-keeper in a town!’

And that’s the end of it. Dad sits staring at his lap, hands turned up. I wait awhile, then go back to painting. Dad looks as if he might be on the edge of crying but he doesn’t. I keep working. I finish the underpainting and get into the impasto. I want to finish the whole painting in one sitting if I can.

I’m about halfway through the impasto, picking up some light in the penumbra, when Alicia comes out. She’s in her street clothes, going off duty. She stops and looks over my shoulder.

‘You certainly got him there, Mr Tremont. Man, you really are an artist; I never knew no real artist before.’

I stop, push myself back and look up. The sun is low behind her; I can see light between her legs through the nylon dress she’s wearing. She’s not wearing a slip. She catches me looking and crosses her legs standing up.

‘You want to paint me?’

She laughs and puts one hand behind her head.

‘I’d make a just fine model. You don’t see many girls my color with one green eye, do you, now?’

She’s absolutely gorgeous in that setting-sun light.

‘I’d love to paint you, Alicia, but what would Mrs Kessler say to that?’

I put another touch on the backlighted wing of Dad’s nose.

‘Not here; oh, no, not here! Ol’ Missus Kessler’d have cat conniptions, wouldn’t she? Oh, yes! You’d have to come to my place. Little Jessica’d love seeing a real artist paint her mother.’

She laughs again and crosses her legs the other way.

I add more burnt sienna to the background over Dad’s head. I’m too stirred up for any real painting. I look at Dad. He has no idea what’s going on; I don’t myself. She must figure me for a capital dud.

‘Well, now there; don’t you keep your daddy out here too long, now. It’s beginning to get cold.’

I smile up at her into the sunset.

‘I’ll bring him in soon, Alicia. You have a nice evening and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She looks into me, pinning me with that green eye.

‘That’s right.’

She looks back over her shoulder, already on her way. She’s laughing.

‘I’ll see you.’

I watch her walking away; even in flat shoes she has nice moves, long, sure strides. I watch till she turns into the parking lot.

I finish the painting in another half hour. There’s something so sad there, so lost, I can hardly look at it anymore. I definitely can’t show it to Mom. It’s a good painting, though; too good.

During the next week, I come twice a day to feed Dad. Things are going reasonably well with Mother, but Joan is almost out of her mind trying to find a nurse Mom will accept. It begins to look hopeless after she’s interviewed twelve and Mom has turned thumbs down on every one.

Mother takes on a little more herself every day and I’m mostly trying to hold her back. One day I come home to find her weeding the backyard. Her argument is she can’t bear seeing Daddy’s flowers get overgrown by weeds. Besides, she’s sitting down and only pulling easy weeds. What can you do? After that, between feedings, I’m weeding.

I don’t know whether it’s because Mrs Kessler catches on to the little flirt Alicia and I are having, or it’s part of the regular rotation cycle, but Alicia is moved to the evening shift. It’s probably just as well. Her vivacity and joy are getting to me. One day she told me how she was raised by her mother without a father, too, just like little Jessica. There’s something about women who’ve never been dominated by males that turns me on.

I wonder how much I worked my way into Marty’s feeling about men. I tried my damnedest not to make too many waves but you never know.

Saturday evening, at eight, I’m going out to dinner with Sandy and Pat Mock, longtime friends. Billy’s staying with Mom for the evening. I decide to stop in and see how Dad’s doing, at least that’s why I think I’m stopping in. I’ve already given him his six-o’clock feeding.

When I go into Dad’s room, I see right away something’s drastically wrong. Dad looks dead except he’s breathing with a loud, deep, rattling snore. I’ve only heard the death rattle a few times and that was over thirty years ago but it’s a sound you don’t forget. He’s pale, greenish white, and there’s perspiration on his face. I quickly run out and Alicia’s coming from the other hall, smiling at me.

‘Alicia, would you check my dad? There’s something seriously wrong!’

I run on to the desk looking for Mrs Kessler but she isn’t there. The RN is in the other wing, giving medication. I run for her.

‘Please come with me, Nurse; my father might be dying!’

She’s fat and at least sixty years old. She wobbles after me down the hall.

When we get there, Alicia’s rubbing Dad’s wrist. The nurse takes his pulse with one hand while I take it with the other; it’s weak and fluttery. She wraps on her cuff, pumps and watches. There’s no movement of the dial over fifty. She looks up.

‘Alicia, call the hospital. Get an ambulance here quick.’

She turns to me.

‘Can you do cardiopulmonary resuscitation?’

I nod. I think of my trying to teach Dad, his squeamishness about my putting my mouth over his. I’m wondering why they don’t have a resuscitation unit here at a convalescent home.

‘Does he have any dentures?’

I shake my head. I’m going into some shock already.

Now we can’t get any pulse. Time for cardiopulmonary resuscitation. She pulls him by the legs down toward the end of the bed so I can position myself over him. I tilt his head back and start the mouth-to-mouth. At the same time, I begin the cardiac compression. I’m holding Dad’s nose and blowing in hard, two breaths every eleven seconds. Then I stop the breathing and do the compressions. I’m pushing down on his sternum about sixty times a minute. Then I go back to the breathing.

Alicia comes in and says an ambulance is on the way. The RN puts her to rubbing Dad’s legs. They’re already mottled and blue from lack of circulation.

I think of the autopsy painting by Rembrandt in Amsterdam, or was it the Vatican? I’m trying hard not to think about what I’m actually doing. Alicia moves beside me and assists with the cardiac compression. I concentrate on the breathing. The RN keeps taking the blood pressure and frequently pulls open Dad’s lids to check his pupils. She says we’re up to eighty over fifty now; also he seems to have better color.

I’m beginning to wonder how long I can keep it up. I’m dressed in a suit and shirt with a tie. Sweat’s soaking through my shirt. I’m beginning to feel dizzy from hyperventilation. I try thinking of something else besides when in hell the ambulance’s ever going to come.

Alicia slides her hands under mine on Dad’s sternum and takes over the compressions. That way I can concentrate all my attention on the breathing.

I keep on with the mouth-to-mouth; Dad’s lips are slippery with slobber. The nurse says he’s up to ninety over sixty. I look over at her; she looks like a candidate for cardiac arrest herself, but we’re keeping him alive.

Now the moisture is drying around Dad’s mouth; his lips are drying and so are mine. Between breaths I take several deep breaths for myself and try working saliva into my mouth. I’m sweated down to my socks; black spots drift in front of my eyes like dust motes on the cornea. We keep working in silent desperation but nobody comes. This is a minimum Saturday-night staff and the rest of the patients are unattended.

We’ve been at it over twenty minutes when we hear the ambulance siren. It rolls up to the back door. Alicia leaves and an attendant comes running with her up the hall. The RN tells him to bring in a resuscitator. While we’ve been working, it’s gotten dark and there’s no light on in the room. It isn’t exactly dark but more bluish twilight.

He runs back, and two of them come in with the resuscitator. They lift Dad’s head and put the mask over his face. They get the oxygen going and Dad continues to breathe. They roll in a black leather stretcher and we lift Dad onto it while I keep up the cardiac compression.

One of the ambulance guys moves in beside me and takes over. I help roll the stretcher down the hall and into the ambulance. I go back to the room for my coat I’d dropped on the floor.

I’m absolutely dripping sweat. The RN is gone and only Alicia’s there. She hands me the coat, then leans into me. She lifts her head and we kiss, deep, a mouth-hungry, wicked-tongued, active kiss. My lips are numb and dry; I can’t feel anything.

‘I hope someday somebody loves me the way you love your daddy.’

I slip my coat over my shoulders. It presses cold sweat against me.

‘He’s a wonderful man, Alicia, he’s easy to love. You would be, too.’

‘Come and tell me how he is, will you, Jack? Come see me, huh?’

I nod. I know I won’t. My mind is somewhere else, partly in that ambulance, partly in Paris.

I turn and run down the hall. I jump into the ambulance and we’re off. They have the light turning and the siren whoop-whoop going. I take over cardiac compression while the attendant adjusts his resuscitator and prepares an IV of what looks like a simple saline solution. When he gets it taped on and running, he takes over again. His forehead is breaking out in sweat. The driver signals for me to come up front with him and I climb into the passenger seat.

‘How the hell do I get to Perpetual from here, anyway? I’m lost.’

I look out the window and we aren’t on the freeway! We’re on Washington Boulevard, too far south. I get him aimed in the right direction. He tells me they aren’t a regular Perpetual ambulance; they got an emergency call. I’m too scared, too tired, too exasperated to comment. I keep watch as we go through red lights; we’re making good time. But we’d’ve been there already if we’d taken the freeway.

They’re expecting us when we arrive. Dad’s moved into one of the emergency cubicles with a doctor and two nurses; they pull the curtains around him. I’m told to go outside in the waiting room. The pros have taken over; I’m ready, I’m not fighting. I’m so strung out I feel gutted.

I keep wondering if Dad’ll ever regain consciousness. I’m sure he can’t live long after a shock like this. I wonder how much brain damage he suffered; I don’t know how long he was alone in that bed with a diastolic under fifty before I found him.

Half an hour later, the doctor comes out. He motions me into a small room. I figure this is where he tells me Dad’s died. I’m ready. There comes a point where you’re ready to give up.

‘How is he, Doctor?’

The classic question, the dumb question.

‘Well, Mr Tremont, he’s still alive and that was a close one. Could you tell me exactly what happened?’

I give him the details, but I don’t exactly know what happened. This is a young doctor, probably doing his residence and he’s taking notes of what I’m saying. He has Dad’s charts there. I imagine Saturday-evening emergency is not ‘top gig’ for a doctor.

As I review what’s happened, I find myself getting mad again. I begin ranting about how my father can’t live outside a hospital and inform him I’ve already told Dr Ethridge this but was ignored. I lay it on about the ambulance driver getting lost. This doctor writes away, then looks up at me.

‘Don’t get upset, Mr Tremont, you’re overwrought.’

I’m having a hard time holding on; I don’t have the energy. Just then I remember the Mocks. I look at my watch and I’m already over an hour late. I ask the doctor for a phone; there’s a booth in the waiting room.

I call Pat and Sandy and tell them what’s happened. They’re most sympathetic and I’m needing sympathy. It’s beginning to register what’s been happening. I’ve been so busy fighting I haven’t had time to think.

I call Joan. I tell her as gently as I can. There’s a long pause on her end of the line. When she starts talking, she’s crying.

‘Mario and I will come to the hospital; you stay there. Don’t call Mother yet.’

I hang up but I don’t want to come out of the phone booth. The space of a phone booth is about all I can handle right then.

Finally, I go out and sit in the waiting room. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, except Joan. Before Joan arrives, the young doctor comes out again. He looks tired but not so grim. I swear he’s grown half a day’s beard while I was phoning. I wouldn’t be a doctor for anything. He doesn’t sit down, so I stand up.

‘Well, Mr Tremont, he’s out of danger for the moment. We’ll need to do more tests to find out what’s wrong. His BUN is up again and he’s dehydrated; that’s all I can tell you now. I’m putting him in intensive care. You might as well go home; there’s nothing more you can do.’

He looks at me carefully. I must look like hell; at least that’s the way his eyes register.

‘You came in the ambulance, didn’t you? Do you want us to call a taxi?’

I shake my head.

‘I’ve called my sister; she should be here any minute; she’ll take care of me.’

He stares a few more seconds.

‘All right, you rest here and if you feel faint, let one of the nurses know. Don’t worry about your father, he’s comfortable now. Dr Chad will call you in the morning.’

He turns away. That’s the first time I know for sure Chad’s taken the case.

About fifteen minutes later, Joan and Mario come in. She sits beside me; her eyes are red from crying. Mario is playing impassive male, but he’s breathing shallowly and has a bluish color under his half-day beard. I go over everything.

Joan wants to see Dad. I know why; she’s afraid he’ll die without her seeing him a last time. It’s amazing the way the living mind works about the dead. Joan persists with the nurse, who finally summons the doctor. He calls intensive care and explains the situation.

‘The two direct relatives may go up for a few mintues; but he’s unconscious, so he won’t know you’re there.’

Christ, I think; you don’t know where it is, Doc; he wouldn’t know we were there if he were conscious.

We go up. For some reason, the Muzak isn’t playing. Maybe they give the machines a rest on weekends. Maybe they only play music during visiting hours. It’s the same, though, small rooms opening onto a large monitoring center.

There’s the smell, the repressed silence, the instrumentation. They’ve pulled the curtains on Dad’s room and we can just make him out in the dark. He does look peaceful; he almost looks dead, but he’s breathing naturally. The IV is still on, the catheter in place, the oxygen tube fitted into his nostrils. He looks like one of the men in a capsule in that 2001 film. He doesn’t look as if he’s in this world anymore. He’s lost so much weight his cheeks have sunken in. He’s like a mummy, yellowish, Nile-embalmed.

Joan goes over and kisses him on the forehead, runs her hand over his head. When I kiss him, caress him, he’s dry, silky smooth, almost parchmentlike with a feeling of graphite powder over his skin. Joan’s crying beside me, then she turns and comes into my arms. I hold her and she’s sobbing deeply. Her sobs trigger me and I can’t stop. I’m looking over her head and crying.

The nurse comes in. She shoos us out and we go slowly past all the overhead lights and bottles surrounded by black faces in white uniforms. Joan’s still holding on to my hand.

When we get to the lobby, she says she wants to use the ladies’ room. Instead of standing, waiting, I go into the men’s room. In the mirror, I look cut out, as if there’s a slight space all around the outside of my head and I vaguely don’t fit somehow, like a poorly done photo-montage. I stare and let warm water run over my hands. I’m still soaked with sweat.

Mario drives us home. By this time, we have ourselves fairly well in control. Joan says she’ll tell Mom. I keep wanting to be with Dad, even though I know there’s nothing to do.

At home, I sneak past, back to Mom’s room, snitch one of her ten-milligram Valium, go into the bathroom and swallow it. I’m a wreck all right. I hope Joan’s OK.

I strip and fill the tub, hot as possible, until I’m practically floating. I dread getting out and going into the living room with Mom. I’m not ready.

But by the time I’m out, the Valium’s hit, the hot water’s hit and a sedating shock has settled in. I’m calm when I join them in the living room. Mario’s in the platform rocker with his hands locked across his stomach, staying neutral, out of it. Joan’s biting her lips to keep from crying. Mom’s crying. I tell Joan and Mario they’d better get back home; I can take over now. Joan’s more than ready to go. She’ll be crying all the way over the San Diego and Ventura freeways. I’m glad Mario’s with her.

Believe it or not, Mother’s convinced Dad’s dying because we canned Ethridge. I wonder if she brought this up with Joan or she’s saved it for me. The temptation is strong to walk out to the back bedroom in the garden, lock the door and just forget it all.

Instead, I go over everything once more. I explain all the things they didn’t do, the fact that it was Ethridge who insisted Dad leave the hospital. I’m talking to a wall. She has something to blame it on and I’m a logical victim; she’s not going to let go.

I tell her the neurological tests Max in Cincinnati told me should have been done and weren’t. I try to convince her concerning Max’s credentials as chief neurologist at a university hospital, but he’s only one of my hippy quack friends. There’s nothing to be done. I look at her there crying and striking out.

Then I remember. When I was a child, my Aunt Helen died of peritonitis after an appendix operation. It was my mother – over the objections of Aunt Helen’s husband, Charley, and her father, my grandfather – who insisted Aunt Helen have the operation. At the funeral, my grandfather turned on Mom.

‘It’s your fault, Bess. If you hadn’t talked her into that God-damned operation, she’d be alive today.’

This triggered Mother’s second nervous breakdown.

I look at Mother and say quietly:

‘It’s your fault, Bess; if you hadn’t talked Helen into that God-damned operation, she’d be alive today!’

I get up slowly and walk out of the house into the garden. I know I’m being a shit and a theatrical bastard but it feels so good. I halfway turn back to apologize but don’t; I go on into the garden bedroom and lock myself in.

I stretch out on that big pillow of a bed and submerge myself in the smell of Billy’s dirty feet. How the hell did he get the smell of his feet into the pillow under my head? Maybe he sleeps with his head at the foot of the bed and his feet on the pillow. Maybe he’s trying to get some blood up to his brain. Maybe my father isn’t dying.

No matter what, Dad’s going to have every one of those neurological examinations he should have had. He’s going to have all the medical backup he needs. I get to sleep at last. The final thought I have as I’m going under is about Mom.

I discover I wouldn’t be too heartbroken if I go in the next morning and find her dead on the living-room floor. That’s a rotten thought but I have it.