Читать книгу The Complete Collection - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 45

Next day the strike hits. All RNs and doctors are put on full time, two shifts. Everything’s on emergency basis. The hospital accepts no new patients and they’re discharging or shipping patients to other hospitals.

The RNs are forced to do all the bedside and dirty work normally done by LVNs. I volunteer to help wherever I can; there’s no way they’re going to move Dad out.

I’m concerned he’ll be neglected with all the confusion, so I move in and sleep next to him. Over half the beds in intensive are empty anyhow. A little redhead nurse shows me what to look for with Dad and I change his sheets, his Pampers; give general bedside service. Except for renewing bottles on the IV, there’s not much medical involved. Chad’s cleared things for me to stay, so I’m having no trouble there.

When I tell Mother about the strike, she wants to shift Dad to another hospital. Joan and I talk her out of that. Perpetual knows his condition and Dr Chad seems to care. The move alone could kill him.

Mother’s at home. Billy’s sleeping in the back garden room to keep an eye on her. He’s being great about it.

It’s strange living in a hospital when you aren’t sick, especially sleeping in an intensive care unit. Most of the patients still here are desperately ill, too far gone to move, so the line between the well and ill is even more exaggerated than usual.

After I’ve been around several days and haven’t bitten anyone’s head off, the nurses are more reasonable. Several times they use me as an extra hand, holding a patient still for an IV insertion or lifting and holding or shifting while they make a bed. I also help with the feeding of other patients.

Early in the morning of the fifth night, I wake to the usual jingling of glass and metal, the main sound in a hospital. There’s a pale gray light coming through the window and I listen to the early going-to-work traffic. It’s the time when I usually have my most depressed thoughts. I’m lying in bed, half thinking, half in suspended animation.

I glance over at Dad. His eyes are open and he’s looking at me! I mean he’s looking at me, not past me, or through me or around me! He’s looking into my eyes!

I slide out of bed on his side and approach carefully. At first, I think maybe he died in the night, but his eyes are live, they follow me, keeping me in focus. I come to the edge of his bed. His mouth opens twice, dry pale lips, paper-frail. But he gets out a sound, a thin, high voice almost falsetto.

‘Where am I, Johnny?’

I can’t believe it! He’s still looking into my eyes, waiting for an answer.

‘You’re in the hospital, Dad, you’ve been sick.’

He nods his head slowly. He looks down the length of his bed and smiles.

‘I think I could’ve guessed that one, Johnny. But what are you doing here? Are you sick, too?’

God, there’s something so clear, so young-sounding! I reach out and put my hand on his head.

‘Just take it easy, now, Dad; don’t force yourself. You’re doing fine.’

He lifts one arm, his right, discolored with IV punctures and tape marks. It’s so thin the muscles are like ropes over bones just under the skin.

‘I don’t look so hot to me, Johnny. What’s happened anyway; was there an earthquake or a car crash or something?’

I don’t know what to say, how much to try explaining. Just then, the morning nurse comes in. It’s the redhead again. Dad looks at her and smiles. She stands there staring, as shocked as I am, but recovers quickly.

‘Well, hello, Mr Tremont, how are you feeling this morning?’

Dad looks over at me.

‘Isn’t she pretty, Johnny? I always wanted a redheaded daughter; left-handed like your mother and redheaded.’

Now the nurse stares at me, bewildered. There couldn’t be a more drastic swing from death to life.

‘Nurse, I think you should page Dr Chad.’

Dad closes his eyes. I’m afraid it might only have been a moment’s clarity before some horrible final descent into death but I don’t want to disturb him. I pull my chair close.

When Chad comes in, we’re still like that. Dad must not have been asleep, because he opens his eyes as the doctor and nurse bustle into the room. Dad looks at Chad and smiles.

‘My goodness, it’s like the House of David baseball team.’

Chad looks at me, eyes wide.

‘He woke this way, Doctor. What do you think?’

Chad’s taking Dad’s pulse; he puts a thermometer in his mouth. Dad keeps an eye on him; a quivering smile flashes around his eyes, his lips. Chad takes his blood pressure and looks at me.

‘One twenty over seventy-five.’

He checks the thermometer.

‘Normal.’

‘Hello, Mr Tremont, how are you feeling?’

‘I don’t know. How am I supposed to feel? I’ll say I feel mighty tired.’

Chad’s leaning forward, peering into Dad’s eyes, feeling his skin. He looks under the bed at the urine bottle.

‘Well, Mr Tremont; you’ve been sick but you seem fine now. What can we do to make you comfortable?’

Dad looks down at himself in the bed.

‘Well, to start with, could you take off a few of these tubes and wires; then can I have something to eat? I’m hungry.’

He holds up his withered arms.

‘It looks to me as if you’ve been starving me in this hospital. I’d say I haven’t had a good meal in a month or so.’

I take his hand. It’s something I never would’ve done when he was well. We take liberties with the very ill.

‘It’s been more than that, Dad.’

He loosens his hand, interlocks his fingers, looks at them, turns them over.

‘Say, I must’ve really been sick.’

Dr Chad stands and backs to the door. He signals me with his eyes to follow. The nurse tucks Dad in; she has a basin of water to wash his face and hands. Chad’s face is a cross between perplexed and elated.

‘Don’t ask me to explain it, Mr Tremont. I’ve never seen anything like it. It could have been the metabolism all along.’

‘Dr Chad, it’s more than that. He’s different. He’s so clear, so calm, somehow younger than he was even before his operation. What can it be? Is it permanent?’

Chad shakes his head and we go over to the counter. He writes a long time in Dad’s medical record. Finally he looks up.

‘Mr Tremont, I really don’t know. He could go back into a coma anytime. We’ll stay with the metabolic approach and be careful of his diet. I don’t want to take the vena cava off too soon. We’ll let him eat but keep the IV so long as he remains rational.’

After I get dressed, I start feeding him soup. He takes the spoon away and feeds himself. He has all the control of a young man; he’s weak but he has control. He drinks some orange juice and is still hungry. He complains about the catheter and IV again. I explain what Dr Chad said. He wants to know what’s been happening to him.

The last he remembers is coming to the hospital for his operation. He can’t believe that was six weeks ago. He remembers Mother’s heart attacks and wants to know how she is. I tell him she’s fine. I tell about the strike here and how I’ve been sleeping in the room with him.

He accepts all this. He wants to know when Mother and Joan can come visit; when he can go home. I tell him they’ll come soon as possible but he should stay in the hospital until he’s really on his feet again.

The nurses are all in and out of the room. They’re almost as pleased as Dad and I are. A pretty Japanese nurse takes Dad’s hand and he puts his other hand on top of hers.

‘Gee, you look so well, Mr Tremont.’

There are tears in the corners of her eyes. Dad looks up at me.

‘Maybe I will just stay on here in this hospital, Johnny; it’s not so bad.’

At nine o’clock, I call Joan. I try preparing her for what’s happening and insist she come immediately. She’s there within the hour.

She holds on to Dad and sobs. He looks past her at me; he can’t really understand why she’s crying.

It’s the same thing when we bring Mom; she cries so hard we need to take her straight home. Joan stays with her that night.

Three days later, Chad takes off the IV. Five days later, off goes the catheter. Dad hates to use the bedpan and urine bottle, so I carry him into the toilet and back. There’s a little handrail beside the toilet; he hangs on to it and insists I leave the room while he ‘does his business’. We’ve started him on light solid food with a backup of pills and medication Chad has worked out. Chad keeps an eye on the blood pressure but it stays stable. He says he doesn’t want to start medication for the blood pressure unless it’s absolutely necessary. He’s willing to let it go high as one sixty or one seventy over a hundred; he wants to guarantee blood circulation in the brain. He also continues all his measures on intake and output. Chad admits he’s still only flailing around, guessing; he has no real explanation as to what happened or what’s happening now. The strike is still on and I stay at the hospital.

Dad’s taking on some weight but still doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds. It was bad enough when he was lying still in bed; now he’s so active, he resembles a living skeleton and it’s frightening. But his color is improving and he’s hungry all the time.

On about the tenth day, when the food comes into the room, he sniffs like a dog catching a scent.

‘You know, Johnny, I can smell that food. I haven’t been able to smell anything for over twenty years.’

I take his tray from the nurse and put it in front of him. He puts his head down close and sniffs each dish.

‘I can even smell spinach; it smells something like the Atlantic Ocean. I’d forgotten how good things smell.’

He starts with the veal cutlet, chewing carefully and long before he swallows. He’s like a TV ad for food.

‘It’s exactly the way it was after I quit smoking, John; food tastes so good, so strong. Each thing is different.’

The next day he asks about Dr Ethridge. I tell him I changed doctors because I’d lost confidence in Ethridge. He looks at me.

‘You mean you fired him?’

‘Well, no, Dad. I only had him removed from your case. He still works for Perpetual.’

‘But I’ve had him as a doctor for fifteen years, Johnny. He’s from Wisconsin, you know.’

‘I know, Dad, but I became convinced he wasn’t giving you the kind of medical care you needed. I truly believe you’d be dead today if we hadn’t changed doctors. Dr Chad seems to have figured out your problem; at least you’re here.’

He stops eating; he looks me in the eyes, smiles, shakes his head and starts eating again.

‘You’re a boss, all right, Johnny. I don’t know if I like having a boss for a son.’

‘Well, you’re stuck with it, Dad. You were too far gone to fight me, so I took over. You can always go back to Ethridge again if you want.’

He stops with a forkful of spinach in front of his mouth.

‘Oh, no. I believe you. I’ve always felt he made a mistake with that gall-bladder operation. They didn’t need to take out my gall bladder.’

I’m glad Dad can admit it. He begins cutting his veal cutlet. It’s wonderful to see his mechanic’s hands working.

‘It’s just the idea of ‘firing’ a doctor; I could never get the nerve to do a thing like that.’

‘Remember, Dad, they’re here to serve you; you’re paying them, just the way you’d pay somebody to fix your car.’

He waves his knife at me, shakes it.

‘Oh, no I’m not; it’s Douglas and the union pays.’

‘Sure you’re paying, Dad. The money they give to Perpetual comes from somewhere. It comes from the money you earned for Douglas, money they made off you and your work. It’s not charity, you earned every dime. They made a fortune off your work over the years, don’t forget that.’

‘OK, Johnny, OK. We’ll fire Ethridge, maybe take over this whole hospital. That’s just fine with me.’

I’m enjoying watching him eat. After all the feeding – trying to get his mouth open, then get the spoon out; catching the drivels – it seems like a miracle to watch him shove food in his mouth.

I’ve always liked watching Dad chew anyway. When he chews, there are tight muscles at the juncture of his jaws which flex with each bite in a way I’ve never seen on anybody else. They flex into a hard round nutlike muscle under his thin skin. It’s the same way when he bears down to tighten or loosen a bolt or nut. I remember as a kid trying to develop that chewing muscle; it never came. It’s like his hammering muscle.

‘Dad, let’s see if you still have that old hammering muscle of yours.’

He puts down the fork and looks at his withered, wrinkled right arm. It’s liver-spotted and the skin is somewhere between something a snake would discard and old parchment. Even most of the hair has rubbed off. But when he bends his wrist, it’s still there. A bump about the size of a marble rises in the middle of his lower arm. He pushes on it with the index finger of his left hand.

‘Soft as a lump of pig fat. I’d never get a job now with a hammering bump like that.’

He peers at me and smiles.

‘But you know what, Johnny; I don’t need a job. I’m retired. I own my own house, I’ve got money in the bank, a pension and Social Security. I don’t ever have to work again. Hot dawg!’

He picks up his spoon and starts scraping, cleaning the corners of the dishes. I think he could eat another whole meal.

Before he was married, Dad worked as an outside carpenter in Philadelphia. He and his brothers worked for their father, who did the basic contracting. Sometimes they’d get a big job and hire extra people. Dad told me his dad never asked about apprenticeship papers or recommendations. He’d only ask to see if the guy had a hammering bump. If it was there, he’d touch it the way Dad did just now and if it was hard the guy got the job.

My granddad refused to pay a salary. Everybody who worked with him was a free agent. He’d offer a job like sheeting a roof and promise a certain amount of money if it was done well in a certain amount of time. Dad said if you worked your tail off and were good, you could make a lot of money working for him but if you loafed on the job you’d wind up broke.

This way Granddad got the best carpenters in Philadelphia and was known for getting a job done quickly and well.

The trouble was he couldn’t expand with his ‘no salary’ system, so it was mostly job carpentry. Then too, just when he did get things rolling for him, building six houses on speculation, the Depression hit. He lost everything, worked ten years paying off his debts and died within the year.

I never developed a hammering muscle. I’ve rebuilt three houses, adding a total of six bedrooms and two baths as well as building a two-car garage, but that hammering muscle never came. Once when I was helping Dad build his place I asked about it. Then he was about my age now; I was maybe twenty-five, just finished my master’s.

‘You have to work years, Johnny; eight hours a day, hammering. Don’t worry about it; you’ve got your hammering bumps in your head.’

It was that same day we were putting shingles on his roof. Dad’d showed me how to fit the shingle and nail, working up. He started on the right half, and I’m working on the left. After about an hour, I look over and he’s done four times as much as I have. I stop and study to find what he’s doing I’m not.

He has his mouth full of roofing nails and works them out between his lips, point first, as he needs them. He fits the shingle with his right hand, still holding on to the hammer, reaches up to his mouth with his left, pulls the nail out, holds it in place and hits twice, once to settle it in, the second time, hard, to drive it home. He’s already working that new nail between his lips, without pausing, shifting and getting the new shingle. It’s sort of: pause – bang-BANG – pause – bang-BANG. My sound has been: long pause – pulling nail out of can, fitting shingle in place, starting nail – then bang-bang-bang-BANG-BANG; start over.

So I watch a few cycles, then fill my mouth with nails. I cheat by starting with three already in place between my lips. I work the shingle in with my hammer hand, then try to get the rhythm with him: bang-BANG – nail shingle – bang-BANG – nail shingle – bang-BANG. I’m trying to concentrate on hitting the nail hard enough and at the same time working a nail with my tongue into my lips. The nails have an electric, galvanized taste. Nail shingle – bang-BANG – nail shingle – bang-BANG – YOUUWWWWW!

I’ve hit my thumb with a full swing of the hammer! I stand up and almost fall off the slanted roof. Dad looks over at me. I’ve spit out the nails with my holler. Vron and Mom run from inside where they’ve been painting. I manage to get down the ladder and put my thumb in cold water but that thumbnail is smashed and already on its way out. I still have a bump in my left thumbnail. I didn’t develop a hammering bump but I developed a thumb bump in one fell swing; a twenty-seven-year-old reminder that I’ll always be an amateur carpenter.

Every day Dad grows stronger. He’s a big favorite with the nurses. The strike ends, the main crew comes back and I start sleeping at Mother’s. Billy, who’s been going stir-crazy, moves up onto the forty acres again.

But Billy does come down almost every other day to visit Dad at the hospital. Dad’s been moved to a regular ward and has a whole new set of nurses to play with. They’ve given him a walker and he’s getting up out of bed a little bit every day. He tells Billy he has the walker to keep the nurses from attacking him. Billy stays long times with Dad and tells me he can’t believe it’s the same man, his grandfather. Billy never knew my father like this; I can hardly remember him this way myself.

One day I’m sitting and joking along with Dad when he says:

‘You know, Johnny, I might not have to go to hell after all.’

I don’t know what he’s talking about. Maybe he’s slipping gears again.

‘Heck, Dad, if you’re not going, then I’m not going either.’

‘No, John, remember I was worried about going to hell ’cause I couldn’t work up any feelings of love for niggers? We were talking about it one day before I went into my tailspin. Remember?’

‘Yeah, I remember now, Dad.’

Oh boy, here we go again.

‘Well, John, I’ve been having some visits from one of the nicest people in the world and she’s almost black, a medium soft brown, but definitely a nigger for sure.’

‘You’ve got to admit, Dad, some of these nurses here have been awfully kind to you, no matter what color they are.’

‘Oh, this isn’t a nurse, Johnny. Well, actually she is, sort of. Sometimes she comes in her uniform, but she doesn’t work here.’

It still doesn’t register. I’m thinking he’s confused.

‘She says she’s a friend of yours, John; she has one green eye. You wouldn’t think anybody could be pretty as she is with one eye a different color like that.’

I can feel the blush rising over me, but Dad isn’t noticing.

‘She tells me she was a nurse in some hospital I was in that I don’t even remember. She brought them African violets there; raised them from cuttings. She has seventeen different varieties of African violets alone; I only got eight myself.

‘You are keeping up the watering on my plants and things, aren’t you, Johnny?’

I nod.

‘I’ve been watering, Dad, and staying up with most of the weeding, too. Alicia’s a fine person all right; one night she helped save your life.’

‘She told me all about that, John. I could hardly believe it. She sure thinks the world of you, says you were better’n a doctor. You know, this is a peculiar thing to say, considering everything, but that girl reminds me of my own mother, your grandmother, Mary Duheme, more than any person I ever met in my life. That’s why I’m not going to hell, John; I can love that woman, nigger or not, just as much as I can love my own mother.’

He smiles at me and I smile back. I think of asking what time she comes but I don’t. Before leaving I say if she comes again to say hello for me.

Dad tells the nurses he doesn’t want to be shaved anymore. The nurses talk to the doctor and Chad comes to me. I talk to Dad.

‘We’ve been through all this before, Dad. You know how Mother feels about beards. Here she’s got a bearded son and three bearded grandsons; don’t you think a bearded husband might be too much of a good thing?’

‘Don’t worry, let me talk to her, John. After all, I almost died; I have some rights. I’m an old man; old men should be allowed to have beards if they want. Besides, I have a very tender face. Since I can’t grow hair on top, I’ll grow some on my chin.’

There’s no stopping him. I tell Chad it’s OK. He smiles out of his bush. He thinks this is one of the funniest things happening in the hospital. He tells the nurses and they don’t fight. It’s no fun shaving an old man with a heavy beard and folds of neck wrinkles. I go home to prepare Mother.

‘I tell you, Jacky, he’s gone completely crazy; he isn’t the same. He’s turning into some kind of Don Juan. I think he’s senile; going into his second childhood. You wait till I get him home, we’ll see about that beard; nobody with a beard is going to kiss me, I’ll tell you that much!’

I try calming her down. I call Joan; she’s convinced I’ve talked Dad into it; she’s going to the hospital and discuss it with him, then she’ll come over to Mother’s.

Mother’s still raving when Joan drives up. Joan comes in the door laughing. She goes over and gives Mother a kiss and a hug. Before Mother can get in a word, Joan lets it out.

‘Mother, you’ll just have to try living with Santa Claus for a while. He’s got this bug to grow a beard and he’s as excited as a kid.’

Joan throws her purse on the couch and flops beside it. She’s still giggling.

‘I had no more chance with him than I did with Jeff and Ted. He’s convinced you’ll like it, Mother.’

‘Do you think he’s gone crazy, Joan? Tell me, is he crazy?’

Joan spreads her arms along the top of the couch, spreads her legs, kicks off her shoes. She looks at me.

‘He’s no crazier than this one here, or Billy, or Jeff, or Teddy; he’s only doing some kind of “man” thing on us.’

I get up, go in, and bring out some of the muscatel. I pour us all a glass and pass it around.

Mother begins to see the humorous side.

‘My God, Joan. How will I ever explain it to the neighbors? They’ll all think I have a hippy boyfriend.’

Joan takes a sip of the cold wine.

‘Maybe you do, Mother; he’s so different. He’s like a seventeen-year-old and I don’t mean he’s senile; his mind is young. He’s making jokes, smiling at everything, at everybody in the hospital.’

She sips again, looks at me.

‘You know, it’ll give him something to think about. He’s always been a farmer at heart, now he can grow a garden – on his face.’

Mother laughs, almost spills her wine.

‘You’re crazy too, Joan; it’s in that damned Tremont blood.’

I know Mom can laugh because she’s convinced she’ll talk Dad out of the beard.

I help her back to the bedroom for her nap. Joan and I sit out on the patio. It’s a fine sunny day, not too hot but with strong sun and a soft breeze. There’s practically no smog. It’s the kind of day L.A. is supposed to have all the time. I’ve rolled out the two redwood chaise longues. Joan stretches herself on one and I lower myself onto the other.

‘Tell me, Jack, what does the doctor say? What’s going on? It’s like Dad stepped into a time machine; he makes me feel older than he is.’

She has the back of her hand across her eyes against the sun. She takes the hand away and leans forward.

‘I think he’s got that beard mixed up in his mind with getting well. I’m sure he sees himself coming out of this whole thing a new man.’

‘That could be a big part of it. That show of color when he let it grow maybe reminded him of his real life locked in there.’

Just then it hits me.

‘Holy God, Joan! What’ll we do about the dates on that tombstone?’

She sits up.

‘Oh, my goodness! I forgot. We’ll have to call and ask them to leave off the final date.’

‘Do you mean the last seven or both sevens?’

‘Jack, at the rate he’s going, maybe we should think twice about the nineteen!’

When I finally decide Dad should come home, he weighs a hundred ten and his beard’s well grown in; thick, dark, grizzled brown.

Chad goes along with everything I ask. This includes a deluxe pneumatic mattress to help with healing Dad’s bedsores, a wheelchair, one of those walkers and a cane. We also have a special chemical toilet and an oxygen tank with the nose attachment. I figure Mother can use the oxygen while napping, even if Dad doesn’t. Perpetual is footing the bill for all this and a nurse will come once a day to check on Dad. I get Dr Coe to sign a procurement slip allowing the nurse to check Mother, too.

I must admit I’m laying it on, but it’s a small revenge.

I’m half tempted to walk the senile corpse in on Ethridge but I’m not sure this would be good for Dad. Ethridge wouldn’t care anyway; just so long as his stocks keep going up and his golf game doesn’t deteriorate too fast.

Dad comes home and Joan joins us to help with the settling in. There was never anybody more pleased to be home; but then he’s happy about everything. He sits in his platform rocker with his leg cocked under him and comments immediately on the African violets blooming in the window box. I’ve added his new ones from the hospital. Alicia’s given him five different varieties. I’m praying Mother won’t ask about them but I’m ready to lie.

He wants to check his garden and the greenhouse. Billy and I’ve been keeping things in the greenhouse tended, also the grass cut and trimmed. It isn’t up to his standards, we know, but it isn’t a jungle either.

Mom watches Dad as if there’s a stranger in the house. Already, he can get along with a cane if somebody holds his other arm, so we take him out to the patio, help him into a chair. It’s another good day but a bit warmer and there’s a touch of smog. Still, out there, with the greenery and the recently watered grass, it’s beautiful.

Dad stares up.

‘Boy, it’s easy to forget how wonderful the sky is. I haven’t been out where I could look up and see blue in a long time. I must say, though, I do miss clouds here in California. We had beautiful clouds in Philadelphia and Wisconsin.’

Mother’s in the redwood chair. I know she’s stewing. It’s the beard, all the attention Dad’s getting, his talking so much. It’s a lot of change, too much.

‘Don’t forget, Jack, those clouds used to be full of rain. You remember in Philadelphia it would rain sometimes for two weeks straight, even in summer. Don’t forget the rain.’

‘That’s right, Bess; but rain’s good for growing things.’

Dad’s been calling Mother ‘Bess’ since his recovery. I don’t know whether he’s doing it on purpose or it’s automatic, or he’s forgotten she wants to be called Bette. She’s been Bette for almost thirty years, since they moved out to California, and now he’s back to Bess. Mother’s real name is Elizabeth and she’s never been called that. Mother hasn’t said anything about the ‘Bess’ business yet, but I know it’s bugging her.

‘Jack, I remember once we took your two weeks’ vacation in Wildwood and it rained the entire time. We were locked up in one room with two beds and two kids for two weeks. I’ll never forget it.’

Dad’s still staring at the sky, eyes wide open; blue as the sky, but clearer. A smile works its way across his face.

‘Well, well, rubber ears!’

He says this, then looks around. Mother looks at Joan, then at me; there’s raw fear in her eyes. I get up, go over to Joan and pull her ear.

‘Well, well, rubber ears!’

Joan yanks away, then laughs. She leans over toward Dad and pulls on his ear.

‘Well, well, rubber ears.’

She leans close and kisses him on the cheek.

‘Dad, I’d forgotten; was that the time it rained so much? It’s the time at Wildwood I remember most.’

Mother gives a vintage snort.

‘You’re all crazy. You and your “rubber ears”.’

Then she laughs.

‘If anybody ever saw you three pulling ears like that, they’d be sure you were insane.

‘And it all came from the funnies, you know. He’d read the comics to you two with different crazy voices even after Jacky could already read himself.

‘Popeye pulled Sweetpea’s ear once and said that; then you all got started. I couldn’t relax without one of you sneaking up and pulling my ear.’

She’s laughing so hard now, she’s holding her hand on her chest.

‘It’s a wonder I didn’t have a heart attack or go completely crazy a long time ago living with such a bunch of nitwits.’

Within another week, Dad can get around with only a cane. He starts getting cocky, using the cane to investigate growing plants without stooping. He’s smiling all the time and singing or humming to himself. He drives Mother nuts hanging around the kitchen. And he’s asking questions, just like a kid. I’m caught between fires. Dad doesn’t want Mother working in the kitchen and she doesn’t want me to cook. I tell Dad I’ll watch Mom to see she doesn’t do too much. Dad’s all over Mother; he hardly lets her go to the john alone.

The other thing is: he, who all his life has been so reserved in physical signs of affection, is continually coming over to rub Mother’s neck or her back, or leaning down to give her a quick kiss. Mom doesn’t know how to take it. A couple times, when he gets up from his chair, unannounced, to plant one of his kisses on her, she gives me her ‘here comes the simp’ look; also there’s fear.

One day Dad asks if I’ll take him to the Salvation Army thrift store, just the two of us. He shows me his wallet; he has three twenties and a ten. I never remember Dad carrying more than five dollars in his life.

Mother’s in a tizzy wondering what we’re going to do. Dad says it’s a secret and he’ll tell her when we come back. I suggest she take a nap while we’re gone. She’s been complaining she doesn’t have a minute to herself with Dad hanging over her. So, quietly, while Dad’s getting out the street version of his aircraft-carrier hat and a sweater, I whisper to her.

‘Look, Mom, here’s your chance to have some time for yourself. Relax and enjoy.’

‘How can I relax when he’s acting like this, Jacky? Where are you going, what’s he doing now?’

‘I don’t know, Mom, and he doesn’t want to say. Don’t worry, it’s all right; I’ll be with him all the time. We’ll be back before five; try to get a good rest.’

We drive over to the Salvation Army on Eleventh Street in Santa Monica. When we get there, Dad goes sniffing around like a bird dog. He and I are back in the old days routing around in the dump for something to salvage and fix up. Dad’s convinced, has been all his life, that people throw perfectly good things away because they’re only tired of them or because there’s some little thing wrong he can fix.

We spend half an hour on the thrift-shop side. This is stuff that’s so far gone even the Salvation Army won’t try to fix it. Dad finds himself an old pair of Adidas running shoes. The laces are gone and the toe is coming out the left shoe but they’re his size and he gets them for twenty-five cents. They’re light blue with three dark blue racing strips and Dad’s pleased as punch. Those shoes should’ve tipped me off.

In the main store, I walk him past an enormous burnt-gold colored couch. It costs seventy-five dollars. Holy cow, if we come home with something like that strapped on top of the car, we can bury Mother the next day.

After I work him away from the couch, he noses around for a while in women’s purses, then blouses. Next, he looks up and sees the stock of Salvation Army furs. They look like a backwoods hunter’s private cache of last year’s killings. Dad heads directly for them, his eyes glowing.

‘Your mother’s always loved furs, Johnny.’

During the next ten minutes, he’s taking fur coats off hangers, holding them up, turning them around. He puts two on himself, strokes the fur, looks in the mirror. Thank God none of them strike his fancy.

I steer him over to the sweater section. A sweater shouldn’t cost much and Mother can hide it or give it away. Nobody can buy clothes for Mother. She even takes back half the clothes she buys for herself.

I tell Dad I’m looking for a pair of pants, and I head for the pants racks. I’m looking for anything reasonable in 33– or 34–30 under a buck and a half. If you don’t care much about being in style, you can get great buys. Dad follows along behind me. He pulls out a pair of violet velvet pants and holds them against himself. They’re size 38–34.

‘Are these too big, John?’

I try to keep a straight face; I won’t fall into Mother’s role here.

‘Yeah, probably. What size do you wear, Dad?’

He looks down at his waist. He’s lost so much weight his pants are folded under his belt and the trousers hang slack around his legs. He’s already gained back fifteen pounds but doesn’t weigh one twenty yet. He opens his belt and holds up the pants. I look inside the waist seam: 32–29.

‘But you’re more like twenty-eight-twenty-nine right now, Dad. The thing is, who knows how much you’ll weigh three months from now; the way you’re eating you could be the new Tony Galento.’

Dad tightens his belt, checks his shirttail and smiles.

‘Do you remember that fight, John?’

‘I sure do. I even remember where we were when we listened to it. It was the furthest I’d ever been from home. We were in Upstate New York with Ira Taylor and his wife, Kay.’

‘You’re right, Johnny; I almost forgot. Gee, that was a fun trip. I remember I promised you you’d see a mountain. Every time we’d go over a hill you’d ask if this was it. We had the ’29 Ford then.’

Dad pulls out a pair of red, blue and purple striped Picasso pants. They’re 28–29 and only a dollar. He holds them against himself. My God, with the beard, he looks like Cézanne in his last years. All he needs is a field easel on his back.

‘They look great to me, Dad, but do you think they’ll fit next week?’

‘I don’t care; if they don’t, I’ll give them away. I think I’d feel fine in a pair of pants like this. I’d feel like somebody special, as if people could see me. All the rich people I’ve seen on television wear crazy clothes. They don’t have to please anybody except themselves and they don’t care what people think of them; they’re already rich. Now I don’t need anything from anybody either. I’ll buy them. I feel like I’m buying Baltic in Monopoly; it’s purple, cheap and how can I lose?’

‘OK. Dad; I think they look great. What do you suppose Mother’ll say?’

‘Well, she’ll laugh and call me crazy, but she’ll laugh. We haven’t had enough laughing around our place the last ten years.’

During the next hour, Dad buys the most outlandish combinations of pants and shirts. I jump into the spirit of things and help him color-match. He’s laughing and having great fun making up wild costumes; nothing is too much.

Against my advice, he buys a shot silk shirt for two dollars. I know how impossible it is to get a shirt like that clean without killing the shimmer effect. Dad says when it gets dirty he’ll throw it away. He’s facinated by the feel of the cloth and the way it changes color at different angles to the light.

All together, we spend under twenty dollars. I don’t remember ever enjoying shopping so much. I even buy myself two rather insane outfits. I hate to think of Mother’s reaction when we show up with these clothes.

On the way home we talk about which costumes we’ll wear first. Dad decides on a pair of ochre-golden ski pants with the shot silk. The silk is a golden thread interwoven with a deep blue. We also buy shoelaces for the Adidas running shoes.

When we get home, Joan’s there. I don’t know whether Mother panicked and called her or Joan just stopped in. We smuggle our bags of clothes through the side door into the back bedroom. I go into the living room to tell Joan and Mother we’re giving them a fashion show. Mother’s punch-drunk and doesn’t know how to react anymore.

We come out, me first in my almost pistachio-ice-cream shirt, Jack Nicklaus golf pants, Stan Smith green-and-white tennis shoes. Joan whistles between her fingers, a skill she mastered before she was five years old, one I’ve always envied.

Dad comes out behind me, no cane. He walks to the center of the living room slowly, carefully, and turns around with his arms waggling loosely in the air. Joan and Mother crack up totally. I begin walking and turning around Dad. Joan breaks out with ‘A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody’ and Mother joins in. They start clapping to the song. We all get giggling and Dad turns back to the bedroom. I bow.

‘Keep your seats, ladies. The show has just begun. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.’

I disappear down the hall before they can say anything.

Dad’s laughing and giggling. His hands are shaking so I help him with the buttons. This time, he puts on the Picasso pants and a dark blue, almost navy, flared blouse with three-quarter sleeves. All he needs is a beret to go out and paint in Montmartre. He looks at himself in the mirror, turns his head each way.

‘This is my retired-artist’s costume.’

He takes the brush off the dresser and brushes his beard into a point, turns up the ends of his mustache. He looks more like an artist than I ever will.

I slip on a pair of striped Italian no-belt pants with a brown, long-sleeved, three-button-at-the-cuff shirt. It even has a lion as a monogram on the pocket. I look somewhat like the Prince after the Princess got drunk and ran off with the butler. Dad stares at me.

‘Boy, if you ain’t the cat’s meow.’

He whistles between his teeth, another skill I’ve never managed.

‘Johnny, you should dress that way all the time. You look like a man who’s never done a day’s work in his life.’

We take a last peek at ourselves in the mirror. This combo just might be too much. I go out and peer around the doorjamb.

‘Ladies, our next showing is what they were wearing in Paris fifteen years ago. Time and tide wait for no one.’

I step forward and Dad follows; Mother bursts out.

‘Oh, no! Joan! Oh, no!! They’re both simple. Oh Lord!’

She’s between crying and laughing. I stand in the center this time with my hands over my head and Dad walks around me lifting his thin arms up and down so the sleeves slide past his elbows each time. Joan starts clapping and Mother picks it up. They’re belting out ‘A Pretty Girl’ again as we troop back to the bedroom.

I’m out of costumes, but Dad has two more. I don’t fit into either his shirts or pants. I help him get undressed and dressed again. This time he has flared denim striped pants in a rather subtle range of tans and browns; he wears a sailor shirt with brown-and-white horizontal stripes and a small white collar. He looks slim and trim like a faggy old cabin boy. I quickly slip into Mr Lazio’s black burial suit, a white shirt and tie. I go out very serious; Joan and Mother roar. I wait till they stop laughing. While I’m waiting, I bow slowly, smiling falsely at each of them in turn. Dad’s pushing behind me.

‘What is it, John? What’s going on?’

With one hand I signal Dad to stay back and I step out.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the house now presents the star of the show, the late sick man and almost corpus delicti, just back from a successful tour of the Caribbean, Gorgeous Jack.’

I hold out my arm and Dad comes shuffling past me, all smiles, no hand over his mouth. This time Mother screams when she laughs. She can’t control herself.

‘Stop them, Joan. I’m dying. They’re trying to kill me! Stop them; I’ll pee my pants!’

Joan’s rocking back and forth, laughing, on the couch.

‘I never heard of anybody dying laughing, Mother, but wouldn’t it be nice?’

Dad walks, over, leans down and kisses Mother. Her cheeks are wet from crying and laughing.

‘Are you all right, Bess? We’re just having a little fun.’

‘You two are crazy and where in heaven’s name did you get those clothes? They must’ve cost a fortune, Jacky. And who in their right mind would sell them to two old kooks in beards anyhow?’

She leans back, still laughing, to look at us again.

‘With those costumes and those beards, people would cross the street just to escape! Somebody’s going to lock you two up for sure.’

Then she starts laughing again. Dad straightens, puts his hand on his chest.

‘This is my costume for bicycling in Venice along the beach or maybe roller-skating.’

He says this biting the smile off his lips; at the same time, trying out the idea. Mother turns to Joan.

‘I wouldn’t put it past him; neither one of them. The way he’s been acting since he came out of that hospital, he’s liable to do anything.’

Dad insists on dressing by himself for his last costume. I’m to join the audience. I can’t remember just what’s left. We looked at so many crazy combinations I’ve lost track. In about five minutes, he sticks his head around the doorjamb.

‘This here’s my baseball-watching outfit. Mostly I’ll only wear it around the house, watching Dodger or Angel games, but I’m also going to actually go see a few games, but not in my costume.’

He comes out, and somehow – maybe it’s because he’s by himself and having such a good time – we get laughing so hard none of us can breathe. I’m on the floor with my knees bent up, rolling on my back, trying to get air. Joan’s prostrate on the couch and Mother’s rocking uncontrolled in her chair. Sometimes she leans forward with her head almost on her knees.

He has on a pair of white flannel trousers with a pale blue pinstripe. The shirt is short-sleeved with the colors in reverse, blue with white pinstripes. He’s wearing the aircraft-carrier hat I gave him for his birthday with the bill slightly cocked to the left. He looks like a sixty-year-old Dennis the Menace. The point is he doesn’t look seventy-three. The boyish figure and grace have somehow come through the illness, the years, the awkwardness of self-consciousness. Mother gets her breath first.

‘My God, Jack. You make Lawrence Welk look like an old man.’

Dad smiles and tries a little buck-and-wing, stumbles, catches himself.

Nothing will do but that this is the costume he’ll wear the rest of the day. The Dodger game’s on at six and he wants a can of beer and some pretzels. He tells us he’s liable to do some loud cheering, so we’re not to get scared.

Joan calls home. Mario says he’ll take the kids out to McDonald’s. Joan whips up hot dogs and potato salad. We have a great time watching the game. Dad turns down the sound and imitates an old-fashioned radio announcer recreating a baseball game, giving all the details – touching the resin bag, looking for the sign, all kinds of things that aren’t even happening. Joan and I laugh till it hurts but Mom’s quiet. She’s afraid of him. This man’s been away too long and came back too fast. I’m hoping it will work out all right.