Читать книгу The Complete Collection - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 47

Next day, Dad really does dress up in his different costumes. He watches the Dinah Shore show in his dancing costume. He wears the bicycling-roller-skating costume to putter around in his greenhouse. More important, he hangs these clothes back in the closet after each change. He’s in the bedroom often and I’m sure he’s checking his wardrobe.

Two days later, he wants us all to visit the Salvation Army again.

He’s been making notes on his clipboard cards. Just before we leave, while Mother’s in the bathroom, he shows them to me.

Each card has a different title, printed in capital letters with the ‘I’s dotted. These are his ideas for new costumes. One is his ‘Confession-Going Costume’; another is his ‘Having Tea with the Queen Costume’; then there’s his ‘Jogging Costume’. He also has one titled ‘Singing and General Fooling Around’. He’s written below what each costume should be like. The ‘Confession Costume’ is a black shirt, black pants and a cape. There’s a note, ‘sort of Dracula-like’. It’s hard to know how serious he is.

‘I wouldn’t show these cards to Mom, Dad.’

‘Oh, sure, John. But you know, Bess used to like fun as much as anybody. It’s been too serious around here lately. Our trouble is we keep thinking of ourselves as retired people. Life has gotten boring and we didn’t even notice.’

He looks at me, streams of waving light passing through his eyes; he’s staring at me, serious on the edge of his new perpetual smile.

‘I think you’re right, Dad. But remember Mother’s not well. She’s had some terrible heart attacks and we’ve got to go slow.’

He nods his head and looks down.

‘You’re right there, John. We’ll go slow.’

He pauses; Mother is coming along the hall.

‘But, I’ll tell you, we’ll go somewheres.’

He pushes himself up with his cane and we head for the car. It’s already on the driveway warmed up. Dad helps Mom in back. He can’t actually help much, he has a hard time standing up himself; but he puts his hand under her arm and helps get her feet straight on the floor. This bugs Mother; the worst thing for her is feeling like an invalid. I stay out of it and slide into the driver’s seat. Dad climbs in front with me.

‘I hope you don’t mind, Bess, but I want to sit here and see if I can pick up the knack of driving again. When I’m back on my feet, I’d like to take that driving test. It’d sure be fun if I could drive; maybe visit the bowling alley.’

He pulls out his clipboard.

‘By golly, that’s one I forgot. I want a bowling costume, something in black-and-white stripes for a shirt, then black pants like an official at a basketball game.’

He writes on his clipboard. I glimpse in the rear mirror, backing out, and see Mom’s face. She’s not putting on; nobody’s watching her, but her face is set tight. She’s worried, scared, critical. She doesn’t know what to say, what to do.

Dad turns around, lifting his knee onto the seat as he does it. It’s hard putting together some of his moves with his age, his physical condition.

‘You know, Bess, you ought to get yourself a few costumes, too. I don’t mean just more ordinary clothes but real costumes. Maybe a wig; they’ve got some fine wigs there at the old S.A. I’m liable to try on a few myself. I was too embarrassed last time but with the two of us we could have some good laughs.’

I don’t look back. There’s a long silence. I definitely must talk to Dr Coe, or at least have a long talk with Mother. She’s overwhelmed. Even if she were in perfect health, I don’t think she could cope.

‘All right, Jack; I’ll look with you; but remember, after all, we are in our seventies.’

Now Dad swings himself up on two knees, leaning over the back of the seat. He seems to have forgotten the things you’re not supposed to do when you’re grown up. Maybe it’s part of being so light and lean; he could have some feelings of being physically thirteen or fourteen years old.

‘Honest, Bess, you still look like a girl to me. Nobody’d think you were even forty years old. You can wear anything you want and look great. We need to get over the idea we’re old fogeys and stop worrying what people think. You sure as hell don’t see any of the young people asking us what to wear.’

We’re both shocked. Not so much by what he’s said, not even by the strength and youth in his voice, but by the fact he said ‘hell’! I take a quick peek in the mirror. Mom seems fine, better than the last time I looked. The compliment from the mouth of a man who never compliments has completely undone her. There are tears in her eyes. I have a strong feeling I shouldn’t be there. Dad hasn’t used ‘hell’ except as a place description during the past forty years I know of. But he doesn’t seem to notice he’s said anything out of the ordinary.

It’s right here Mother decides to make a stand about the ‘Bess’ business. Maybe she figures he’s caught out on language and now’s the time to strike.

‘Jack, couldn’t you call me Bette again? You know how much I hate Bess. I don’t know what’s happened; you’ve been calling me Bette since we came to California and now, suddenly, you’re calling me Bess.’

There’s a long silence. Dad’s still up on his knees; I’m driving along Sepulveda Boulevard toward Olympic.

‘Well, Bette. I married you as Bess and I’ve always liked that name. It’s a name you don’t hear very often; it’s a strong name, like you. Every time I call you Bette I’m afraid somebody else might answer.’

I sneak a quick mirror look. Mom has her eyes on it and catches mine. My mother, in a rearview mirror, where I can only see her eyes, gets across a full gamut of emotion. She’s telling me she’s afraid, confused and asking what she can do. That’s expression! Dad goes on.

‘But honestly, Bess, if you want to be Bette, OK. I’ll concentrate on it. I’ll call you Bette and you call me Jake. Say, I like that! It sounds as if we might be Prohibition gangsters or drug runners. It’ll be fun! We’re Bette and Jake. I have as much right to be called Jake as anybody. Maybe I can take up smoking again, get some of those little cigars Edgar G. Robinson used to smoke.’

He turns to me.

‘Do you think they might have any old derby hats at the S.A., Johnny?’

I look to see if he’s playing Machiavelli. No, he’s only having a good time. He’s all excited about being Bette and Jake, suspicious characters. He can’t realize how he’s stripped Mom’s pretensions to the bone in one fell swoop. I don’t think he even knows how effective his threat to take up smoking again is. He’s playing. He has all the ego isolation and drive of a twenty-year-old.

The rest of our ride to the Salvation Army he goes over his lists and tries to interest Mother in his costume plans. He keeps calling her Bette and when she calls him Jack he corrects her every time, saying in a low, reminding tone, ‘Jake’.

I’m torn between commiserating with Mom and breaking up. I can see why Mother devoted her life to dominating him. He must have been totally irrepressible as a young man. No wonder his sisters warned her. He’s worse than either Uncle Orin or Uncle Pete. This is a strong, impish Rabelaisian id that’s been cooped up for thirty or forty years. Whatever could have unstoppered the bottle?

At the Salvation Army, I cut Dad off from the thrift shop. I know we only have so much time before Mother will flag; she’s already taken enough of a beating. Dad’s giving me signs behind Mother to make sure I steer her by the gold couch. He hasn’t forgotten. It’s so unlike him to even notice, let alone care, about what kind of furniture is in a house.

We slowly move Mother near the couch. But she’s still too much in shock to pay much attention. We’re almost past when Dad stops suddenly.

‘Johnny, we’re probably wearing Mother out with all this coming and going; let’s sit down on this nice-looking couch here and take a little rest.’

With that, he lowers himself onto the far end of the couch. I help Mom sit down and I sit beside her. Dad’s running his hand lovingly, possessively, over the nap of the couch. Mother’s holding herself in, exasperated.

‘We’ve been sitting in the car for the last half hour. I’m fine.’

Dad sneaks a little kiss on the side of her neck; Mother swings around to see if anyone’s seen.

‘Just look at this couch, Bette. You know, this is the kind of couch I’ve always wished we had for our living room.’

Mother looks down at the couch. She’s only doing it to shut him up, but then looks more carefully, her furniture-appraising eye in action. She struggles herself to a standing position. I stay seated. Dad watches. It’s like watching a very rare bird flitting around a trap. She goes to the back and pulls at an edge of the upholstery. She finds the price tag and reads it.

‘There must be some mistake here, Jacky. It says seventy-five dollars.’

We both get up and look at the tag. Dad peers at it, looks at me and smiles.

‘Maybe it’s supposed to be seven hundred and fifty. It looks like a seven-hundred-and-fifty-dollar couch to me. They could have left off a zero by mistake.’

Mother goes around lifting all the pillows on the couch and turning them over. She does the same with the back pillows. It’s the kind of thing Dad and I would never think of. There could be a hole in every one of those cushions and we’d have bought the couch, holes and all. Mother leans close and gives me one of her conspiratorial whispers.

‘Jacky, go over casually to that nigger there and ask if this is the right price. Don’t let her suspect you’re really interested.’

She leans down and begins smelling the couch. I can’t figure what she’s smelling for. I ask the woman at the counter; she comes over and looks at the ticket.

‘That’s right, ma’am, seventy-five dollars. It certainly is a pretty couch, ain’t it?’

Now Mother starts her pensive consideration. Every aspect of the living room must be considered. Yes, it goes well with the rug, yes, the drapes, yes, the dark wood of the Chippendale-style dining furniture. She’s onto the lamps when Dad slips off. He’s convinced she’ll buy it now; that part of his mission’s accomplished. I stay with Mom. I’ll go help with shirt selection after he’s found the pants.

Now Mother’s wondering what she’ll do with the sectional couch she has.

‘Maybe Jeff and his wife would like it, Mom; they’re just setting up house and don’t have much money.’

She goes hmmm, smiles and nods. That’s that. Next.

‘How could we ever get it home, Jacky? Do they deliver?’

I go over and ask. They’ll do it but it costs twenty dollars.

‘Don’t worry, Mom, I can do it myself.’

‘You’ll scratch the roof of the car and you know how Daddy is about that car.’

I tell her I’ll put it on the roof upside down; we’ll take the back streets home; they’ll give me rope to tie it down; somebody will help me get it on the roof; no, the roof won’t collapse; we’ll put the cushions inside the car, it isn’t likely to rain, there will be enough room for all of us; I’m sure the guy next door, or Billy, can help me get it off the roof; don’t worry, I have my checkbook with me. These are the answers.

Then she breaks into a smile; it’s so nice to see her smile. Now it comes out. She’s been dying to change those big, old clunkers for ten years but never found anything she really liked. Daddy never wanted to spend any money on furniture. She sits down again, spreads her hands on each side, strokes the nap.

‘Isn’t it beautiful, Jacky?’

I agree. It really is beautiful, a beautiful couch and beautiful to see her smiling. I sit beside her. She leans over impulsively and kisses me on the cheek.

‘You’re such a good boy, Jacky. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

That’s the way Mom is. All the fear, the dissatisfaction, the anxiety is forgotten. I even think she’s almost forgotten about her heart in the joy of getting this new thing. I’m happy it worked out. I’m half afraid that in loading the couch, I’ll find something seriously wrong, like sprung springs, a broken frame or missing legs. I start checking surreptitiously, but nothing seems amiss. I go over and write the check. I make arrangements to drive the car up close. I tell Mother to go with Dad while I get this done.

We push the couch onto the roof and tie it down. It’s a real brute. I shove five cushions in the trunk and pile three in the back seat. This is one hell of a couch; it overhangs both front and rear a couple of feet. I’ll stay on back streets. If some cop stops us, I’ll tell him Mother’s a heart patient and we carry the couch along in case she has to lie down.

It’s half an hour later when I go back to the clothing section. I can hear them laughing from the door. Mother’s letting loose with what I’ve always called her vulgar laugh. It’s deep, hearty, juicy and sounds like a laugh you’d expect to hear coming from the window of a brothel in New Orleans. It’s the laugh you want to hear when you tell a dirty joke.

I go back. They’ve got the most outlandish clothes spread all over the counters. They’re setting up ‘his and her’ costumes. Mother’s moderating Dad’s more bizarre impulses, but not much. They really do have confession-going costumes. If they ever wear them, they’ll look as if they’re going to a public execution. Dad has a Gothic flair, Gothic in the Hawthorne or Poe tradition. They’ve also selected some light, Eastery pastel getups. Mother’s entered into the spirit of things and is master-minding the his-and-her bowling costumes. She gives me one of her stage whispers.

‘After all, Jacky, we’re not spending more than twenty-five dollars all together. The cloth in these clothes in worth that, and he’s having such a good time I hate to spoil it.’

But she’s having a good time, too. Together we work on our having-tea-with-the-queen costume for the three of us. We’ll invite Joan over and pretend she’s the queen. We keep adding new touches to these costumes, sometimes including hats and shoes. We laugh ourselves sick imagining how Joan will react.

I’m beginning to feel it’s going to be all right; that Mom will learn to enjoy her new ‘crazy’ husband.

The next day, Joan calls and says she’s coming in the afternoon. We set out the best dishes and silver. We cover the dining-room table with a white tablecloth – the works. I make a crown from gold paper I find in the Christmas decoration box. The new couch is in and it’s beautiful. I’ve even maneuvered the old sectional jobs back to the garden bedroom.

That new couch gives a golden light to the living room, a glow. We’re all pleased as pussy cats about it. Dad and I talk Mother out of pinning her little crocheted antimacassars on the back and arms.

‘What the hell, Bette, if it gets dirty, we’ll buy a new one.’

This is Dad, exercising his newfound largesse and expanded vocabulary.

We get dressed in our costumes, laughing and kidding around. If it could always be like this, I’d move back to America. Dad’s wearing a fitted, light blue velvet waistcoat with silver buttons and gray flannel trousers. The shirt is a pale blue with a silver thread running through it. He’s wrapped a deep blue foulard under the collar and Mom ties it lightly in a soft knot. With his dark beard, he looks like one of the three Musketeers.

Mom has on a pale yellow silk pajama suit. She’s wearing a golden necklace and pendant. On her head she has a chestnut-blonde wig with side curls. It fits her perfectly. We get all her hair tucked in and the wig nicely combed out. Dad’s helping comb out the wig; it reminds me of when he used to cut our hair in the cellar when we were kids. He walks around in front of Mom.

‘My goodness, Bette, you’re beautiful!’

Mother’s sitting in front of the dresser mirror, smiling at herself, directing the combing. The problem is her eyebrows are black, actually black streaked with gray. Mom solves this by rubbing in foundation cream, turning them brown.

I’m wearing a bright red blazer jacket I got for three dollars, along with red-and-white striped pants. We make quite an ensemble. I go buy some ice cream at the Lucky Market. Mother’s scandalized because I wear my tea-with-the-queen costume to the market.

‘You’ll get arrested for sure, Jacky!’

Nobody notices me. After all, this is California, land of the kook. I get the ice cream, some pretzels and sugar cones. I’m on the watch for a dormouse and a Mad Hatter so I can invite them home with me.

Finally, after we’ve waited impatiently, checking every car within earshot, Joan arrives. We meet her at the door, bowing and scraping. We circle around her, curtseying. Joan laughs hysterically and is very unqueenlike, but finally settles into her role and is properly haughty as we escort her to her throne at the head of the table and crown her. Then she spots the new couch and is satisfyingly enthusiastic, sitting on it, spreading her hands while we hover over her. She graciously admires our costumes, smothering giggles, and bows or smiles sweetly to all our ‘Your Highness’s. It’s as if we’ve made a tea party with mud cakes and invited our parents.

I decide things are going well enough so I can leave Dad and Mom alone. I want to spend some time with Marty.

Marty lives near the Los Angeles County Museum, so we go there. It’s wonderful seeing paintings again; it’s so easy to forget the big life when one gets bogged down with the up-front part of things. I find myself spaced out in the Impressionist room.

When Gary comes home, we go to a Korean restaurant and talk about names for the baby. At that point it’s Will for a boy, Nicole for a girl. I give them a quick blow-by-blow of what’s been happening with Dad and Mom. They’re anxious to find a new place to live. Their apartment specifies no children or pets. It’s a very quiet, old-people’s neighborhood.

I tell about Venice; how great it would be for a baby near the beach. They get enthusiastic. They’re tired of the heavy smog where they’re living and there’s practically no smog near the ocean. We agree Marty and I will spend the next afternoon looking down there. I phone home and everything’s OK. I tell them I’m staying over with Marty and Gary. I sleep on a couch in the living room, hoping everything’s all right.

In the morning I take a quick buzz over to see Mom and Dad. It’s almost like visiting another house. Dad comes out, gives me a weak hug and pushes his beard against mine. Mom puckers up for a kiss. She’s still scared-looking but there’s excitement in her eyes; she whispers she wants to talk with me. Dad goes out to water and work in his greenhouse; Mom and I go into the main back bedroom: her bedroom now, while Dad still has those bedsores. She sits on the bed.

‘Jacky, you’ve got to do something. Somebody sensible like Dr Ethridge needs to talk with him. He’s crazy. I tell you, he’s crazy. He’s worse than you are. Do you know what he was doing this morning when I woke up?’

She waits, almost as if she wants me to guess.

‘You know, he gets up at seven every morning now, humming and singing his crazy songs. This used to be the best time of day, but now I stay in bed.

‘He sneaks his own clothes from the closet and drawers, then goes into the bathroom and takes a shower. Can you imagine, a seventy-three-year-old man taking a shower every morning at seven o’clock? He’ll slip and kill himself.’

Her face is so extremely mobile, going from complaint, to curiosity, to desire, to an escaped smile. I watch and wait.

‘Well, this morning, Jacky, I don’t hear anything for a while after his shower so I peek out to see what he’s doing; you never know, believe me. No man ever changed so much, so fast.

‘I look all around the house first and then out the window to see if he’s in the greenhouse. He’s on the patio and he’s shuffling in a circle along the outside edge of the brick part. He has on that crazy running suit and those blue sneakers with the stripes. I think his Indian blood is finally coming out and he’s doing a war dance, going to put his hand over his mouth and go “Ohoo wahhh wahhaaa!”’

She’s definitely smiling, fighting it all the way. She puts her hand over mine on the bed.

‘Honest, Jacky; I’m scared to death. Maybe next he’ll scalp me.

‘I didn’t know whether to call you or not. Instead, I opened the door and ask as nicely as possible, “What’re you doing out there, Jack?” He smiles with sweat running down his face and he’s puffing. “Jake, remember, Bette? Jake.” He swings his arms over his head. “Just doing a little jogging, getting in shape; thought I’d do it in here so I wouldn’t disturb the neighborhood. Tomorrow I’ll do it back on the grass; this hard cement isn’t good for the knees.”

‘Jacky, you’ve got to admit, that’s ridiculous; and he never stops while he’s talking, just keeps shuffling round and round. He’s hardly lifting his feet but he’s convinced he’s jogging. And this is after his shower. Now, you know, Jacky; nobody in his right mind jogs after they shower.’

I’m trying not to smile. I promise I’ll talk to Dr Chad.

‘And, Jacky.’

Mother looks around to check if we’re being observed by the CIA or the KGB.

‘He keeps coming into my bed at night. He won’t leave me alone! He pesters me all night long. Your father has always been a highly sexed man but this is insane! He wants to make love all the time, even yesterday, in the afternoon, right out there on the patio – me with two heart attacks!’

At this she ripples into a giggle.

‘Nobody’d believe he’s a seventy-three-year-old man who almost died a few weeks ago. Maybe his hormones got all mixed up, Jacky. You’ve got to talk with somebody. It’s going to kill me!’

We hear Dad singing as he comes across the patio.

‘Oh, it ain’t a-gonna rain no more, no more,

It ain’t a-gonna rain no more!

How in the heck can I wash my neck

If it ain’t a-gonna rain no more?’

That’s one of his favorites. Another song that’s driving poor Mom absolutely up the wall goes:

Close the doors, they’re coming through

The windows.

Close the windows, they’re coming through

The doors.

This is repeated over and over, with different voices, different intonation, different accents; without thought, sometimes rising, sometimes only the sound of whistling in. Dad walks through the side door into the hallway. He goes into the bathroom and takes another shower.

Mother and I wait for him in the living room, not saying much. When he comes out, he’s quite debonaire in his ‘retired painter’s’ costume.

‘Look, John, why don’t you give me a driving lesson while you’re here? I’m sure I’ll pick up the knack of it fast.’

Mother looks over at me.

‘Don’t you do it, Jacky! I’m not going to drive with him. He drove too fast before he turned in his license, I hate to think what he’d be like now.’

Dad goes across to Mother.

‘Don’t you worry your little head, Bette; when old Jake Tremont gets behind that wheel, you’re safe as if you were in your own bed. We’ll only drive along slowly looking at scenery. John here showed me a way to the beach where we won’t have one red light the whole way. It’s like country driving and you come out right there at the beach with plenty of parking.’

He gives her a kiss on the neck, then another on the lips.

I’m only glad he didn’t mention the motorcycle.

‘Well, Mom, Dad’s right. You should go to the beach more often. When you and Dad get to feeling better, and I’m gone, you can call a cab, go down to the beach.’

Dad’s lowering himself onto the floor in front of the TV. He stretches out on his stomach.

‘Jack, what on earth are you looking for?’

‘Jake, Bette. I only want to see if I can still do a pushup.’

He tries pushing himself up with his frail arms but can’t budge. Then he bends at the waist to push his shoulder and head up from the floor till his arms are extended. He lets himself down again.

‘I’ll call these old-man pushups.’

He pushes himself up and down a few times. Mother goes to the bathroom.

‘Johnny.’

He grunts it out between pushups.

‘I don’t want to go in a cab; we’ll probably wind up in Santa Monica. That town’s an outside old-people’s home. Everybody’s moving along slowly, shopping for nothing, or waiting for the next meal. Every corner in that town’s a bank or a doctor’s office.

‘I want to drive to Venice where we were, or walk down to Washington Pier. To be honest, I’d like to do it on that motorcycle of yours but I’m too old, I’d be scared. I’d also like to get in some fishing off the pier. I used to like fishing. I can’t figure when it was I stopped doing the things I like.’

He struggles himself up off the floor and falls back into his rocking chair; cocks his leg under him.

‘Mother and I should have some fun while we can. If we get feeling good enough, we should take a trip back to Philadelphia; visit all the old places, our family and friends. We had some good times there in Philly.’

When Mother comes out of the bathroom, she’s made herself up but she’s weepy. She isn’t crying, but the hollows under her eyes are dampish. I talk them into taking a car ride with me.

We tour slowly through Cheviot Hills where there are handsome, big houses and lovely gardens. This is something Mom loves. These houses represent her idea of what the good life should be and she likes to think she lives near it. She also enjoys making fun of any architectural idiosyncrasies. She constantly reiterates how glad she is to have just a little place in a quiet neighborhood, something she can take care of herself. It’s painful listening to her vacillate between self-righteousness and resentment. But I know she enjoys it.

Dad’s sitting in front again, imitating my feet and hand movements. He’s pushing on his brake and steering an imaginary steering wheel. Mom giggles, snorts and tells him to stop it. But now he’s enjoying clowning for her. With automatic drive there’s nothing to driving this car. He probably could do it. And why the hell should he go through the business of a driving test? What’ll they do if they catch him, throw him in prison?

I drive them home and suggest a nap. Mother’s upset. She whispers to me.

‘Tell him to stay in his own room, Jacky, tell him I need a rest.’

How can I tell Dad that? I gently suggest that Mother’s tired, needs a good sleep.

‘I’m not going to nap, Johnny. I’m going to dig a hole in the backyard, sink a tin can in it and do some putting.

‘You know, John, I’ve always wanted to play golf. I’ve got an old putter in the garage and some golf balls. I’ll make my hole and put a flag in it; then I can tell people I’m puttering in my garden.’

I think of his grave.

He gaily snickers as he works his way down the steps to the patio, out the gate and into the garden. I hop in the car and drive back to Marty’s. It’s Saturday, she has the day off, so we can house-hunt.

Marty’s beginning to show. She’s still looking for a doctor who will deliver her baby the Leboyer method; that’s the Birth Without Violence Frenchman. What would the world be like if people could all be born with a minimum of trauma; come into this world feeling wanted and holding on to some memory of the pre-birth state? Maybe people wouldn’t be so afraid of dying if they remembered what it was not to be born yet. I’m convinced a good part of the world’s troubles are built around death fears.

We use my folks’ car; it’s more comfortable than Marty’s old Toyota. We roll down Wilshire to Santa Monica, then south toward Venice. We tour around looking for ‘FOR RENT’ signs. We’d like to avoid an agent if possible. Marty’s paying two hundred where she’s living and they can go up to two fifty or even three hundred for the right kind of place.

After asking at a few houses where the renters are still living, then telephoning some other numbers which turn out to be agents, we’re beginning to get discouraged. Everything is either too small, has no yard or won’t take children.

About three o’clock, I suggest we have a glass of wine and some cheese at Suzanne’s restaurant on the boardwalk; Marty’s never been there. Suzanne comes to our table. Suzanne remembers me from painting and sits with us. She won’t drink any wine but has a cup of herb tea. I tell her our problem. She’s all turned on about Marty being pregnant.

Suzanne asks Pap, the transvestite dishwasher, if Gerry Lynn has rented her place yet. Pap doesn’t know but has the phone number. Suzanne says she’ll phone.

Marty turns to me.

‘She’s so nice, Dad. Why is she being so nice when she doesn’t even know us?’

It brings back what Dad said; almost the same words.

I’m still in a daze. I can’t put together the timid, shy man who came down here on the motorcycle, the life-defying vegetable in the hospital, and now Jake, out there building himself a one-man, one-hole miniature golf course.

Suzanne comes back. She has fine, brown, lithe arms and legs, softly covered by a thin cotton blouse, no bra, wrap-around skirt and sandals. She also has thin feet and long toes. Some of these natural children-people can be a reminder of how humans are meant to be.

‘Gerry says she hasn’t promised the place and knows the landlord wants to rent again soon. The rent’s two thirty. The trouble is she won’t be moving out for another month. She’s there now if you want to go over. Here’s the address.’

She hands Marty a small card.

The house is five blocks in from the beach, and we can’t believe it. This is an old-fashioned, wooden, one-story place with overhanging roofs and gables. Most houses around here are stucco.

Even more impressive, there’s a sequoia redwood in the front yard. It completely dwarfs everything, so the house looks like something from a fairy tale.

We’re trying to figure the unlocking mechanism on the gate when a woman comes to the door. She has a baby on her hip and a three-year-old hanging on to her jeans.

‘Wait a minute; I’ll get that.’

She skips down the two steps on the porch and untangles the hook and chain.

‘You must be the people Suzanne called about.’

Marty’s staring at the house.

‘I love your place; it’s like a house in Germany, not Californian at all.’

‘Well, come on in and look around.’

She turns and walks back up the steps; nice firm ass tightly held in by jeans. Having women take up jeans must be one of the main events of the twentieth century.

The door opens directly into a living room with two big windows. There’s a wide arch separating living and dining room. In back is a large kitchen leading onto a service porch and a backyard. The right side is two bedrooms in line going back, with a bathroom between. The backyard’s small, enclosed by bushes and a wall. Marty’s entranced.

‘What a wonderful house you have here, Gerry.’

‘If you like it, it’s yours. I’m leaving next month. The rent’s paid up.’

She shows us around outside. I do some checking for termites, foundation sag or roof leaks, the real problems a house can have. Gerry serves us apple juice and honey cake. Marty calls Gary at work; he’s coming right over.

When Gary comes, he and Marty check everything again. It’s fun watching them. They seem like such babes compared to Gerry. Gerry and I sit in the living room; she asks if I’m still married. I tell about Vron, Billy, Jacky and living in Paris. While we’re talking, she puts the baby on her breast.

I’m torn between watching the baby nurse and embarrassing Gerry. I love seeing a baby’s rosy face when it’s sucking on a warm, turgid tit.

‘It’s all right; you can look; I don’t mind.’

Marty and Gary come back. They’ve decided to take the place. Gary calls the owner and makes an appointment. Gerry takes the baby off her breast. A pearl of thin milk forms on top her nipple before she drops her T-shirt over it.

‘You can move your stuff into the garage whenever you want. Let me know if I can help.’

We say goodbye and walk to where we’ve parked. Gary gets in his car and goes back to work.

Marty and I drive to my parents’.

They’re on the patio sunning. Marty hasn’t seen Dad since his resurrection and I’ve tried to prepare her. The beard is the part she can’t believe but I keep telling her that’s the least of it. Marty kisses Mom and goes over to Dad. He puckers up and kisses her on the lips.

‘My goodness, Martha, you’ve certainly grown into a lovely woman, a blonde version of your mother.’

Marty leans back, pleased, confused by this kind of talk from a normally quiet, timid man.

‘Thanks, Grandpa. That’s the way I’d like to be, like Mom.’

Mother pushes up on one elbow to turn her face out of the sun.

‘That’s certainly a pretty dress you’re wearing, Martha, those colors are perfect for you.’

Dad peers and smiles his pirate smile.

‘But what are you hiding under that dress, Martha? A football?’

Mom giggles nervously.

‘Don’t mind him, Martha. He’s awful these days.’

Dad pushes himself to his feet, goes over and kisses Marty again. He puts his hand on her stomach.

‘Just think what’s in there, Bette, another member of our family, somebody we don’t even know yet, a blend of you and me, Gary and his parents, Johnny and Vron, Vron’s parents. We’re all in there, another new layer being formed.’

He kisses Marty again.

‘Thank you, little granddaughter, it’s the best present in the world.’

Marty breaks out crying. She’s a tender, emotional person and isn’t accustomed to such open expression, such clear feelings; none of us are. Mom has tears in her eyes

‘Don’t be afraid, Martha; it’s the biggest experience a woman can ever have and I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful mother.’

Marty leans over Mom and shares a soft kiss and hug.

‘OK, everybody, it’s time to break out the champagne. Is there beer in the refrigerator?’

We all try getting the conversation running at a less charged level. We tell about the new house in Venice. Marty mentions how she wants to have the baby by natural birth, mentions Birth Without Violence. Mother’s convinced it’s all nonsense and dangerous.

‘You’ll see, Martha. When you start having hard labor pains, you’ll want a shot. I can tell you.’

Marty’s taking it easily. She doesn’t know, but she’s mucking in one of Mom’s favorite martyrdom areas. Nobody, but nobody, should have a baby without fear, pain and violence. It’s what verifies a woman.

I take Marty home and have dinner with them. They’re excited about the house. I stay over and we don’t get to bed till after midnight. What an exciting time for them, new house, new baby; I enjoy basking in their joy.

The next day after breakfast we loll around while I’m pretending I’ve gone to mass. I’m just ready to call my folks to see how they are when the phone rings. It’s Mother.

‘Jacky, you’ve got to come! He’s gone completely crazy for sure. Come right away; I’m scared to death! I’ve got to hang up now, hurry!’

She hangs up.

Damn! It’s never going to end! Mother smells I’m leaving soon and she’s working up something to keep me. I know this isn’t true, only self-justification, but it occurs to me.

Soon as I arrive, Mom’s giving me frantic signals. This time she’s really trying to get my attention without Dad seeing it. This must be serious.

Dad is vaguely preoccupied, distressed; I’m wondering what could’ve happened. Mom ushers me into her back bedroom and closes the door. Dad’s wandering around, aimless, restless, in the garden.

‘Jacky, he’s crazy!’

She starts crying. I take her in my arms.

‘What happened, Mom?’

She can’t talk for several minutes, just holds me tightly. Then she lets go and settles onto the bed. Her legs are so short they don’t touch the floor. She still has on her nightgown, bathrobe and slippers. Her hair’s up in curlers and her face is cold-creamed. It must be serious for Mother to let anybody see her this way.

‘Jacky, he’s talking about people I don’t know or people I’m sure are dead. He insists we go to Cape May, New Jersey, to see how things are. Can you imagine?’

She’s crying again.

‘And he’s back to calling me Bess!’

She peeks out the window. Dad’s weeding along the patio wall.

‘Jacky, he wanders around the house, opening and closing doors, looking into closets, into the cupboards, all the time shaking his head. It’s as if he’s looking for something he’s lost.’

She pushes the back of her hand into her mouth.

‘I think he’s lost his marbles, Jacky. He can stare at me as if he doesn’t quite know who I am. It scares me. He’ll be sweet and kind; then he looks at me with those crazy eyes and I almost expect him to ask, “Who the hell are you?”’

Through the window, I’m watching Dad in the garden. He’s pacing like a tiger or a lion in a cage he knows too well but, like a caged animal, still looking for some little chink, some opening or corner he’s never found.

‘He’s strong, Jacky. I know him. I’m afraid when he comes into my room nights. He comes so silently, sneaking, as if we aren’t married, as if he feels guilty about coming in. Then he talks to me while we’re making love and calls me Bess. He even talks about the things he’s doing. He was never like that, Jacky; he never said anything about things like that. I tell you, he scares me!’

It’s getting awfully thick. I need to talk with Dad. It could be nothing, only Mother’s love of dramatizing, or there might be something wrong. Maybe he’s starting to slip back again and these are the first signs.

Dad’s in the greenhouse. He’s working his cuttings and plants into shape again. Maybe there’s nothing to talking with plants but I’m sure they know when somebody cares. There’s some kind of telepathy going on. Just because they can’t speak doesn’t mean there isn’t communication.

In the greenhouse, Dad turns to me immediately; he looks in my eyes. Mother’s right; it’s almost as if he’s somebody else, as if he’s trying to decide if he knows me, can trust me.

‘What did she say, John?’

I lean over and pretend to inspect a green plant with thick cactus leaves and a small yellow flower growing on top of the leaf.

‘She says she’s scared, Dad. She thinks maybe you’re crazy.’

He looks down at his feet, then picks up an empty bag for one of his flowers.

‘Take me for a ride, John. I need to talk in private and I don’t want any interruptions.’

I follow him out of the greenhouse. When I’m out, he reaches back and sets the timer for his automatic mist-waterer; a thin fog of water sprays with a hissing sound. I wonder if he invented this watering system himself or it’s standard for greenhouses. You never know with Dad; he’s always developing some little gimmick to fit his convenience and might just not ever mention it. Until the past few weeks, I never truly realized what an extremely private man he’s been.

I warm up the car. Dad gets a sweater and his hat. I don’t know what he tells Mother. I have a feeling again things are getting out of control. Dad gets in the car.

‘Could we drive to Venice, John? It’s a sunny day, I’d like to see the ocean.’

I’ve just turned onto Beethoven Street when he blasts me with it. He isn’t looking at me; he’s staring out the front windshield.

‘Johnny, what chance is there I have a wife and four kids in Cape May, New Jersey?’

My first response is he is crazy, Mother’s been right all the time. My second is fear, closely followed by confusion. I concentrate on driving. I want to get parked before we go into this.

‘I don’t think there’s much chance, Dad.’

I try keeping my voice neutral, concerned; I’m fighting down panic.

‘So far as I know, you’ve been living here in California more than thirty years after living in Philadelphia almost twenty-five years. You held a regular job at Douglas for twenty years, and have been sleeping in Mom’s bed every night except when you were sick in the hospital.’

I’m trying to be reasonable; play the psychologist; stay on top of things.

‘Of course, I’ve personally been away most of these last years, so I’m not really the one to ask; maybe Joan or Mom.’

I want to act as if this is a logical question. I’ve no idea what I’m dealing with. I have a bad habit of being flip when I’m scared.

But my insides have started to jiggle. It’s a sure sign I’m shocked, even when my head doesn’t know it yet. Right now, the worst part for me about getting older is I’m losing my nerve, my ability to keep on thinking, solving, planning when I’m upset, tired, worried.

Dad’s crying. At first it’s only tears, deep sighs; no sobbing. I don’t know what to do. I head for a parking area where we can have some privacy. I pull in facing the ocean with a view over wide beach to the breakers. A group of surfers are slipping on wet suits and unloading boards about seventy yards to the right but they’re the only people around. Dad turns to me.

‘You mean there’s no chance I have a house in Cape May next to Bill Sullivan and Ira Taylor, across from brother Ed and Gene Michaels; that I don’t have a truck garden there and I don’t have four kids, you, Joan, Hank and little Lizbet?’

There’s such anguish on his face, such hope that I’ve made a mistake.

‘Look, Dad. I don’t really know. I know I’m here and I’m fifty-two years old. Joan’s forty-nine. I don’t know about Hank or Lizbet. But if you want, we can take a plane and fly to Cape May. We can visit this place.’

I’m not sure if I’m being cruel or not. He’s taking it in, shaking his head; he stares in my eyes.

‘But, Johnny, it’s the best part of my life; how can it not be true?’

He searches my eyes some more, then looks down.

‘I know you’re right. How can you and Joan be in two places at once? Sitting here, I can’t even make myself believe it.’

We sit beside each other, quiet.

‘But I’ve to tell you. My life there’s as real to me as we are here, sitting in this car looking at that ocean.’

He stares out of the windshield.

‘All this time and I never put it together. I think I’ve spent at least half the last thirty or so years there. But it was always separate. I know I was here all the time. I know you’re right, but sometimes, lots of times, my mind wasn’t here, and not just when I was sleeping either. I’ve been away a lot.’

The resident psychologist is intrigued. The scared son is being displaced somewhat.

‘Maybe you made all this up while you were sick, Dad; you were out of your mind for a long time. Maybe you got this idea in your head then and it’s coming back to you now.’

I wait. Dad stares more at the ocean. There’s nothing to do but wait, let him put it together. We sit quietly for almost five minutes. My mind’s racing ten to the second, all the way from Mother’s ‘crazy’ theory to wondering if this reality might only be a dream and what Dad’s talking about is the real reality. Maybe he’s about to wake up and we’ll all vanish, the sky, ocean, car, Dad, me; everything.

‘John, it’s something like the ocean out there. The top, the waves, the surf, the foam are us, here, right now. We call it real because we can see it. But my life in Cape May is the water, it’s under the surface and holds everything up. If I loosen my hold on that, I feel everything else will fall in.’

He’s quiet again.

‘Probably Mother’s right, Johnny; I am crazy. It might even run in my family the way she says. Dad had very personal ideas for running his life that were definitely peculiar. Who else would put together three row houses in the middle of South Philadelphia so he could have a regular old-time farm kitchen? You’ve got to admit that’s not normal. I don’t think Dad ever really left Wisconsin in his mind. Do you remember the pictures of hunting dogs on the walls, and that gigantic bear head along with the elk and deer heads, hung in the same room where we used to eat? Then there was that huge table he built so we could all sit down at the same time, with twenty-four drawers built into it all around, each drawer with dishes, salt, pepper, knives, forks. Nobody does things like that unless they’re a bit strange.’

I nod. I don’t like hearing him talking down Granddad. He doesn’t mean it; he’s only searching for answers. My grandfather was such a pleasure to me, a proof some few people are still real.

‘Then there’s Uncle Orin and Uncle Pete; they never did adjust to the city, stayed farm boys all their lives. Neither of them ever held a regular paying job. And look at the people they married, big fat women who couldn’t keep a house; their places smelled so bad you kids wouldn’t even go visit.’

He’s speaking without screening; he’s not acting out the role he’s cast for himself, neither the reclusive, shy, dominated man nor Jake the big-timer, free spender. This is almost like hearing myself, or one of my few closest friends, desperately trying to break the walls of aloneness, searching for some communication.

‘Johnny, I don’t think I ever truly left the East Coast. Some part of me stayed back there and another small part never even left Wisconsin. I hated those jobs at G.E. in Philadelphia and at Douglas here in California, so gradually I moved myself down to Cape May and set myself to farming the way we did in Wisconsin. Now, all that sounds crazy, doesn’t it, but that’s what I think might’ve happened.’

I look at Dad. He’s another man all right. Why is it I had to wait so long to know my dad is a man like myself, more like me than anybody I’ve ever met; genetically self-evident, since I have no brothers. His casting me as his brother Ed makes sense now. We have, in our deepest selves, beyond the masks of time and experience, a communal identity.

What is it that keeps fathers and sons so far apart?

‘You’re not crazy, Dad. We all do what you’ve been doing. We make up daydreams, and who knows what’s going on in our deepest sleep? Not even the best psychiatrists really know. You’re not crazy, you’ve just been doing what we all do, only better.’

I want to see how he’s taking it; how much he can talk about his fantasy world. I think it might help.

‘Tell me, Dad. What do you do in this dreamworld in Cape May? What do you do for a living?’

When I say ‘dreamworld’, he blinks. He keeps looking at me but he blinks down hard. He’s not sure he should tell me any more. I can almost hear the scales balancing in his mind.

‘I’m not sure it’s a “dream” yet, John. All I know is it isn’t here in this world. Do you think it’s possible I could be living half the time in heaven before I’m dead on this earth? Have you ever heard of a thing like that happening?’

He looks at me seriously. I shake my head. I want him to go on. I don’t want to make any more stupid mistakes. He stops and looks down at his hands. He twists his ring, the JHT ring on his finger.

‘You know, John, I even wear this ring there in that other place.’

It’s the first time he calls it ‘that other place’.

‘There, Johnny, I built a house exactly like the one we have here; only I built it there first. I drew the plans for this place from my memory of the one there. But for some reason I made this one all backwards. The L goes the wrong way, all the rooms are on the opposite side, going the other way, like left-handed and right-handed. Everything here is backwards. The house there is on a little hill and we have bedrooms in the attic, too.

‘We have seven acres there. I raise produce for the market in Philadelphia. I truck it up in an old ’29 Ford I converted into a flatbed truck. I go up on Tuesdays and Fridays. Gosh, Johnny, it seems strange telling you all this, because you’re there too, only you’re much younger; you can’t be more than fifteen.’

He stops and shakes his head.

It sounds great to me. I wouldn’t mind going back and being fifteen again, living on a small truck farm at Cape May near the sea. I wonder if there are any chickens – some beautiful Plymouth Rock, black-and-white-check, brown-egg-laying chickens, or Rhode Island Reds.

‘Are there any chickens there, Dad?’

Now I’m playing Lennie in Mice and Men.

‘Sure there are chickens, Johnny; interesting you should ask because they’re your job. Bill Sullivan showed us how to build a coop and we have a hundred laying hens now. I take up twenty or thirty dozen eggs every time I go to Philly. Kay, Ira Taylor’s wife, showed Joan and Mother how to sew up potholders and I sell those too. We make out all right.’

It’s so crazy but I find myself wanting to get into his world. We sit there two hours with the sea rolling in on itself while Dad tells me about it. He wants to talk. He’s kept it to himself all these years and now he wants to share. When he knows I’m not going to laugh, that I’m enjoying it too, he can tell me everything.

He has concocted the most incredible, elaborate, complete fantasy anyone could possibly imagine. He can give the names of roads, of his neighbors on both sides, up and down the road. He’s peopled his world with his best friends, the people he’s loved. The life is somewhere between the best of country living and an idealized suburb. It also includes the quality of a two-week summer vacation at the shore. There is all the good, the best parts of his life, and none of the bad. Listening to him is like Laura Ingalls Wilder, as told by Lewis Carroll, produced by Walt Disney.

The sun is setting and I realize it’s late. I don’t want to stop him but I know Mom must be worried.

‘Look, Dad. What can we do about this? Mom can’t take it; she’s terribly upset. What is it you actually said to her?’

‘I got confused, John. And that never happened before; I’ve always kept it all separate. But you know since I’ve gotten out of the hospital I’ve had so much fun; I’m having a hard time keeping the two places apart. I think I said something to Mother about how the corn was growing. Then I could see she didn’t know what I was talking about so I changed the subject. Then, later on, I wasn’t paying enough attention and I started talking about going into Cape May. I just meant walking into town for the evening. When I realized what I was saying, I turned it into talking about moving from here in California to Cape May and that got her all upset. I couldn’t think of anything else to say that didn’t sound completely crazy.’

Boy, I can imagine how Mother reacted to that. No wonder she called me. First he’s talking about corn plants, the farm boy strikes; then he’s moving back East. Part of Mother’s whole personal validation is how she ‘broke away’ from all that life in the East. Any going back would be admitting defeat.

‘You’ve got to be careful, Dad. You’d better think about all this some more.’

‘That’s right, John. I’ve got to do some thinking. I guess you’re right and all that life there isn’t real, but then I can’t let it go either. I’m not sure I could let go even if I wanted to. I just have to figure some way to put it together or else get it separate again.

‘Moving to Cape May might not be such a bad idea anyway, John. We could be near the beach the way we are here. Bess’s two brothers, George and Will, are just up at Wildwood and our Gertrude lives in New Jersey too, in Haddonfield; we’d be near our family and friends. I wouldn’t be growing corn or anything, I’m too old, but I’d have the feeling of putting myself back together.’

I ease out and begin driving up Rose. I imagine Mom’s already called the police. She doesn’t trust me any more than she does Dad, and she definitely doesn’t trust the two of us together.

‘Look, Dad. Would you like some help working all this out? I can ask around and find somebody who specializes in this kind of thing.’

Dad isn’t fooled. He closes his eyes, folds his hands and sits quietly. I turn onto Palms.

‘You’re right, John. I probably need a psychiatrist or somebody like that. At least he can tell me if I’m crazy. I don’t think I can figure this all out by myself; you just can’t imagine how big it is. It’s a whole world. It’s as if I’m dying or I need to kill part of myself and don’t want to. Yeah, John, get me somebody; I don’t care what it costs.’

‘It won’t cost much, Dad. You’re covered under Medicare. I don’t think any doctor can deny help. They have psychiatrists at Perpetual, too. I could get you an appointment with one of them if you want; then it won’t cost anything.’

‘No. Get me a good psychiatrist, Johnny. Get somebody who knows about old people and old people’s dreams. Part of all this has to do with getting old, I can feel it.’

We roll into Colby and I park in the driveway.

‘Dad, I’m just going to tell Mother you had a dream and it was so real you got confused. That’s not exactly a lie and it’s something I can tell her.’

He turns to me and smiles. God, he has a nice smile; it goes directly through me.

‘OK, John. You’re the boss. And I’ll try to be more careful from now on.’

As I expect, Mother’s in a dither. She’s called Joan. But she’s so glad to see us, she swallows the dream story without much fuss. In fact, she’s very commiserating with Dad and gives him a hug. I think bad dreams are something she knows. You don’t have two nervous breakdowns without night traumatization of some kind.

That evening I call several friends. The Marshalls give me the name of a young gerontologist in Santa Monica. They’d had trouble with Joe’s dad before he died and they recommend this guy highly. I try getting a call in to him but it’s an answering service. I leave a message that I’ll call in the morning. I make these calls at a phone booth around the corner while Mom and Dad are watching TV. Dad doesn’t wear any of his costumes and seems detached. He’s worried all right.

When I’m in bed, I’m surprised to hear the door open, and Mom comes in. I look at my watch and it’s one o’clock in the morning. She has a small flashlight but I turn on the lamp beside the bed. I sit up.

‘Jacky, I have to talk with you; I think I’m going crazy.’

She sits on the edge of the bed and starts crying. I reach over and take her hand. She has incredibly small hands, like Joan. It’s amazing how the two of them get so much done with such tiny hands.

‘You’ve got to do something, Jacky. He crept into my bed and then got to talking about moving to Cape May again. Now you know that doesn’t make any sense. He’s living in the past, Jacky. He’s talking about his brother Ed and Ira Taylor and Gene Michaels and Ken Barlittle. None of those people want to see us, Jacky. We’re all too old. It’s too late to move back there, especially with my heart. I can’t leave Perpetual and Dr Coe; he’s the only thing that’s keeping me alive. You know that.’

Boy, what a mess! I guess he couldn’t keep it to himself. He’s so full of his ‘world’ he wants to share it. It’s love but it hurts. I don’t know what to say.

‘Jacky, you’ve got to get him a psychiatrist. There’s one at Perpetual. Maybe a specialist like that can talk to him. I think he’s completely off his rocker; honest I do, Jacky. He’s so peculiar.’

‘I’ve already called a specialist, Mother. I have an appointment with him tomorrow morning. Dad asked me to do it. He said he didn’t want to use the psychiatrists at Perpetual, so I’m having him see a doctor for mental problems of older people.’

It’s hard to deceive the old deceiver but I got her this time. She stops crying and stares at me. She’s giving me her ‘you never know when wonders cease’ look. This is one of her rarer ‘specials’.

‘So that’s what you were doing during the Mary Tyler Moore show.’

I nod.

‘But it’ll cost a fortune, Jacky. What’s wrong with the Perpetual doctors?’

‘This is what Dad wants, Mom. It’s covered by Medicare so it’ll only cost you twenty percent. Who deserves the best of care more than Dad?’

There’s no answer to that one. Taking the wind out of her sails best describes it; she sits there, canvas flapping.

‘Now you go back to bed, Mom; everything’s going to be all right. We only have to be patient; it’ll work out fine.’

She leaves without another word. I lie in the dark not able to sleep.