I calculate he’s been asleep for over twelve hours. That’s not counting whatever he was doing when he was in the closet draped over the heater.
Quietly I go in the bedroom. I pull back the curtains and open the venetian blinds. They’re always closed tight; even in the day you need to turn on a light back there. It’s a conviction of the poverty mind that bedrooms should be permanently dark. Maybe it has to do with working swing and graveyard shifts in factories. Dad’s done a lot of that in his time. I think he worked swing shift most of the time he’s been in California. Or maybe dark bedrooms are Irish or French.
But I want to let some light and air into that room. Otherwise, I’ll never get rid of the shit smell. Also, I want to let out the dark, poor spirits, let in the good fairies and sunshine.
I sit in front of the window. Sun’s streaming in so I open my shirt; I drift off in the chair with my head leaning against the wall.
When I wake, it’s two in the afternoon. He’s awake and I don’t know for how long. He’s on his back. He isn’t trembling or shaking, his eyes are more relaxed; but then I see his face is wet. He’s lying with his head on the pillow, crying. His whole face is wet with tears. Tears are running down the sides. I go close. The pillow’s soaking wet too. He’s crying quietly, not sobbing, only a long, continuous, uncontrolled crying.
I run my hand over his head, then put my hand on his. For the first time, he grabs my hand and holds it.
“What’s the matter, Dad? Everything’s OK.”
He begins crying harder. He cries so hard, so hard, and now he’s sobbing. He won’t look at me. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling and he’s sobbing deep, twisting sobs. I keep talking to him, rubbing my hand over his, his other hand clutching mine.
What can it be now? What’s brought this on? I carefully lift, shift him to the edge of the bed so I can dress him, and he cries the whole way. It isn’t often you hear a man cry deep, sobbing non-hysterical crying like this.
I bundle him up and take him out on the patio. He leans his head back on the chaise longue and cries. I watch a few minutes and go in to make something to eat. I’m feeling completely helpless. I whip up a quick cheese sandwich and a glass of beer. When I come out, he hasn’t moved and he’s still crying. He’s going to dehydrate from tears alone.
I can’t get him to eat. He won’t open his mouth, he won’t chew when I force a bit of sandwich into his mouth. He isn’t resisting, he just isn’t paying attention, isn’t noticing the food. I try pouring beer between his teeth and almost drown him. He doesn’t clear the path to his stomach and it goes down his bronchial tube. I’m liable to bring on pneumonia! I sit there for half an hour holding his hands and hoping it will stop, that he’ll cry his way through whatever it is. But it goes on and on.
I dash inside and pull out the phone extension so I can sit on the steps and keep an eye on him while I’m talking. I call Joan. She’s psychic or something; before I open my mouth, before she even knows it’s me, she says, “What’s the matter, Jack? What’s happening?”
“Joan, I don’t know what’s the matter; Dad keeps crying. He woke up crying and he’s been crying ever since.”
“Mother of God! Is there anything I can do?”
“Could you come over, Joan? I’m at the end of my rope.”
“OK, I’ll be right there. John and Maryellen should be home soon, they can watch Mom. Have you called Dr. Ethridge?”
I’m listening to Joan and watching Dad. He isn’t paying any attention to me or what I’m doing.
“Good idea, Joan; I’ll call Ethridge. I hate to bother you with all this but I’m definitely not cut out for nursing. Thank God, I never got involved with clinical work; I think if I worked with abnormals for a month, I’d be the most abnormal character on the ward.”
“This is your father, Jack. Even doctors don’t treat their own families.”
It’s so good to hear her sane, calm voice. I hate to hang up.
“OK, Joan. I’ll call Ethridge and wait for you. While you’re here, maybe I can shop, and do some wash. I’m out of underwear and socks.”
“I’ll bring the wash I’ve already done; some of your things are in it. I’ll be there at about four; that way I can beat the traffic.”
“OK, but be careful. We don’t want any more casualties; the emergency ward’s full.”
“All right, ‘Mother Hen Jack.’ I’ll be careful.”
She laughs lightly, privately, over the phone. There’s something so soothing, healing about a mild, content laugh, even when everything’s upside down. If I could bottle that laugh, or record it, and play it up and down the corridors of mental institutions, we could empty half of them in three months. I hang up.
I pull out the Perpetual card and dial Ethridge. Dad’s still crying in front of me.
After the usual runaround, I’m put through; I tell Ethridge Dad’s home with me on Dr. Santana’s suggestion. I get a very cold response; he’s still on his high horse, playing “boss man.”
“Dr. Ethridge, I don’t know why it is but my father keeps crying. He’s been crying the whole day; he won’t eat and is not responding.”
There’s a slight delay.
“Does he seem depressed?”
I guess that’s a logical question but it sounds stupid. No, Doctor, he’s not depressed, he’s only crying.
“I would say he is, Doctor. He seems terribly depressed.”
“Well, it sounds as if we should try some Elavil; that will bring him around. These kinds of severe depressions are not unusual with older people after surgery.”
He’s talking as if we’re discussing a puppy with a case of worms.
“Mr. Tremont, if you can come into the hospital I’ll have a prescription left at the pharmacy.”
He has “hang up” in his voice, so I let him. I sit there with the phone in my hands for several minutes, not able to move. I feel cut off. I need more of Joan’s magical laughing.
I sit with Dad out there on the patio holding his hand. I have Hawaiian music playing and I take off my shirt to get some more sun. I’m going to get something out of all this, if it’s only a tan. I hold Dad’s hand and pretend I’m on the deck of a ship sailing to Hawaii on my honeymoon. I’m distinctly going kooky!
When Joan arrives, she has the clean clothes and a roast she’s prepared. I tell her what Ethridge said. She latches on to that and wants me to go for the medicine right away.
She sits beside Dad, watches him cry and starts crying herself. She holds on to his hands and tries to get his attention but he won’t look at her. The exception is when she kisses him. Then he puckers up his lips for the kiss as usual. It’s almost instinctive, the way an infant will start sucking when you touch its lips. He stays puckered after the kiss for almost five seconds. There’s no change in his facial expression, just the puckering up.
Joan says the situation at her house with Mother is getting impossible. Mom has cast Mario in the combined role of Mafia chieftain and Nero. She calls him the “big shot” and keeps talking him down to the kids. Joan doesn’t know how long she can keep Mario from blowing up. She’s convinced Mother can’t live in any environment without dominating it.
“You know, Jack, if Mom had only been born thirty years later, she’d’ve made a great feminist.”
I go over some of the things that have happened with Dad. She’s deeply sympathetic, laughing when it’s funny, reaching out to touch my arm, crying at the sad parts. Dad sits next to us, weeping away almost silently. You can’t believe a person could keep crying continuously for so long. He’s been crying over three hours I know of.
I dash to the hospital, get the Elavil. When I come back, Joan’s sitting close beside Dad. She shakes her head.
“This is terrible, Johnny. He won’t look at me. He’s like a little boy who’s been bad and feels guilty. What can be the matter?”
I smash two tablets of Elavil in a glass of water. He’d for sure choke on pills. I don’t know what to tell Joan. She
sees me as the one in the family who’s supposed to know something about psychology. I don’t know, can’t figure, what’s the matter. Joan tips Dad’s head back, I hold his nose and we pour the Elavil slowly between his teeth; thank God, he swallows this time.
I sit and wait. I have no idea how long this stuff takes. Joan’s inside getting dinner ready. After about fifteen minutes, Dad stops crying. The tears seem to dry on his eyes. He stops sobbing and begins with the chattering lip-bouncing again. He has brief spasms as if he’s reacting to small sudden pains.
I call out.
“Wow, Joan; look at this. These modern drugs are incredible. Less than half an hour and he’s stopped crying completely. He doesn’t seem sad anymore.”
She comes out and leans over Dad.
“He doesn’t look happy either. He looks as if a whole war’s going on inside his head.”
About ten minutes later he gets to be—Well, it’s hard to describe. He becomes supersensitive to every sound, every change in light, every movement, everything. Even his own breathing sends him off. He’s in a continual state of agitation; every part of him is moving, vibrating, twitching, twisting.
It’s like the time in California our washing machine broke loose from its mooring and I tried holding it down. The machine was jumping around while I was grappling with it and hollering for Vron to pull the plug.
I lean across to hold him. I’m afraid he’s going to wear himself out. He hasn’t had anything to eat all day and here he is giving off calories like crazy.
“My God, Joan! He’s elevated all right. Maybe this is what Elavil is supposed to do but it can’t be good for him.”
Joan wraps her arms around his legs. We’re both talking, trying to soothe him, holding on.
I need to give him a tranquilizer before he totally shatters; he can’t keep on like this. I run in to get Valium from Mother’s room. We smash it and force some through his teeth. I take his blood pressure. It’s two twenty over one ten. His pulse is so fast I can’t count it, a fluttering.
Joan holds on while I call the hospital and fight my way through to Ethridge. I tell him what’s happening and what I’ve done so far.
“Mr. Tremont. Who took your father’s blood pressure?”
“I did, Dr. Ethridge.”
“What do you think you are, a doctor, Mr. Tremont?”
Somehow, by having taken Dad’s blood pressure I’ve threatened this schmuck. Then he comes on with the next thing.
“And do you have the right to prescribe medication, Mr. Tremont?”
I figure now’s the time to do a little lying. In fact, I don’t even think it out, I just do it.
“Dr. Tremont, Dr. Ethridge. Yes, I do have the right to prescribe. It’s well within the range of my prerogatives as a member of APA. And I do not like your attitude, Dr. Ethridge, it is distinctly unethical and inappropriate in a moment of emergency.”
Actually, I haven’t been a member of APA for over twenty years. It’s one of the little luxuries I let slide. There’s a pause. I give him his chance but he doesn’t say anything.
“All I want from you right now, Dr. Ethridge, and as quickly as possible, is a recommendation as to what we should do to compensate for the results of the Elavil you prescribed over the phone.”
I know I’ve got him. There’s another long pause. I swear if he hangs up we’re going to have a shoot-out.
“Well, Mr. Tremont, I don’t like your attitude either. For the moment, with your father, perhaps you should wait until he calms down or shows further signs of depression before you give him any more Elavil. The Valium you’ve given him should calm him but he’s liable to become depressed again. Experiment till you find a balance. If that doesn’t work, bring him in.”
I say thank you and hang up. It’s best to get off the phone before I say what I’m thinking.
It takes a while, but Dad slowly unwinds. Joan and I sit and talk with him or with each other. We recognize we can’t go on like this. With Mom acting crazy at her place and Dad not getting any better, we’re stymied. It’s not only that Dad hasn’t shown any signs of improving, but he’s physically and mentally deteriorating. I can’t get him to stand straight on the scale in the bathroom to weigh him, but he’s wasting away. His elbows and knees are like ball-bearing sockets and his muscles are stringy.
We decide we’ll take him back to the hospital. I call and tell them we’re coming in.
But first we want to get him clean. Even with all my care, he definitely smells. He smells the way my grandparents used to smell when I was a kid and we went to visit them in Philadelphia. It’s the smell of age: old sweat, constipation and dried urine. Maybe it isn’t bad as that with Dad, but Joan and I have a compulsive mother so we need to clean him before we take him into the hospital. We’re embarrassed because he smells.
We slide the plastic cover from the bed and spread it on the living-room floor. We take his clothes off and turn the heat up. He lies back, watching us, not resisting in any way. Joan takes one arm and rubs all along it with a washcloth, soap and warm water; then she does the other; he lets her do it, not helping, not resisting or even watching. Joan washes his hands, rubs between his fingers and cleans his fingernails. Then she cuts them.
I’m doing the same things with the bottom parts. I’m cleaning his toes and between his toes, the bottoms of his feet. I cut his toenails with the big toenail clippers from the bedside table. I clean out his crotch, wipe him and pull the foreskin back to clean his penis. I’m lifting his legs up and down as I do these things, exactly the way you would with a baby. It’s so hard putting this together with Dad.
We dress him in a clean pair of pajamas and his terry-cloth bathrobe. It takes the two of us getting pajamas on him. He’s disintegrated to a point where he can’t help. He can’t walk, either. He won’t put one foot in front of another. He stands and rocks.
Joan makes up the bed in her VW camper. I scoop him up and carry him out there. Joan gets in front and I stay back with Dad, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to comfort him. Through all this he’s anxious, chattering his lips, fixing us in a helpless way with his eyes or staring at whatever happens to be in front of him.
When we get to the hospital, I run around trying to get a wheelchair but when they come out and see the condition Dad’s in, they bring a stretcher. We roll him into the emergency ward. Two doctors and a nurse begin working him up right away. I explain the situation while they’re working. They put him on IV immediately. The doctor is a concerned young guy. It turns out Dad’s BUN is up; blood tests don’t look good; he’s definitely dehydrating. The BUN, he explains, is the amount of nitrogen and urea in his blood.
They say Dad needs to stay in the hospital. We sign all the forms. By now, Dad’s been given a sedative and looks more relaxed. We stay with him till they roll him upstairs. We kiss him goodbye but he’s asleep.
When we get home, Joan and I eat the dinner she’s cooked. Then I drive over to the Valley, following Joan in Mother’s car. We tell Mom that Dad took a bad turn so we brought him back to the hospital.
This springs off a whole scene. It would all’ve been fine if we’d only let her look after him. It’s her he’s missing.
“After all, it’s my husband! You kids have no idea what a tender man he is; he can’t do without me. Now look what’s happened.”
Joan and I nod, agree; we don’t need another heart attack. It doesn’t take much to talk Mom into going home with me. You’d think staying with Joan was some kind of penance she’s having to pay for the heart attacks: five Our Fathers, ten Hail Marys and a week at your daughter’s.
Thank God, Mario isn’t there; he takes an awful beating. I think Mario’s gotten more or less inured to it all but you can’t ask anybody to put up with this kind of nonsense.
I feel sorry for Joan. I’m sure it hurts. I know from bitter, personal experience it hurts. I know also how that kind of poison does get into good relationships; you can’t completely wipe it out. Mom’s just a
smart enough amateur psychologist to pick up minor dissatisfactions, vulnerabilities and lean on them. But she’d better be careful; better yet, I’d best get her out of there.
I drive her home. It’s getting late and she still hasn’t eaten. I don’t feel like cooking and I don’t want Mother in the kitchen, so I take her to one of her favorite restaurants, a crappy place called the Williamsburg Inn. I can always eat a second dinner, especially when I’m anxious and feeling pressed or depressed.
This Williamsburg Inn is a phony colonial-style place on the corner of National and Sawtelle in West Los Angeles. It has a red-brick façade with colonial white woodwork and thin, fake, wooden columns across a narrow porch. It even has one of those intolerable little statues of a black boy in a red suit with knickers where you’re supposed to tie your horse. Hell, there isn’t a horse within twenty miles, but there are a lot of blacks.
Then there’s all the superpatriotic business with flags draped over everything. Fake copies of the Declaration of Independence blown up fifty times are on the walls along with about twenty copies of Stuart’s George Washington. It’s awful. The waitresses are dressed in Martha Washington-style costumes with a deep decolleté. They must hire these girls by bra size. Also, the whole place is pervaded with a vague, anti-black feeling, very superpatriot, very Virginian.
They probably have several not so subtle ways to discourage any black who might walk in by mistake, little things you can’t quite put your finger on: smaller portions, overseasoning, slow service—that kind of stuff.
Normally, this is a restaurant Mother loves. She says things like “Such a nice type of people eat there,” or, “It’s so ‘refined.’”
But now she’s into complaining. Nothing is any good. Nothing is good as it used to be. Jews must have bought the place. The drink before dinner is no good; they didn’t put any alcohol in it, just fancy ice, water and fruit. So what else is new? That’s why the cocktail was invented; people can think they’re drinking without using much alcohol.