This cemetery is laid out like a golf course. There are no gravestones except fiat plaques set in the ground. She shows us some plots which are still available. It’s like working with a real-estate agent, choosing a lot in a development. In a sense, that’s what it is, only the lots are tiny, the habitation subterranean, the neighbors very quiet.
Each part of the cemetery has a name. There’s the Immaculate Conception Section, the Communion of Saints Section, the Resurrection Section, the Crucifixion Section, and so forth. Joan speaks up.
“We’d like a view in the direction of Palms.”
The lady takes this in her stride. A view from your cemetery plot? It must have been asked before, because she’s got her geography in hand. She turns the folders and points to several uncrossed-out plots.
“This is the Resurrection Section here. Palms is in this direction.” She points on her map. “You could look around in here.”
She makes a circle with her pencil without touching the map.
“I think you’ll find what you want. It’s on a little rise and has excellent drainage. There are some in the middle, here, in your price range because they are relatively inaccessible.”
She indicates a wiggly circle with a dot in the center.
“This is a tree. The four graves around it are slightly more expensive.”
She refers to a chart.
“There’s one left under the tree and it’s six fifty instead of five fifty; you see, the tree makes it easier to find.”
We get the numbers and go out to look. There are winding, turning roads going all over the cemetery and she’s given us a small map to find our way. It reminds me of driving toy cars in an amusement park. There are white arrow signs pointing to the different sections and we find Resurrection with no trouble. I park, we get out and locate the cross-section markings on the edge of the road. We work our way down across graves.
When we were kids, we had a big thing about not walking on the graves in the graveyard but here you’re more or less encouraged to. Actually, the graves are so close together, and without gravestones, you can’t tell whether you’re walking on a grave or not.
We find the plots she pointed out to us, including one under the tree. This tree is a young jacaranda and that does it. Dad has always loved the jacaranda trees in California. We’ll blow the extra hundred bucks and not tell Mother. We sit under the tree, look out and search for what we think is Mom and Dad’s house.
“We should’ve brought a picnic with us, Joan. This is a cemetery I could come visit anytime. I wonder if they’d let somebody pitch a pup tent and camp here? After all, it’s our own property; how could they stop us?”
“Jack, don’t you dare mention that idea to any of the kids; you know they’ll do it.”
Then we start crying again.
When we’re recovered, we go back to the office. Our lady picks us up and leads us to our cubicle. It brings back the time Vron and I were buying our first new car at Central Chevrolet in Los Angeles. We made the deals in cubicles just like this. I’m almost expecting talk about a trade-in.
We tell the lady we want the one under the tree. She’s so enthusiastic you’d think she’s the one who’s going to be buried there. We tell her the plot is for two. She asks if we want a plaque. We decide to buy one at seventy-five dollars. We’re caught up in the spirit of things. We give Mom and Dad’s names. We’ll have Dad’s name first and both the year of birth and death cut. There’s something final about putting down the year of death like that when its only early April. We just put down the year of Mom’s birth.
The lady asks if we want a flower holder installed. This is twenty dollars more. It’s a metal holder set in the ground for flowers. I insist on having one; Joan thinks I’m crazy but goes along. All together, we drop about another seven hundred and fifty bucks at the cemetery. It looks as if the funeral’s going to cost somewhere around two thousand. It’s worth staying alive.
Outside in the car, Joan wants to know why I bought the flower holder.
“Gosh, Jack, we could bring a trowel, dig a little hole and stick flowers in the ground if you want. Mom’s never going to go up there and visit; she’s never visited her mother’s or father’s or any of her sisters’ graves. She’s afraid of cemeteries.”
“I know, Joan, but someday I might want to do a little putting.”
We go back home and explain to Mother what we’ve done. She doesn’t want to know too much.
“When he’s dead he’s dead and that’s all there is to it. The only thing makes sense is buying mass cards and praying for him.”
I don’t think it’s truly hit yet. She knows he’s going to die but not that he’s going to be dead. The first is an event, the second is a fact of being. There’s a big difference. It’s only beginning to sink in to me. Dad isn’t going to be anymore. We’ve said the last things to each other. I’ve seen him move around the garden or fix things in his shop for the last time. He’ll never plant another flower or laugh again. He’ll be gone.
Billy is there during all this. Thank God he doesn’t say anything in front of Mother but out back he lets me know his feelings. I sit in the rocking chair and he flops on the bed.
“Christ, Dad, it’s barbaric. Why don’t we rent a rowboat at the Santa Monica pier and dump him in the water? Who needs all this funeral crap?”
“There are California laws, Bill. It took some doing just not having him embalmed.”
We still haven’t told Mother about not embalming. We told her there wouldn’t be any viewing of the body, but there was no reason going into the rest of it.
“You mean you got out of embalming him?”
“That’s right. Joan quoted some obscure rule about Jewish religious custom and he’s getting a Jewish non-embalmed funeral.”
Billy stands up and starts pacing.
“That’s great, that’s really great! It’ll be almost like a real funeral. Remember how when Mme. Mathilde died we packed ice around her in the bed till M. Didier could get the coffin made? Then we lowered her into the box and walked her up hill to the church, then to the churchyard. The gravediggers were M. Perrichot, M. Boule, the mayor, and Maurice. There was an extra shovel, so I gave them a hand. We had that grave filled and tamped down in fifteen minutes. That’s my idea of a funeral.”
“You’re right, Bill, but it’s not enough of a funeral for your grandmother. She’s being terrific about the whole thing, and we’ve got to give her credit.”
“Dad, I don’t have a suit of any kind, let alone a black suit. What do you think?”
“Look in Granddad’s closet, Bill; maybe one of his will fit you. I’m wearing one.”
“You mean you’re going to the funeral in your dead father’s clothes?”
He sits down. I’m too tired to explain about Mr. Lazio.
“I don’t think I could do it, Dad. That’s too creepy. If he weren’t my own granddad, I could, maybe; but I couldn’t do that.”
He shakes his whole body and closes his eyes. Sometimes I forget how young he is. A young man like him looks so grown up, it’s easy to forget.
“Then go to the Salvation Army, Bill; they’ll have something in a dark suit that’ll fit you. Here’s fifteen dollars. See if you can pick up a pair of shoes for a buck or so, too. You can wear them for the funeral, then toss them if you want. Your feet are too big for either Dad’s shoes or mine.”
Billy says first he’ll wait till Dad’s dead. I think again about our putting the year of death on that grave plaque. I hate to be superstitious but it’s there in all of us; from books, movies, TV, the games we play as children. I ask Billy to stay with Mom. I want to be with Dad as much as I can.
The nurses are definitely different. Somebody tipped them off about me as a troublemaker. But they’re polite. I feel like an accountant in a bank who’s come to examine the books. I don’t care; I’m not running a popularity contest with nurses.
Dad’s the same. When I go in the room, I kiss him on the forehea
d and speak to him but he only continues his deep sleep. I wonder how they can tell a coma from sleep; maybe it’s only a question of depth and length.
I’m just finished washing up when Lizbet comes wobbling into the kitchen. She has on her nightgown and her eyes are half open. I pull my suspenders over my shoulders and pick her up. She cuddles against me and I carry her to the maple rocking chair Gene made for Bess last Christmas. He sure has a knack with hardwoods. I sit and rock softly in the slowly lightening room. Lizbet tucks her toes into my crotch and sticks her middle two fingers in her mouth. Bess is afraid she’ll pull her teeth out of straight but I let her suck, a nice sound like a calf nuzzling a teat. I breathe the smells of hay and child through the red gold of her hair.
The nurses are in and out every fifteen minutes. Dad’s getting the royal treatment all right. I ask one what medication he’s being given. She shows me the chart. I pretend I can read the squiggles, lines and abbreviations; smile and give it back. I don’t see any narcotics listed and that’s what I’m looking for. I don’t see any hydrochlorothiazide or Zaroxolyn either, so I figure they’ve discontinued his diuretic for the blood pressure. While you’re in a coma, I don’t imagine high blood pressure is much of a problem.
I’m getting nothing but bad vibes all over the floor. I don’t know it then but the LVNs, kitchen help and all maintenance people are voting right that day to go on strike. In a little while these RNs will need to take over the whole hospital by themselves. I think they’re pissed at me but actually they’re pissed at the world in general and I’m only part of the world.
Dr. Chad comes in twice a day, once at ten-thirty in the morning and again about four in the afternoon. Each time he sits beside Dad, takes his pulse, listens to his heart, takes his blood pressure, looks at the catheter bottle and, with his stethoscope, listens to Dad’s breathing. Each time he speaks softly, then more loudly, calling Dad’s name.
“Mr. Tremont? How are you, Mr. Tremont?”
He pinches Dad’s shoulder and slaps his face lightly, then harder. Each time there’s no response. It’s like trying to wake a drunk.
On the afternoon of the third day, there’s a slight response when he slaps Dad; his eyes flicker open briefly, he turns his head, lifts his right arm slowly, then settles back. Dr. Chad slaps him again, calling, but there’s no more. It’s so like Jesus calling Lazarus back from the dead, especially since Chad has a full, black beard.
Every day, Chad explains the situation and what he’s doing. He’s running continual daily checks on the blood, urine, sputum and feces. He’s beginning to think a big part of the problem might be metabolic. He doesn’t know what set it off or how to re-establish life functions. When I ask, he still says he can’t give me any hope; he’s doing what he can but it looks terminal.
He’s willing to tell me, exactly, everything he’s trying and he’s a natural teacher. I feel he’s glad I’m interested and wants me to know.
The big thing is he’s moved the IV from Dad’s arm to the superior vena cava on his neck. He’s giving nitrogen as protein hydrolysates, backing up with 15o calories for each gram of nitrogen. Chad tells me all this as if I should know what he’s talking about. I feel he’s truly doing something and it makes sense as he explains it.
After juggling around a few days, he settles on 165 grams of anhydrous dextrose plus 860 milliliters of 5 percent dextrose in 5 percent fibrin hydrolysate. To this he’s adding 30 milliequivalents sodium chloride and 50 milliequivalents potassium chloride and 8 milliequivalents of magnesium sulfate. He says it’s a delicate balance he’s trying to establish. He explains all this but admits he’s only taking shots in the dark.
But he’s trying and I let him know how much I appreciate it. I only wish this kind of care had been given from the beginning. The nurses need to prepare these brews for the IV by filtration sterilization because they’d be destroyed by heat. This is a lot of additional work and they’re not happy.
Still I hang in there, Chad hangs in and, most important, Dad’s hanging on.
15
In the morning, we’re soaked. The tent’s sagged so it’s on top of us. We crawl from under like worms slithering in the grass.
The sky is blue and warm with large drifting clouds, but the grass and trees are water heavy; drops sprinkle every time we move.
Dad stretches and almost falls over. It’s past nine-thirty; those reds sure sent us off. There are huge water puddles on our tent where it sagged the most. We carefully pull out the tent pegs, ease down the tent poles, then try to roll the biggest puddles off without soaking the blanket more. We each take an end of the blanket, wring, then spread it on the car roof. The car’s already so hot the blanket steams.
At the other end of the lay-by there’s a rest room we didn’t see before. We head there, wash, scrub our teeth and work on getting our eyes unglued. We’re still wobbly. Our clothes are wet and wrinkled, so we come back and pull clean clothes from the suitcase. Aunt Joan washed for us just before we left and the clothes smell clean, dry and Californian.
When we come out of the rest room, the tent’s half dry but the blanket will take time. We roll up the tent and stash it. Dad’s carefully making a neat roll of each rope. We spread the blanket over the tent in the trunk.
Dad takes our wet clothes and puts them on hangers from his suitcase. He slips these hangers over little hooks on the inside of the car by the back windows. We’re beginning to look as if we might be bushy reps making our yearly tour for a lingerie company.
It’s ten-thirty before we get rolling. Dad takes the wheel. I put on the Dylan tape but keep the volume down. I’m still sleepy, so I recline the chair and close my eyes. It’s amazing how much better you hear with your eyes closed.
We resist two Pizza Huts and eat on the other side of Vandalia, Illinois. It’s a diner in a Quonset hut. We have fried chicken and dumplings. There’s also little lumps like French-fried mothballs.
It’s half a chicken each and I switch a leg for Dad’s breast. He’ll eat any part of a chicken, including the heart, liver, lights and the pope’s nose. I only really like white meat. In our house, the whole mob, except Dad, are white-meat eaters. The rest of us scramble for scraps while he gorges himself on thighs.
We finish at three, then head off toward Indianapolis. I want to check out the Indy 500 track but Dad isn’t enthusiastic about getting all tied up in city traffic. I’m driving now, but he’s boss.
We’re about ten miles past the Indiana border when we see a bunch of cars pulled over on the verge. People are jumping out of cars and some are running. The grass divider between the east and west lanes is crowded. There’s been an accident on the westbound lane. I’m so shook I pull over and stop. It’s the worst accident I’ve ever seen and it’s just happened. The front wheel of an upside-down car is still spinning. There’s only the one car and it’s slammed against an embankment where the highway cut through a small hill.
A whole family is spread along the road. The father is farthest forward, farthest west. He’s about Dad’s age, husky with a little pot like Dad’s. He must’ve slid over forty yards on the asphalt and is half sanded away. He’s not bleeding much but you can see the bones in his shoulder and arms. His shirt’s torn off and his pants are in rags with the belt pulled down over the top of his butt; he’s barefoot and his toes are worn off. He looks more like somebody from a motorcycle than a car accident. Two men are on their knees beside him but he’s not moving.
There’s a woman about his age and she’s bent against the dirt embankment with one leg twisted the wrong way under her. She’s on her back and one arm is half ripped off. She’s covered with blood and still bleeding. Three people are trying to stop the blood. From the way she’s twisted, her back must be broken.
Trailing behind, going east, are three little kids and a dog. The dog is up on two legs spinning in circles, like that dog we hit, only this one’s not barking or growling, just spinning and whining.
One of the kids is a skinny li
ttle boy, maybe Jacky’s age. His guts are spilled over the road in circles as if he stood up and they all poured out. The guts look plastic in the sunlight. He’s wearing shorts with a striped shirt and is covered with blood. He’s spread out on his back so you can see the edges of his ribs where they’ve been cracked in. His eyes are open and somebody covers him while I’m watching.
There’s a little girl and she doesn’t look hurt much. There’s no blood. People are standing around, but she isn’t moving. I get closer and there’s a deep dent in the side of her head just above her right eye.
Farthest east is a tiny kid still standing up. He can’t be four years old. Just about all his skin is scraped off. He’s red, raw and bleeding. He’s crying and yelling for his mother. People are kneeling around him, trying to hold him, staunching blood in the worst places.
I turn away and vomit up that chicken, dumplings and mothballs. Dad’s white and running around checking if anybody’s called an ambulance. On the ground, I see I’m not the only one who’s lost his cookies. Dad comes back.
“Are you all right, Billy?”
I nod my head. He’s all hyped up.
“I’m not sure anybody’s called an ambulance. Let’s head down the road till we find a place with a phone. That little one might make it if they get him to a hospital fast.”
I see somebody’s taking the kid with them in a car but I don’t say anything. I just want to get away. They’ll need an ambulance anyway, even if it’s only to settle for sure all those people really are dead. I climb in the passenger seat and stare out the window. How can such a rotten mess be happening under such a beautiful sky?
Dad’s driving like a crazy. Now he has a mission, there’s no stopping him. He pushes this crate to almost ninety. In about three miles, we come to a group of stores. He skids to a stop, jumps out, runs into a liquor store. I wait in the car. Three minutes later he comes out.
“Somebody’s already called and they’re on the way. I told them I thought there were five people critically injured, probably fatal.”