Joan’s waiting for me. With men on first and third, one out for the Angels, I leave as if I’m going to the bathroom; Dad and Mario don’t look up. I go in and close the bedroom door quietly. Joan’s stretched out on the bed, I sit on the floor.
As children, Joan and I developed our own world, fighting what I now call the poverty mind. This poverty mind constantly suspects anything out of the ordinary, anything not known or accepted; also if it isn’t practical, it isn’t good.
Now Joan has five children. She’s a natural mother, one of the incredible women who truly play with their children. And I don’t mean only when they’re babies; she plays with them all the time. She has a twenty-four-year-old son, Yale graduate cum laude, and she still plays with him. You might find them out in the yard playing marbles or shooting a BB gun.
Mother calls Joan the “simp” when she does this. “Look at the simp playing on the floor with her grown kids.”
“Simp” in Mom’s lexicon is short for simpleton, I think. I’ve never asked her. Whenever anyone does anything she doesn’t agree with, they’re automatically classified as “simp.” She snorts through her nose when she says it. Joan is a “simp” (snort) because she plays with her children; “They’ll never have any respect for her. Honest to God, they think she’s only another kid.”
Joan and I still play together. Here I’m fifty-two and she’s in her late forties, but when we get together, it’s playtime. Our play is based on deep confidence. What’s hide-and-seek if you peek? Can you relax and have fun on a seesaw with someone you don’t trust?
“How’d Mom look to you, Jack?”
She laughs when I tell her Mother’s first line. I admit she didn’t look so hot.
“The doctor says we just have to wait and see what damage was done.”
She pauses.
“I’m worried about Dad. I could move him out to our place but he’s better off here where he can putter around his garden and greenhouse.”
I nod.
“How long can you stay?”
“The ticket’s for twenty-one to forty-five days.”
“That should be enough, I hope.”
She rolls onto her side, slips off her shoes.
“Don’t worry, Joan. I’ll stay with Dad. It’ll work out. At home, I’m a newfangled house husband.”
She shoots me one of her “straight on” looks.
“Are you sure? You know he’s practically a baby.”
“Don’t worry. He’s my father too, you know.”
“That’d be great.”
Joan gives me a rundown on a typical day here. She says the main thing is keeping everything on an even keel. She explains how Mother has a schedule and their whole life is essentially one long routine.
“First, Mom gets up early and does her exercises. For her, it’s the best time of day; she has the whole house to herself. At about ten she takes a cup of coffee in to Dad, gives him his blood-pressure pills, vitamin pills and any other pills she’s into. The morning coffee is real coffee, not decaffeinated.
“You know, Jack, Dad has somehow managed over the past eight years to keep alive the feeling he’s on an extended vacation; that sooner or later he must go back to work. He lives each day as if it might be his last.”
She tells me the pills Dad takes. I recognize some and he’s heavily medicated. I think maybe I’ll try getting him into meditation or even Yoga. I hold my own pressure down that way. I’ve brought my cuff with me, so I’ll check him when I do myself. That reserpine he’s on is deadly stuff; it’s basically poison.
Joan reels off the rest of this daily routine, including mandatory soap operas. I tell her I’ll try sticking it out; but my mind is spinning, figuring ways to sharpen life up. I can’t leave other people’s lives alone. I especially want to wean him from those three hours of “soaps” in the middle of the day. What a waste, to be living in California with all the sunshine out there, sitting inside staring at moving colored lines. My God, the ocean’s less than ten minutes away.
“Another thing, Jack, Dad works a bit in his shop but he doesn’t have his old coordination; this drives him crazy. You know how he could fix almost anything? Now he has trouble keeping his own electric razor running.”
Her eyes fill and she looks down.
“He’s beginning to think I’m a mechanical genius because I can fix his razor; clean it, replace the blade, things like that.”
“But you are a mechanical genius!”
When we were kids, she was roller-skating at four when I was seven and I couldn’t even stand up on the damned things. She rode a two-wheeler before I did. I got the Erector set for Christmas and she played with it. That’s the way it was.
“Try going along with him, Jack; help without making him feel inept. He’s fine as long as he doesn’t get flustered.”
She gets up from the bed, slips on her shoes.
“We’d better get out there before they think we’ve flown the coop.”
The game’s still on. Oakland’s running away with it. We come in just after Rollie Fingers hits a bases-loaded homer. We watch the replay.
Joan and Mario leave after the home run. I’m alone with Dad. I can’t remember when I was last alone with him. As we watch the end of the game, I go over in my mind the things Joan told me. I’m a fair-to-middling cook and housekeeper but it scares me trying to fill in for Mother.
Before she left, Joan fixed dinner, so, at about six-thirty, I go in the kitchen and heat it up. I set the table for two. Dad’s in his regular place at the end of the table and I take my usual place to his left. I don’t take Mom’s place on the kitchen side, even though it’d be more convenient.
Dad’s watching me. I bring out the butter, salt, pepper, dishes, knives, forks, spoons. I carry the meal hot from the stove and put it on a plate in the middle of the table.
“Where did you learn to cook, Johnny?”
Dad usually calls me Johnny; once in a rare while, John. I don’t know how he decides which. Mom always calls me Jacky. I changed my name from Johnny or Jacky to Jack when I went to high school. But at home it never took. I don’t know why Mom and Dad call me by different names but that’s the way it is. It’s almost as if I’m a different person to each of them.
“I didn’t cook this, Dad; Joan did. I’m only putting it out. Come on, let’s eat.”
I know he doesn’t believe me. I’m bringing food out of the kitchen so I must be cooking it. People cook food in kitchens. He designed this kitchen, put in the stove, sink, refrigerator; built the cabinets; maintains it when anything goes wrong. But using it is an absolute mystery to him. He can no more use a kitchen than he can use one of those jet airplanes he helped build at Douglas for twenty years.
It’s a fine meal and afterward we watch more TV. During the station breaks and ads, I scoot in the kitchen and clean up. Then I begin hauling my things to the back bedroom out in the garden. I carry some blankets along with my bags. Dad’s watching me.
“I wouldn’t sleep out there, Johnny, it’s awfully cold and damp; you’d be better off sleeping in here. I leave the heat on low at night so it’s warm.”
Frankly, I like sleeping in the cold. My parents keep their house too hot for me and besides, they’re electric-blanket people. I’m not. I don’t feel comfortable, even in California, unless I have weight on top of me; a light electric blanket with only a sheet leaves me feeling vulnerable. I know I’m warm but I don’t feel I should be. But I can’t tell Dad these things; he’d take it as an insult.
Still, I’m getting the message. He’s scared. He’d probably like me to climb in bed with him back there but he could never ask; even if I volunteered he couldn’t. He probably hasn’t slept alone since the last time Mother was hospitalized, over thirty-five years ago. He’s dreading it. So what do I do? I can’t take him by the hand, lead him to the bedroom and dress him in his pajamas.
“Well, Dad, we’d better hit the sack.”
Reluctantly he gets up and turns off the tele
vision. Then he sets the thermostat down a fraction. He checks all the doors and windows to see if they’re locked. These are his routines I know about. He puts out the lights except for a night-light on the baseboard in the hall. He goes back to his bedroom.
I decide I’ll sleep in the side bedroom; I can’t leave him alone feeling the way he does. I’ll shut the vanes on the heater vent. I’ll close the door and open the window.
I’ve just climbed into bed when he knocks on the door and opens it.
“Johnny, I can’t find my pajamas; I don’t know where she keeps them.”
I paddle barefoot into his bedroom with him. There’s a closet and a chest with three drawers. I look through the drawers and find them right away. Mother’s organized herself into the top drawer; the middle drawer is for Dad and the bottom drawer is filled with sweaters. I hand him the pajamas. He looks at me as if I’m a wonder man.
We say good night again and he asks me to leave on his baseboard night-light in the hall. He’s holding on; he doesn’t want to be left in that bedroom alone. If I were a really sensitive, loving, thoughtful son, I’d’ve offered to have him sleep in the side room and I could’ve slept back there. That big, empty bed without Mother is scaring him. It’s hard to know the right thing.
3
“Hey, Dad; wake up! Come on, Dad!”
Christ, maybe he’s dead. He’s breathing; man, is he ever breathing; sounds like the death rattle.
“Come on, Dad, let’s go. It’s eight o’clock already.”
That’s real time, Pacific time. We still haven’t crossed into Mountain time. He moans and rolls over. Maybe he isn’t dead. With all the crap he’s been through, he could easily have a heart attack or stroke. I look at him close; he seems OK.
I take a shower, bumping around and rattling things, making’s much noise as I can. This isn’t like him at all; he’s usually up hassling the whole family every morning. I come out drying myself.
“Hey, Dad; let’s go. Time to get up.”
It’s like he’s stoned. Now I’m beginning to really get worried. What would I do if he dies out here in the middle of nowhere? I sit down on the edge of the bed and shake him.
“Hey, Dad. You OK?”
He moans, and opens his eyes. They don’t focus and he rolls away from me.
“Come on, Dad! Let’s go, huh? It’s almost eight-thirty!”
Finally, he swings his legs and sits on the side of the bed. He hangs there completely drag-assed. But he’s awake, he’s alive.
After a shower he’s fine. We’ll take right off and have breakfast on the road. That way, we get in some cool morning driving time. God, I wish he’d let me drive; we’re wasting this bomb crawling at fifty-five. He drives as if he’s being punished. He sits hunched over the wheel, sulking, surrounded by open roads, trees and high empty skies; not even looking; just tensed up, expecting the worst.
With a power tool like this, you can lean back and let the damned thing drive itself. The great drivers all say you should relax, get a feel for the road. It’s criminal running a supercharged motor at these speeds.
Before we get in again, I ask once more.
“I’m sorry, Bill.”
“Why not? I’ve got my license.”
“Don’t, Bill. We can’t afford to take those kinds of risks; it’s not worth it.”
So we start rolling. I look out the side window at the scenery going by. If I watch his driving, I’ll go crazy. He has fast reactions, and they’re not too fast, but there’s something about it makes me nervous. He’s so dead serious; if you get involved with his driving, you tense up yourself. It’s no fun.
My dad’s good at the small things. People usually think artists are easygoing, loose people. Well, that’s not him. He’s tight as a witch’s cunt. Like getting Bryce and Zion confused. He was so convinced. We went past a great spot I knew was the place he wanted all the time, but he had his mind set and there’s nothing to do; he has some kind of tunnel vision.
Maybe he’s getting senile. That seems to be what getting old is; you aim yourself more.
Both Mom and Dad act old lately.
Mom’s so quiet and doesn’t want anything exciting or new. Even if I fart or burp at the table she makes a whole scene. They don’t roll with the punch, adapt to the new life.
And, Christ, it was grim saying goodbye to Gramps. Dad was his usual self then, too; bearing down, eating it. And Grandma’s such a pain. I don’t think she’s ever done anything for anybody without expecting something back. Life’s one king-size Monopoly game to her.
Dad’s got the radio on again. All we get is cowboy music and static. There’s nothing good between towns and we’re mostly in the middle of nowhere. We should stop and buy a cassette of real music, the Stones or Dylan or the Doors, something reasonable.
I’ve still got a hundred and fifty bucks on the money belt, but I’d hate spending any on a stupid cassette. I’ll need every cent and I don’t want to beg for money. He still hasn’t said anything. He knows I’m not going back to school but he hasn’t mentioned it, yet.
Oh, God! Now we’re going to pass a truck. This is the wildest, watching him pass a truck. He won’t budge till the view’s clear to the horizon. Hell, there’s nothing behind us for at least a mile.
He’s checking the side mirror for the tenth time. Here we go! We’re out there, cruising slowly along the side of a big semi. This guy’s totally freaked, looking down at us as we go past two miles an hour faster than he’s going. He must think we only have three cylinders firing. If Dad’d floor this thing, we’d be around clear in three seconds. No, we’re taking the leisure trip, maybe saving on gas. I’ve got to relax.
4
Next morning I wake at eight-thirty, feeling more with it. That nine-hour time difference knocks me for a loop.
I make breakfast. At home we’re not coffee drinkers but my folks are. Thank God they’re not serious coffee drinkers; they don’t grind or perk or filter, just instant.
It’s an electric stove, flat coils; I’m not sure if the hottest is 1 or 6. I try 6. I look in the cabinet drawer near the dining room and there’s the card with Dad’s medication written out, just as Joan said. I sort pills and work from lists, how much in the morning, at lunch and before bed. I’ll go along for now but Dad’s got to take over this part himself.
I’m prepared, after breakfast, to talk about Mother’s condition. Joan and I agree he’ll take it best from me.
Now, this is weird, but Dad’s convinced I’m working for the government in some kind of secret intelligence. He’s had this idea for more than ten years. He won’t refer to it directly. He’ll look at me slyly, bashfully, and say, “How’s the job going, John?”
He apparently could never accept that a grown man would paint pictures for a living; it isn’t within his parameter of sensible behavior.
Mother has no trouble; she has me pegged for an old hippy. I have a beard, I live in Paris and I’m most likely a drug addict. She dismisses my life as a total waste. But Dad needs some excuse and he’s come up with this one.
Joan thinks it’s the world’s greatest joke. One Christmas she mailed me a man-sized Zorro costume she’d sewed up herself. With it was a toy detective kit for taking fingerprints and a magnifying glass.
At first, I tried disclaiming my spook status but then decide to go along. What the hell; he’s doing it for me. Now I only say, “Things are fine, Dad.” That’s usually enough; we never go further.
I gather the pills, pour coffee in his cup and knock on the bedroom door. I’m determined not to give him coffee in bed. I call through the door.
“Time to get up, Dad; coffee’s ready.”
“OK, Johnny, OK, I’ll be right out.”
I realize, as I’m standing there, we’re playing another game.
Dad was born in 1904. For men born in that year, World War I ended when they were fourteen and World War II started, at least for the U.S., when they were thirty-seven. Dad missed war.
This is lodged somehow in the back of his mind. I’m sure he knows he’s lucky to have escaped, but he never lived that phony “man’s man” life in the field. It bothers him.
Dad stayed at home until he was married, and then Mom took over. He’s always lived in a woman-dominated environment; never lived as a single man or with other men.
All his brothers have had brief bachelorhoods; one was in W.W.I. They’re also much involved with hunting. For years, Dad wanted to take me hunting with his father and brothers, but Mom wouldn’t have it.
“Oh, no! If you two go, you wash all your own clothes and stinking underwear. And I won’t have any of those smelly deerskin gloves or wild-Indian moccasins around this house either. I’ll tell you that!”
Each fall, the whole bunch, including all my male cousins on the Tremont side, would go up to Maine. They’d usually get deer and sometimes bear. They’d butcher and tan the hides at Grandpa’s. My cousins would tell me stories of waiting in deep, cold woods, playing cards and drinking beer. I felt it separated me from them; I’d never grow up to be a real man.
And now, my coming down the hall, knocking on the door is playing army. My saying “Time to get up, let’s go” does it. I don’t say “Drop your cocks and grab your socks,” but it’s the domestic equivalent. Dad comes plowing out in his pajamas with his slippers on, dragging his feet down the hall on his way to the bathroom.
This foot-dragging is a new thing with him and I’m not sure if it mightn’t be related to minor stroking.
On the other hand, it’s more likely he feels he’s getting old and old people drag their feet, so he’s dragging his. There’s something about sliding slippers along a rug in the morning which appeals to his sense of “rightness.”