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 masterminding 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 is 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.
r /> 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.”