Now’s the time to go into my lying routine. I know I can back it up so it’s hardly lying, just a-priori declaration.
“I’ve already talked to Joan, Mom. Mario works till six o’clock every day with the playground. You’d have the boys’ room all to yourself, with your own bathroom, your own entrance like a private apartment. You don’t even have to eat with them if you don’t want to. There are three restaurants and a McDonald’s, all within a block. Joan could take you anyplace you want. You could be alone as much as you want. There’s even a TV set back there; you wouldn’t have to watch any baseball games or anything you didn’t like. It’d be a real vacation.”
I settle back to watch her wiggle.
“I could never stand that Valley heat and the smog. I’d be dead in a week out there. It’s getting to be summer, Jacky; don’t forget that.”
“You can stay inside when it’s hot and they have the whole house air-conditioned. Their car is air-conditioned, too. And remember how nice it is evenings.”
“I’d miss having my own garden. You know how the big chief is; nobody can touch his garden.”
“Think, Mom, you can enjoy a garden and not have to do any weeding or watering, just luxuriate like a queen with a private gardener, a nice Italian gardener.”
That was a sneaky one; she likes the idea of Mario, her Italian gardener. She hems and haws, looking for an opening, but finally gives in. I tell her I’ll drive her out tomorrow.
I call Joan to set things up. She agrees it’ll take some doing, but is enthusiastic. I’m hanging up the phone when Dad comes back from his plants in the greenhouse or Cape May; who knows.
Mother really is afraid of what Dad will say. I tell him Mom needs a complete rest and is going to visit Joan’s for a while. He nods his head, listening. His beard looks as if he’s had it all his life. It’s amazing how it gives so much life to his eyes. I’d never noticed how blue, cerulean blue, they are. I wonder how different I’d be if he’d had that beard all his life; little things like that make a difference. I tell Dad I’ll stay here with him to cook and take care of things. He nods, looks at me, then over at Mother. She’s tensed there in her chair, ready to spring or duck.
“That’ll be just fine. Don’t you worry about us, Bette; we’ll be OK. Johnny’s a fine cook and housekeeper; I’ll help him and boss him around some. I’m getting stronger all the time; I might even be a boss one of these days, finish off right. You just rest up, get your heart in good shape and try not to worry about things. It’ll all come out fine.”
He’s smiling and nodding. Mom’s beginning to smell the rat but is too far into it now. Maybe she’d expected Dad to go through the ceiling, screaming and hollering.
We sit and watch Lawrence Welk again. In the middle, Dad gets up, pulls Mom from her chair and insists she waltz with him to the music. She’s giving me horror and danger signals over his shoulders. I sit back and smile. He’s staggering a little on the long steps but is keeping good time. Mom gets up on her toes and I can’t help wondering again what the foot-dragging and shuffling is all about. I know Dad couldn’t’ve thought up a better move to get Mother packing.
Monday morning I drive Mom out there. Billy’s with Dad. Joan has fixed up the back bedroom so it’s like a private motel room. She’s barricaded the door to the rest of the house and the key is on the inside. She winks at me while she shows Mother how nobody can get in to bother her at all. She has direct access to the garden, with a comfortable chair there and a redwood table. She can come into the main room where the color TV is, if she wants. It couldn’t be better.
Joan gives me the high sign and I leave quietly. I drive back over Topanga. It’s the long way home but I want to go once more for those smells and to see the clear sky. I come along the coast down to Venice, then up Palms to Dad.
He’s fine. He looks behind me as if to check that Mom really isn’t there. He and Billy have built a simple sundial out by the birdbath in the garden. They’ve used an old burning set and burned out a message on a piece of driftwood. It says:
BE LIKE THE BEES AND FLOWERS
COUNT ONLY THE SUNNY HOURS
Billy’s excited showing how it works. He’s even more convinced Dad’s a genius. I’d never have guessed you could make a sundial as easily as they did. It’s only a plank of wood stuck in the ground at an angle with a length of dowling set at another angle. The hours are burned into the plank in Roman numerals.
We make ourselves toasted cheese sandwiches and drink two beers each, wiping out a six-pack as we lie out there on the patio watching the sun move across that sundial. I explain how great Joan has things fixed up, how Mother will be comfortable and have a good chance to get a rest. Dad asks if we know what a gnomon is. We both look blank. He gets up, walks over, points to the dowling stick on the sundial and smiles back at us.
Four o’clock, Dad has another appointment with Delibro. Billy wants to sleep up on the mountain again and borrows my bike. After Dad’s finished with Delibro, we’ll go down to Venice and I’ll paint.
While he’s with the doctor, I drive over to Aaron Brothers and buy three new canvases, some replacement colors and two sable brushes. Dad’s in the waiting room when I get back. He says everything went fine. It’s almost all beginning to get routine; it doesn’t exactly hurt my feelings.
As we come out of Delibro’s office, Dad takes a paper from his wallet; he looks at it, then at me.
“John, that nice one-green-eyed nigger woman, who visited me in the hospital, the one who gave me the African violets, wrote down her phone number here and said if I phoned maybe you could take me to see her greenhouse.”
He peers up at me, innocence and timidity combined. God, he’s always got some new surprise up his sleeve.
“OK, Dad, I can call her at the phone booth here or we can call after we get home from painting.”
“Call now, Johnny, before I forget again. I keep thinking about it, then forgetting. I promised her.”
I stop at a phone in the garage, dial the number he gave me. I’m pretty sure she’ll be on duty or not home. Maybe I’m only hoping that. Somebody answers.
“Hello, is this Alicia?”
“That’s right. Is this you, Jack? How’s your daddy doing?”
Holy cow, she recognized my voice.
“He’s fine, Alicia. He asked me to call you. He’s wonderful; you wouldn’t believe how strong and happy he is.”
“I sure would like to see him and show him my plants. I’d like to see you, too, Jack.”
It hangs there, a perfectly natural thing to say, it numbs me for two counts.
“When’s a good time, Alicia? And where do you live?”
“I’m on evenings, so anytime in the mornings after ten o’clock or so; how about tomorrow?”
Dad’s leaning toward me trying to hear. I hand him the receiver so I can get out a pen and pencil; also pull myself together. Hearing her voice, the strength and timbre of it has unnerved me.
Dad’s listening, nodding his head, smiling, happy to talk with her but not saying much. He sees my pen and paper, hands the phone back. Alicia gives me an address off Clover-field in Santa Monica. We agree to meet her there at ten.
I hang up and we go on to the car as if we made dates together every day.
I have painting clothes and paints in the trunk, so I change at the parking lot. We lock up and walk along the boardwalk.
I’ve made arrangements with Tony and Shelly to paint their place. I’ll do it looking out across the tables spread with fruit and vegetables, then out the window onto the beach with a sky in sunset colors.
I set up the easel and get right into the drawing. Tony finds a chair for Dad; Dad’s watching, enjoying the people, the painting, the fruit, the sunset. I’m not paying too much attention.
A little later, I look up and Dad’s gone! I stand and scan the store. Tony’s over in the herb section.
“Have you seen Dad, Tony?”
“Yeah, he went with Suzanne. Don’t wor
ry. Dad’s OK.”
I stand there with brush in hand. I’m tempted to dash off after him. I decide to finish the underpainting first. Suzanne will take care. Half an hour later, he’s still not back. I wash the brushes in turp.
I head for Suzanne’s; it’s after six. Venice is beautiful but it’s tough too; there are enough mean guys, drunks and addicts so you’re never safe, especially an old man like Dad.
I walk down to Suzanne’s. Pap’s leaning out a window. He’s dressed in his favorite drag costume, a purple spangled evening dress with a ragged boa draped across his neck. It looks wild with his sandy white Ho Chi Minh beard. He nods and beckons for me to come up.
I go around back and up the fire-escape stairs; it’s the only way in except through the restaurant. The room reeks of pot, and there’s Dad spread out on three silk pillows.
Suzanne folds down on the pillow beside him and rubs her face against his beard.
“Don’t you worry about Dad here, Johnny. He’s just fine. He must be one of the nicest men in the whole world.”
What the hell do I do? Christ, I’m jumpy about pot myself and here’s my father, ex-hippy hater, spaced out and smiling up at me. I step into the room and sink into a lotus position; all that Yoga comes in handy once in a while.
“How’re you doing, Dad?”
“Just fine, Johnny. Do you think smoking them little joints will get me started smoking cigarettes again? You know, for years I was a regular smokestack; I’d hate to get started again.”
“I don’t think so; it’s not the same as smoking cigarettes; how are you feeling?”
“They ought to give this to all old folks, Johnny. It’s a shame wasting it on young people. I’ve been telling them here how they’re squandering their lives away sitting inside smoking, doing nothing, with the whole world out there. But it certainly is nice for an old geezer like me.”
He reaches for the roach from Pap, takes a drag and lets it out slowly.
“Yep, Johnny, this marijuana takes away those scared feelings. Also, I’m noticing things I’ve never seen before. Do you know there’s a blue shimmering line between sunny places and shadowy places?”
I look at Suzanne. She takes the joint from Dad and passes it back to Pap. She gives Dad a kiss on the cheek, comes over, squats bare-flat-footed beside me in her free-flowing, practically transparent skirt.
“Don’t worry, Johnny, he’s OK. You go back to your painting and don’t worry; he’s having a fine time.”
What the hell. There’s no sense making a scene. He can’t hurt himself. I go back to The Fruits and Nuts.
About seven o’clock, here comes Dad, feeling groovy. He waves at me from the front door, goes over, sits on his chair and stares at the sun setting; my father, the human sundial. I finish most of the impasto by seven-thirty and pack the box. We start home.
On the way, we decide we’ll go to a ball game. The Dodgers are playing the Phillies in Chavez Ravine. We just have time to make it if we go directly; I cut straight onto the Santa Monica Freeway. We’ll have hot dogs at the park for dinner.
I drive Dad to the ticket booth and park the car. When I get back, he’s already bought tickets, good ones on the third-base line. I still can’t get accustomed to Dad; he’d never have bought tickets on his own like that, not in the last thirty years, anyway.
Between the second and third innings, I buy us two hot dogs each and a couple beers. Dad’s rooting for both teams simultaneously. Actually, he’s rooting for whichever team’s at bat. He stands, cheers and shakes his fist whenever there’s a hit. He’s having a good time hollering with nobody to say no; he’s sure got plenty of hollering time to make up.
The Dodgers win on a homer by Steve Garvey and Dad decides he’ll be a Dodger fan after all.
I suggest he might enjoy coming down with Mario; it’s more fun going with somebody who really knows the game, and Mario’s an ex-ballplayer.
“That’s right, Johnny. You know, I’ve never gotten to know Mario the way I’d like to. He comes with Joan and sits there or sleeps or goes in the back room. It’s hard for him not to let Mother get his goat.”
We’re just getting ready for bed when the phone rings. My first thought is it’s Joan; Mom’s had a heart attack and died while we were out carousing around. But it’s Mother. She’s wondering where we’ve been. I tell her we went to the ball game.
“Well, I’ve been trying to call since one o’clock this afternoon. You couldn’t have been at the ball park all day. Let me talk to your father.”
I’m about to tell her he’s asleep, but then realize she’s probably been phoning every half hour, and there’s no time for him to have gotten asleep.
Dad comes up beside me. I put my hand over the mouthpiece, tell him it’s Mom. He takes the receiver from me with a smile like a twenty-year executive taking the phone from his secretary. I figure here we go, the grounds for divorce are about to be ground, or maybe that’s grounded. This is the ultimate test; is he going to collapse under pressure again?
Dad sits back in his platform rocker holding the phone in his usual uncomfortable way, not touching the receiver to the side of his head, holding it away like a snake. He’s still not exactly an international executive, not to worry. I sit in the other chair.
“Yep, we went to the ball game, Bette. The Dodgers won with a home run in the ninth inning. We had hot dogs and beer, too.”
Pause. Dad does everything but look into the phone.
“No. We ate at a pizza place around the corner here. We should go there ourselves, it’s an easy walk.”
Pause.
“We had a big salad with the pizza so don’t worry about it.”
He gives me a wink. I know we’re in. I go into the back bedroom to get undressed. I’m beat. It’s been a long day. Then I hear Dad calling me.
“Mother wants to talk with you, John.”
He’s holding the phone at arm’s length.
“Hello, Mother?”
“Jacky?”
She goes into her stage whisper.
“You’ve got to get me out of here. That Mario’s driving me crazy!”
“What do you mean, Mom; wasn’t he officiating today?”
“Well, he came home for dinner.”
“But, Mom, you don’t have to eat with him. Remember, we talked about that. You just get yourself all upset.”
“If that wop thinks he can keep me from eating with my own daughter and my grandchildren, then he has another think coming. I’ll tell you that!”
Damn, here we go! I listen while she goes on with every imagined slight she can think of, including that Mario went to the bathroom after dinner before she did. I guess he’s supposed to read the state of her bladder. She even has her own bathroom! I listen. I try not to really listen, just wait till she’s finished. Dad’s putting on his pajamas. He comes out and goes into the bathroom. I hear him brushing his teeth. At last there’s a pause.
“What is it you want, Mom? You can’t live with Mario, you can’t live with Dad. Who can you live with? Just tell me and we’ll try to set it up.”
It’s not a very nice thing to say; I know. But it’s late, I’m tired and it’s all so unreasonable. There’s a long empty pause and she hangs up. I’m not really hurt, more sort of relieved. I go back to see how Dad’s doing. He’s in bed. He looks at me through the dark without his glasses.
“Don’t worry, John; she’ll get over it. She’s always like this when she’s upset.”
“Good night, Dad, sleep well.”
I’m just getting ready for bed when the phone rings again. I don’t want to answer it, but I do. It’s Joan.
“Hello, you miserable, lousy, bearded, hippy SOB. How are things?”
“I assume that’s a direct quote.”
“Well, it’s more or less an expurgated version. My virginal ears and sensibilities won’t let me repeat it verbatim. What in heaven’s name did you say? She’s in the back room stomping around with the door locked.”
&n
bsp; “Not much, Joan; all I did was ask her where she wants to live. This was after she charged through Mario as the black hole of the universe.”
“Jack, I’m at my wit’s end. It’s as if she wants everything to stop, everyone to be miserable, just because she is. I don’t know what we can do and I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.”
“If it’ll make you feel better, Joan, you should know Dad had a great time today. You wouldn’t believe the kinds of things we did. I’m beginning to think we have to get him away from Mom somehow, anyhow.”
“Yeah, and how; you tell me. Do we kill her? What can we do so she’ll be satisfied? I’m not kidding; I’m at the end of my rope. You should’ve been with her today. If you think she lit into Mario, you should’ve heard her about you and Dad. She has you two pegged as Black Bart the pirate and his first mate.
“Sometimes I almost had to laugh, that is when I didn’t feel like giving her a good swift kick. And if she’d just go through it once, but it’s over and over, as if she’s practicing for a play and is trying to get her lines right.”
“I found Dad spread out on pillows surrounded by a bevy of lovely girls smoking pot down in Venice this afternoon. Also, I made a date for him with a beautiful black girl tomorrow morning.”
“Stop it, Johnny! Stop this nonsense. That’s the kind of stuff sets her off.”
She giggles. Should I leave it at that? I did tell her. I can always claim I told her. But I can’t leave it.
“I’m not kidding, Joan. I was painting down on the beach front, he wandered off and that’s where I found him. He says all old people should smoke pot and it’s too good to waste on kids. The black girl’s the one who came and gave him the African violets; we’re going to go see her greenhouse.”
“You’re making that up, Jack. No, you’re not; not even a nut like you could make up a thing like that. Mother’s right; you two can’t be trusted.”
Then she breaks out laughing and the laughing over the phone sounds as if it might turn into crying. I hadn’t realized how close to hysteria she is.