“It’s OK, Joan. He won’t tell. He lied to her beautifully over the phone this evening. He told her we had pizza and a salad when all we ate was hot dogs and beer at the ball park. He’s getting good at it; soon he’ll be able to join the Peter Pan brigade with us; he can be Tinker Bell.”
We finally decide we’ll keep Mother at Joan’s long as possible. Joan says she’ll push Mario off to a movie and keep him out of the way. If we can only give Dad some time.
“But I’m telling you, Jack, if she insists on running around behind me, redoing everything I do and muttering about dirt and disgrace, I might just kill her myself.”
“OK, Joan, you do that. I promise to put up bail, hire the best lawyer and stand behind any alibi.”
We laugh privately around that idea for a few minutes, then she hangs up.
In the morning after breakfast, we drive over to Alicia’s. Both of us are trying to act as if this is the most natural thing in the world; after all, we’re just going to see a lady about some plants.
The house is set behind a duplex; we go through a gate and walk along a narrow alleyway which opens onto a well-kept garden and a small, low-lying, white, wood-frame house. The paint is cracking and peeling so there’s almost as much natural wood showing as there is paint. We go up two steps onto a rickety porch and knock on the door. We still don’t look at each other. We’re fifteen-year-olds calling on some girls for a movie date, but it’s only one girl, and she’s one-green-eyed, golden-baked-brown and more than fifteen.
There are white trimmed curtains on the windows and window boxes filled with flowers. I look around, but I don’t see any greenhouse. There is a birdbath filled with water and a bird feeder beside it. Linnets, blackbirds, pigeons, doves, starlings and sparrows flock around, pecking at the seed in it or on the ground underneath.
The door opens and there she is. She’s wearing a blue denim halter and Levi’s.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Come on right in.”
She looks past me at Dad. The room is small but beautiful; light, filled with air and comfortable. She’s somehow bridged the gap between hippy natural and decorator design—the room is wonderfully personal.
“Mr. Tremont. Oh my Gawd! You are a sight for sore eyes!”
While saying this, she walks up to Dad, takes him first by the arms with her powerful slim hands. He smiles into her eyes. Then, impulsively, she cups his bearded cheeks in her hands and gives him a strong kiss on the mouth. Dad doesn’t even have time to pucker. This is a real kiss, not quite so real as the kiss we shared that night, but damned close. Dad stands there dazed, still smiling; he shakes his head and leans both hands on his cane.
“Good thing I’ve got this stick with me or I’m just liable to fall over, Alicia; you take the breath right out of an old man.”
“Come on, Mr. Tremont, you’re not so old; you’re just the right age, you’re a man a woman can have some confidence in, ain’t he, Jack?”
I nod my head; Dad looks at me then back to Alicia.
“Then maybe you can start calling me Jack, Alicia. Call him Johnny; that’s what I call him. His mother calls him Jacky but I don’t think he likes it. Come to think of it, I don’t think he likes me calling him Johnny either; try John.”
Alicia puts her hands on her hips, looks at both of us appraisingly, lips pursed.
“OK, then you’re Jack.”
She points to Dad.
“And you’re Jack Junior. OK?”
“Sure, OK with me.”
She links her arms in ours, pulls us toward her. That halter’s loose and when she does this her firm, medium-sized breasts are beautifully visible.
“Come on, you two. I’m going to show you my plants.”
She pulls us through the house, the kitchen and out the back door; this door opens directly onto a private jungle. It’s almost the same size as Dad’s but more lush, more tropical; there are more flowers and deep, overpowering smells.
Dad and I stand there, astounded, entranced. Alicia lets go our arms, takes two steps forward and turns to face us, hands on her hips. The sun filters through ferns and leaves, spraying her with patterns of light and shade. I think of Gauguin, some of the Renoirs, of the great garden paintings by Monet, and know what they were trying for.
“I made it all myself. This used to be nothin’ but a broken-down back porch and I built it all up. I got these windows from a house they tore down on Twenty-third Street. I got thirty-five windows for only twenty dollars but I had to carry them all here myself. It’s times like that when a woman can almost wish she had a man around the house.”
We’re still stunned. She’s put crushed crystal white rock on the floor. The shelves are set back in tiers for flowers. This place makes Dad’s look almost sloppy. There are orchids and cymbidium hanging in wooden holders around. There are exotic flowers, all colors from almost black through burning red, brilliant yellows, incandescent blues. These colors are spotted and striped; the petals long, smooth or twisted and curled like topological dreams.
“Well, how do you like it?”
She still stands there. Dad steps forward slowly, almost as if he might fall. She reaches out and catches him in her arms; Dad puts his arms around her. Neither of them says anything. I’m feeling embarrassed; maybe I should leave. Dad puckers up and gives Alicia a kiss on the lips.
“Alicia, it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. It’s more beautiful than Hawaii even. Now I know why you’ve got that green eye.”
“And what about you, Jack Junior, Paris artist; what do you think?”
“It’s almost as beautiful as you, Alicia. It’s a perfect world for you to be in. It must be hard leaving every day.”
“I call it Paradise; no matter how bad things go out there, I know I can always come in here by myself and be happy.”
“You know, Alicia, at my place in Cape May, I built a greenhouse with some old windows, too, but all I grow is early tomatoes to be set out in the spring.”
“I didn’t know you lived in Cape May, Jack.”
Oh boy, here we go. The cat’s out of the bag. All this greenhouse business must’ve gotten him confused. I’m ready to head him off at the pass but Dad shakes his head and chuckles.
“Probably, I never did, Alicia; but I like to dream I do sometimes and I make up all kinds of stories for myself; places like this are great for things like that. I might just be a bit crazy, you know.”
“Then I’m crazy too. I come out here and sometimes I’m an African queen and I talk to my flowers; other times I can make myself believe I’m a plant. I drink the sun, soak in moisture and feel myself grow into the earth. I bloom and open.”
Holy Lord, these are two of a kind. Alicia’s looking deep into Dad’s eyes and they’re off in another place.
“Would you show me what you have, Alicia? There are plants here I’ve never seen anywhere. And if I could have some cuttings I’d sure appreciate it. I never seen anybody make things grow the way you have.”
And so they’re off. Jack Junior is the invisible man again. I follow behind while they talk grafting, leaf mold and rhizomes. I’m not interested enough, so I go back inside and sit in the living room. They won’t miss me, they’re alone together. I find a stack of Scientific Americans and work my way through three of them before they come out of the greenhouse. Dad has a soaked burlap sack filled with wrapped roots, stems, leaves and, I guess, seeds, tubers and spores. They’re still talking, giggling and laughing.
“Jack Junior, we’re sorry to take so long but we hardly got started. This is the first man I’ve been able to really talk with. Nobody else seems to care enough.”
Dad’s standing there holding his dripping burlap sack, looking shyly at me, glowing but timid.
“Alicia here knows an awful lot, John. She can make plants so real and live talking about them, I almost see them move, hear them listening.”
“Jack Junior, you sure Jack’s just an ordinary full-blooded white man. Look at that ski
n, look at those lips.”
Dad giggles now, shifts his sack of plants.
“I’ll tell you, Alicia, my wife’s been convinced for more than fifty years I’m part nigger; she’s also sure I’m crazy so you could be ‘right on’ there.”
Right on? God, I’d better get him out before he takes up bongo drums.
At the door, we both get a big kiss. Alicia whispers in my ear.
“You was sure right that night when you said your daddy was easy to love. I remember the second part too. Why don’t you come visit; maybe you can paint me out in my Paradise? I’d make a good model for you.”
We say goodbye. I walk weak-kneed out the alleyway and drive somewhat erratically home; but not on the freeway. Dad’s all excited about his cuttings, seeds and spores.
Next afternoon, Dad and I are straightening up his workshop. In the process, Dad volunteers to leave his tools to me when he dies.
“But don’t hold your breath, Johnny. I intend to work a lot more with those tools during the next few years; nothing big, only some repairs and making toys for my new little great-grandchild.”
The phone rings; I can just about hear it out there. I don’t know how long it’s been ringing so I dash across the lawn and patio, through the side door and into the bedroom. I pick up the receiver, sit on the edge of the bed and try getting my breath.
I wait to hear who it is, figuring it’s Mother, but there’s no sound, only sniffling and breathing. It probably isn’t an obscene phone call so I’m sure it’s Mom. I lie back and wait. The voice that comes is weak, choked with sobs.
“I can’t take it anymore, Johnny. I give up; I’ve had it.”
It’s Joan! I sit up. She’s broken into convulsive sobs.
“What is it, Joan? What’s the matter?”
There’s more quiet sobbing and deep breathing as if she’s trying to get her breath.
“Come on, Joan. Tell me what’s happened. It can’t be that bad.”
“She’s all yours, Johnny, and I’m not kidding. I told her I’d never speak to her again and I mean it. Nobody can even like her, let alone love her. I told her that, too.”
“If you want, I’ll come get her right now. I’ll be over in half an hour.”
“No, she can stay. I’ll cook for her, I’ll clean up after her, I’ll do whatever it takes to give Dad a chance. I’ll do my part, Jack, but I’ll be wearing earplugs. I refuse to listen all day long while she tears down everything and everybody I love. And I’ll never speak to her again so long as I live. I mean it!”
That second “I mean it” is the only thing I have to build on. Since we were kids, Joan’s always said “I mean it” just before she’s ready to give in. Even her own kids know this now.
“Look, Joan, you’ve got the script all turned around. These are my lines. You’re the calm, reasonable one. You’re on the wrong page or something; you’re ruining the whole play. If you’re not careful, they’ll take us off prime time.”
I wait. She’s back to crying again. When she talks, there’s almost a giggle built into the sobs.
“Jack, you won’t believe what she did. I still can’t believe it myself.”
“Listen, Joan, don’t test me out on that. I’ll believe she did anything. I’ll believe she’s excommunicated the Pope, shot the President, turned out the sun, cut off her toes so her feet fit in smaller shoes. I’ll believe anything. Come on, tell me, what did she do?”
“I can hardly talk about it, Jack; it’s so sad and it makes me so mad.
“I was out back raking leaves and trimming the lawn edges because Mom’s been complaining what a mess it is out there. She insists none of us really care about our own home! So I admit we’re slobs but to please her, trying to make her happy—I should know better by now—I’m out there working.
“When I come in, I can’t find her. I peek in our bedroom and she’s there. She’s going through our family photo albums. There are torn photographs all over the floor. I lean down to pick them up; there are more than thirty pictures, torn, not just torn in half, Jack, torn in pieces!
“Honest, I’m convinced right then she’s finally, totally insane!
“She tells me she’s going through these old photo albums and tearing up some of the pictures we have of her.
“‘That Mario always manages to catch me in the worst poses. I want you to remember me the way I really am, not like some monkey, or with my eyes all squinted up, or my mouth open and my tongue showing.’
“She demonstrates all this with her face, putting fingers in her mouth, pulling her ears, crossing her eyes, the way she does when she wants to look funny.
“Jack, I could’ve killed her right there! I gather up all those pieces of pictures. It’s not just pictures of her alone; it’s her with the kids when they’re babies, or pictures with you or with Dad, or me. Just because she doesn’t look like Elizabeth Taylor in every one, she’s tearing them up. I take that photo album away; then I really let her have it.
“When I think of the things I said, I’ll never be able to talk to her again, even if I wanted to. And I tell you I don’t. I mean it; I never want to hear or talk to her again. If she has anything to tell me, she can send the message through you. Right now, every time she comes near, I put my fingers in my ears and walk away.”
“Thanks a lot, buddy. This means I get to listen twice as much. How about if I come out there and get her now; it’ll cut down on phone calls, maybe keep some of us out of the poorhouse and a few of us out of a lunatic asylum.”
She’s started crying again.
“I feel like such a rat, Jack. How could anybody talk to a seventy-year-old woman the way I did, my own mother? I must be going crazy.”
“We’re all crazy, kiddo. Somebody’s been trying to tell us that for years. And, personally, I think it might be easy to talk to this particular seventy-year-old woman any way you want; it’s probably the first sane thing that’s happened around her in years. By the way, what’s she doing now, whitewashing the ceiling, maybe stripping off her clothes and sterilizing them in the oven? What’s the latest?”
“She’s locked in her room, the boys’ room. Do you think she might hurt herself, Jack? I’m beginning to worry.”
“‘Nobody cares whether I live or die!’ Right? I think those were the last quoted rates; are you backing out now? I think I can live with it.”
“Well, I can’t; I’m going back, knock on the door and apologize. A few torn-up photographs aren’t all that important; she needs us most now. I sure wish I could put back in my mouth some of the things I said; I was terrible.”
“It’s the Indian blood coming out in you, Joan; at heart, you’re a bloody savage. But seriously, don’t give in. I’m with you all the way. I only wish I had the guts to let her have it myself. If I did, I could probably throw away my blood-pressure machine, stop taking medication, give up Yoga; maybe even stop wearing glasses. Who knows? I’m saying, don’t do anything you don’t want to.”
“No, I’m fine now. You don’t need to come. I’ll be all right. I’m going in to talk with her, or try anyway.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m not sure of anything, Johnny; except I can sure be a bitch, sometimes. I hope I remember that. I hope too, I’m dead and rotted before I make myself such a pain in the ass to everybody.”
Joan saying “bitch” and “ass” out like that, more than anything else, lets me know how bad it must have been.
Joan pulls it off somehow and we keep Mom there three more days. She refuses to go back to the “hippy” psychiatrist, and when he phones her, she hangs up.
But there’s no keeping her there any longer. Her position now is it’s going to kill her staying where she isn’t wanted and isn’t loved; she’d rather die in her own home. She’s also come up with the idea she’s run out of tears and her eyes are drying up. Joan takes her to an oculist because Mom swears she’s going blind from dry eyeballs. He gives her drops and tells Joan there’s nothing the matter but the
drops won’t hurt. Now Mother’s continually interrupting her monologues to put tears in her eyes.
The next day I do get her. Dad’s bedsores are fairly well healed and he doesn’t want to sleep in the hospital bed in the side room; so he sleeps in back with Mom. Mom says if he isn’t going to leave her alone anyway, they might as well sleep together. I figure the poor guy deserves some comfort.
As much as possible, I want to give them the feeling of being on their own again. I’m sleeping out in the garden bedroom. I’ve got to work my way out of all this somehow and get home.
During the next week, Mom’s definitely on her good behavior, at least when I’m around. Dad is having fun getting himself in shape. He’s started doing exercises with Mom in the morning. Even after her heart attacks, Mom has kept on with her sit-ups, flopovers and the other exercises she’s been doing the past forty years.
It bugs the hell out of her having Dad horning in, wearing his jogging suit, imitating every move she makes. He can hardly do even two sit-ups and he’s still working on his “old-man pushups.” He thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world how he can’t push his chest off the floor.
I make breakfast these mornings during the workout sessions. Dad wants me to join them but I’m afraid this would be just too much. The living room from nine to nine-thirty looks like a Vic Tanny’s gym for the geriatric. Mom resists Dad’s insistence that she come out and jog with him. Now he’s not only jogging in the patio, but around the back garden. Mom says if he goes out and jogs in the street she’ll leave him.
On the seventh day she’s home, Mom pulls me into the back bedroom. She starts crying and tells me she can’t go on.
“I’ve tried so hard, Jacky. I don’t want to make any trouble but I know I’ll have another heart attack if it keeps on like this.”
Dad’s driving her crazy and she’s afraid being alone with him. She’s upset by his crazy songs, the flowers, the exercise, the jogging, the cooking, the miniature golf course, the sundial, even the new bird feeder.
“And now, you’ve seen him, he’s started dancing around the living room to the music on the radio. He’s not right in his head, Jacky!”