Dad

by William Wharton

  I try to get hold of his feet but he kicks my hands away. I can’t pull him onto his back because he’s wedged. I try pulling on his arm but he moans louder. I’m getting wedged under there myself, and feeling claustrophobic. I wriggle out for a fresh start.

  I’m afraid to slide the bed for fear I’ll crush him. I try lifting one corner and holding it up, hoping he’ll roll onto his stomach. But when I lower the bed carefully, it’s worse. He’s rolled up on his side in a fetal position and is jammed tight by the springs. He moans louder and grunts in pain. I quickly lift the bed again.

  “Turn over, Dad, turn over!” I yell, and let the bed down again. He’s moaning and screaming now; I’m crushing him! I lift the bed. I have a sacroiliac condition and I don’t know how long I can hold up.

  I stretch out a foot and hook one of the chairs. I edge the chair toward me and muscle the bed up at the same time until the bedspring rests on the chair. I’m shaking and sweating like a hog. I sit on the floor to get my breath.

  I look under; he’s still curled up but the bed isn’t on his shoulder. I can’t tell if he’s asleep, but at least he isn’t moaning. I consider pulling the covers off the bed and wrapping them around him under there. If he’s asleep, I certainly don’t want to wake him. This room is warm and the carpet is thick, especially under the bed where nobody’s ever walked.

  But then he starts moaning again. I slip off my dripping sweat-suit top. I check to make sure the bed is secure on the chair. I wedge another chair against the bed just in case. It’d be a scene if we both got trapped there; nobody could ever explain a thing like that. I slide under with him.

  I squeeze close and fit myself tight against his back. I put my arms around his waist and start pulling backwards. I inch myself back, pulling on him, watching out for the chairs. He doesn’t resist except to moan and curl deeper into his fetal position. I’m afraid I’ll pull too hard; he seems so fragile I might break him. His coordination is shot; he could easily get an arm or leg twisted without my knowing it. After ten minutes’ struggling, we’re out from under. He’s still curled up on himself. His eyes are shut, squeezed shut.

  We’re both covered with streaks of dirt and dust. Mother might be one of the world’s greatest housekeepers, but nobody dusts the springs under a bed, not at seventy anyway.

  I take off Dad’s pajamas, twisting and pulling to get them loose from his clamped-down arms and legs. I pull the chairs from under the bed and lower it to the floor again. I lift Dad in my arms; he starts to uncurl. I maneuver him to the bathroom.

  I sponge him, wipe the dirt off his head, hands and a few other places. I guide him back to the bedroom, prop him on the side of the bed. Now his eyes are full open, pinpoint pupils, watching me carefully. I get new pajamas and wrestle him into them. It’s exactly like dressing a giant ten-month-old.

  Then, slowly, I straighten him onto the bed again, lower his head to the pillow. When I get him down, I sit and watch. He’s so incredibly nervous; his lips, his whole mouth is twitching; his fingers and hands are shaking and rubbing on the edge of the sheet where I’ve pulled it to his neck. He’s in a total state of negative anticipation.

  I run fast into the bathroom, fill a glass of water and come back. He’s still there, he hasn’t moved. I tilt his head with one hand again and slip a Valium between his teeth; another use for that space besides long-distance spitting. I slip it through there because his jaws are locked tight. He chews and swallows it like candy. I pour water gently between his teeth and he swallows that, too. I hope I’m not killing him with Valium. What the hell would I say at an inquest? These aren’t even his Valium pills; they’re Mother’s. I gently settle his head on the pillow, put out the overhead light and sit.

  I fall asleep, half naked, dirty. I wake up with my head in my arm on the bed. He’s asleep. It’s so good to see him relaxed, his face smooth, absolutely quiet, in a dead sleep; but he’s breathing. It gives me some hope. I didn’t see him asleep like this even once in the hospital. I quietly sneak away. I wash myself in the bathroom and spread my sweaty sweat suit over the shower-curtain rod to dry. I put on jockey shorts and a T-shirt, then climb into bed. It’s past one-thirty.

  I don’t know what wakes me, but it’s almost five o’clock. I decide to check how he’s doing. I tiptoe down the hall and try pushing his bedroom door open quietly. It won’t open! I push till it’s open enough for me to stick my head in. He’s on the floor against the door at my feet, curled up naked, covered with shit! His face, hands, feet and legs, everything smeared with it! The smell almost knocks me down.

  There’s a moment then when I’m not sure I can go on. There’s a strong animal impulse to just close the door and run. I want to run as fast and far as possible, get on a plane and go home. I want to call Joan, call the hospital, call anybody and ask for help.

  I push the door open carefully. Dad’s chattering, muttering and shaking. He’s ice cold. He isn’t asleep. When I lean over him he looks at me with locked eyes, as if somebody’d turned on a light, but no recognition. I take off my T-shirt and lift him in my arms. As I said, I have a bad back; I’m amazed at what I’m doing. Dad’s not a heavy man but he still weighs over a hundred and forty pounds.

  I ease him into the bathtub and turn on the water. God, he’s a mess. It’s in his hair, in his pubic hairs, all over. I fill the tub and scrub as best I can. The smell fills the bathroom. Mother’d have two fits. I drain the brown water when I’ve got most of it off and fill the tub again. I rinse him, try to wipe off what I’ve gotten on my chest and arms while carrying him.

  Dad only watches me. I drain this tubload and dry him in the tub. I dash into the bedroom to grab his last pair of pajamas. One pair is covered with bed dust, the other with shit. Then I lift him from the tub and sit him on the toilet, just in case. I want to get out anything left; it can’t be much, but I’m taking no chances.

  We’re into flannel pajamas now, the ones Joan bought for his birthday.

  I stagger with him back to the bedroom. The bed’s clean, thank God. He must’ve fallen or gotten out first. I put him in the bed, this time on his side and curled in his fetal position. Maybe that’s the way he likes to sleep. I pull the covers over him and watch for five minutes or so; he doesn’t budge.

  I go back to the bathroom, fill a bucket with warm water and pour in a cup of laundry soap. I take one of the more ragged towels and hurry back to the bedroom. He’s still quiet but I can’t tell if he’s asleep. The smell is overwhelming. I’m usually good with things like shit, garbage or vomit but this is at the limits of my endurance. It’s on everything. It’s on the walls, the woodwork, the door and, worst of all, the rug. I scrub, wipe and scrape. Mom is always so worried about dirt; boy, this is the end of dirt. She has a special thing about shit, anyway.

  Now, I’m an anal personality by Freud’s or almost anybody’s definition. I like to preserve things, hold on, I’m a nest maker, husbander and conserver; but I think there’s good reason.

  There was an event when I was two years old—not even that. Mother likes to brag about it. And it’s strange, while I’m wiping all this up, it comes to me clearly. To be honest, I don’t think I ever really remembered this incident, but there on the floor against the closet door, it comes back; I have a memory, not a memory of Mother telling the story, but a real memory of it actually happening.

  This memory draws open a curtain and allows me to have some empathy with Mom. I’ve always felt I should have remembered because it must have been a terrible shock but I’d never been able to.

  My mother had me “trained” by the time I was eighteen months old. One day she dressed me in a white suit without diapers and was taking me to South Philadelphia for a visit with her mother and some of her sisters. She was going to show me off: “Look, curly blond hair; look, no diapers.” My mother was twenty; I’ve got to give her credit; at least I was alive.

  Mother has me ready and stops to take a pee or put on some powder. She comes out and I’m standing there, red-f
aced, smiling, legs apart, proud. I’ve crapped in the white pants. The story at this point goes, “I’ll tell you, I gave him the best smacking he’d ever had. I take those pants, filled with it, pin them around his face and lock him in the hall closet.”

  I’m remembering this. There’s something about the combination of the smell, the woodwork, the door and Dad’s helplessness which brings it all back. I’m crying. I’m scrubbing and crying. I could be crying for my father but I think I’m crying for myself, still crying out a fifty-year-old event. I might also be crying for Mom. I hope so. There’s something of wanting to tell her I won’t do it again.

  I wipe things up as best I can. I dump the bucket in the toilet, wash out the tub, rinse and soap everything down. I spray pine deodorizer. I change jockey shorts and put on my T-shirt. I go back to Dad; he’s still curled up. I’m dead tired. It’s about six-thirty now. The lack of sleep, the strain is getting to me.

  This time I decide to do it differently. I close off the side of the bed with chairs again. Then I lie out across the foot of his bed with my hand on his left foot. I don’t want to tie him down. I go to sleep like that, at the foot of his bed. When I wake, it’s light. Dad’s still there. I look at my watch and it’s almost nine o’clock. He’s asleep.

  Everything still smells shitty so I go in and take a shower. I don’t take a bath in the tub, even though I’ve cleaned it out with Ajax. I swear I have the smell of shit caught in my nose hairs. I take my shower fast, running back and forth to check while I dry myself, brush my teeth and get dressed. I’m like a mother with a young baby. Now I know what Vron means when she says that for seven years she never went to the bathroom without a baby on her lap.

  At about ten, Dad wakes up. I get him dressed. I want to try giving him breakfast as if there’s nothing wrong. I sit him in the armchair at his end of the table.

  But he won’t eat; all he does is play with it. So I feed him. He doesn’t fight me; just keeps opening his mouth. We get down two eggs, some roll and orange juice; at least he won’t starve today. I watch him carefully. When he reaches for anything, he misses. It’s almost as if he’s half blind. Then, when he tries to compensate, like as not, he moves his hand in the wrong direction.

  I turn on the record player; Guy Lombardo this time.

  Dad’s just as interested in the table, the legs of the table, the pattern on the tablecloth and, of course, the rug as he is in food. He keeps leaning over trying to touch the floor. So, while I do the dishes, I tie him to the chair lightly with the belt from his bathrobe. I can’t think of any other way.

  Just after I’ve gotten the dishes off the table and put them in the hot water, I look out and see he’s leaning so far he’s tilting the chair over with him. I run fast as I can, but he hits with a thump before I get there. He looks up at me in noncomprehension, probably thinks I’m standing on my head. He makes no effort to get up, only whimpers.

  I feel terrible. I untie and lift him to his feet. I look him over and there’s a big, black-and-blue mark rising on his hip and elbow. I never knew old people bruised so easily. People are going to think I’m beating up my own Dad.

  It’s a gorgeous sunny day. I finish the dishes and take Dad out to the patio. That’s one thing Dad and Mom like to do, sit out there and sunbathe; it’s part of their dream come true. I lower him into one of the redwood chaise longues he made. I have him in his button-down sweater, gray trousers, socks, black shoes, and he has the cap on his head. If you just looked at him lying there, you’d never know anything was wrong.

  I settle into a chaise longue beside him and start up a running conversation. I try remembering everything of my childhood with him. I ask questions, and when he doesn’t respond I go on. I talk about his brothers, his sisters, his mother and father, all his life I know of. I feel he’s beginning to listen; in some passive way, he’s tuned into it; but I don’t think he understands. He’s listening as a dog or a child listens; for the tone of voice only, without comprehension.

  I close my eyes and listen to the sounds. There’s the beginning hum of insects and the twitter of ground thrushes. I hear the sound of the screen door slam; must be Johnny going out to feed the chickens before school. I’d better be getting on up there with this water.

  After more than an hour, he stirs, and tries to speak. I lean close. He speaks in a deep breathy voice with a heavy stutter. It’s as if he’s forcing his voice out.

  “They’ll get mad at us if we stay here. Where’s the owner of this house?”

  It’s such a wild, crazy thing for him to say; still it’s something, words with sequence. But it breaks my heart. He’s built this house, nail by nail, from the ground up, foundations, framing, electricity, plumbing, the whole thing. Now he thinks it’s somebody else’s. He can’t claim for himself this one visible proof he’s even lived.

  He reaches out tentatively with his shaking hand and pats me lightly on the knee, very tenderly; I can barely feel it, a ghost tap. He lifts his head again, looks left and right, then up at the sky. He almost seems to sniff the air the way I’ve always thought the groundhog would on Groundhog Day. He leans toward me again and whispers excitedly.

  “They’re going to throw us out on our ear! Let’s get going.”

  I put my hand over his and try to look into his eyes; the pupils are somewhat dilated but he won’t look at me.

  “Relax, Dad, you own this house. Nobody’s going to throw us out. This whole property is yours.”

  He looks at me quickly, a fast, sneak look; a faint quivering smile goes across his face. I can’t tell if the smile is saying, “Is that so, isn’t that marvelous?” or, “You must be out of your mind.”

  That’s the only contact all morning. The rest of the time I’m mostly talking to myself. Dad once rigged a little loudspeaker system connected to the record player in the living room for music in the patio. I go put on a big stack of Bing Crosby, Perry Como and the Hawaiian music. Dad and Mom have a passion for fake Hawaiian music. We listen to Bing Crosby sing “Sweet Lailani,” then something about a little grass shack. Dad seems to relax; he even falls asleep sometimes. But each time he wakes it’s the same nervous shaking.

  At two I make lunch; we get most of the beer down and a whole sandwich. I’m starving so I have two sandwiches and a second glass of beer. I’m bored out of my mind. That sounds terrible but it’s the truth. I don’t know how people who do this professionally stick it. It’s so discouraging, and by nature I’m not the endurance type.

  At three, I take him in to try for a nap. He falls asleep with me holding on to his foot again. I’m worrying what we’ll do for the coming night.

  That evening I get Dad to eat a reasonable amount but he’s not drinking much. I’m worried about dehydration. It’s hard getting fluids in him, and he definitely has diarrhea. I tried giving him hot chocolate but I almost burned him, a combination of his shaking and my lack of skill pouring liquids down another person’s throat.

  I lean him back in his rocker before the TV. I run back and forth, clearing dishes and washing, watching him.

  He’s having the same damned problem with the rug. He’s lowered himself onto the floor and is crawling on all fours picking at the pattern and the flickering TV shadows.

  I settle in Mother’s chair and watch. He crawls on his knees to investigate a vase of fake flowers on the coffee table. He’s very careful, touching lightly, studying, trying to understand. I keep up a running commentary, explaining the things he’s looking at, but he doesn’t react.

  Then he kneels with his knees on the floor, his head and shoulders on the couch. He stays that way for almost ten minutes till I think he might be asleep. I sneak over to look in his eyes; they’re wide, unblinkingly open. God, I’m glad Mom isn’t here to see this! I wish I weren’t!

  I sit at the dining-room table where I can keep an eye on him and try writing a letter to Vron. I tell her Dad’s been operated on, so I have to stay longer. I tell her I’m taking care of Dad, now he’s out of the hospital.
Then I can’t stop myself, I spill all the beans. I’m practically crying, writing that letter and knowing all the time it isn’t fair.

  After the letter, I call Joan. I don’t want to upset her, so I just say things are going OK. I tell her Dad hasn’t changed much but we’re getting along. She tells me how Mom’s been playing hearts with Maryellen; no big scene with Mario, yet.

  I’m dreading the night. Something happened to me the night before. I’m not afraid of the dark. I really have this advantage, I like the dark. I like being alone in it; there’s something about darkness that comforts me. Billy’s afraid of the dark and so’s Jacky. Marty’s petrified.

  For a long time at the mill we had our john in the cellar. Marty wouldn’t go down unless somebody went with her. She’d seen a Dracula film when she was about fourteen and it got to her. After that, Marty even kept a crucifix over the head of her bed. She has no religious convictions but she had a crucifix. I’m sure if I could’ve gotten her a gun with a silver bullet, she’d’ve slept with it under her pillow.

  That crucifix made a great impression on Mom the one time they came to visit us in Paris. She’s always been worried about the lack of religiousness in our family. We’ve never had The Sacred Heart or pieces of palm hanging over religious pictures, all the paraphernalia of a primitive Catholic family. But Marty had a crucifix over her bed, so we weren’t completely lost.

  Now I’m seeing things out the corners of my eyes, just beyond vision. I keep turning my head fast. I’m jumpy all right.

  I undress Dad and sit him on the toilet hoping for the best, but nothing comes. I put on his pajamas and lead him back to the bedroom. He doesn’t know what’s going on, he’s gone.

  I put him in bed. What can I do to avoid last night’s catastrophe? I decide I’ll sit on a chair beside him and read. The only book I find in the house is a book on different ways to psych yourself up when you’re about to crack. It’s Mom’s all-time standby. It’s filled with mundane solutions but it’s not bad, written in an easy-to-understand style, not too far off the mark; sort of front-line therapy.