Dad

by William Wharton

  Mom switches on the TV. She has a fairly consistent evening schedule of particular shows. There’s also a Dodger game, but Mom doesn’t like baseball. We compromise. I see the second inning through two out in the third, then all of the seventh and eighth. By this time, the Dodgers are behind eight-three, so I imagine they lost. Johnny Carson takes preference.

  Between the third and seventh innings, we watch a show called All in the Family. Mom insists the star of this show looks like me. He’s called Archie Bunker, a sort of hard-hat, hard-nosed jerk with all the racial, cultural prejudices of the poverty mind. I think he’s supposed to be basically sympathetic.

  Maybe it’s like seeing yourself by accident in a three-way mirror at Sears. You see things you don’t let yourself see usually: the thickness of your neck, the real extent of your pot, the generally crappy posture; but I can’t accept myself that way.

  Sure, we both have blue eyes, OK, but then so did Adolf Hitler. We’re both cursed with turned-up noses; how about Bob Hope? But Bunker has white hair and I don’t. Maybe it would be white if it hadn’t fallen out; who knows? The main thing is, he looks so stupid, tight-together pig eyes. But I might look stupid, too, if my hair hadn’t receded, making me look as if I have a high forehead. I hope my soul isn’t as hidden from me as my physical identity.

  “See, doesn’t he look like you, Jacky? Doesn’t he? Even the profile; see that? If only you didn’t have a beard.”

  I triple-resolve to never never shave off my beard. Also, I start on an instant diet. It lasts three days.

  I like to eat; I won’t look in mirrors. What the hell, fifty-two is fifty-two; I have to look like something; I can’t always be a boy.

  It’s amazing how much they squeeze into those situation comedies. Eleven minutes of any half-hour show is reserved for ads and station breaks. So they work it all out in nineteen minutes.

  No wonder everybody’s anxious and feeling there’s no meaning or continuity to things. You watch TV long enough, you get a warped view of the world. Normal-paced living seems slow, boring.

  After Johnny Carson, I put Mom to bed, with Valium beside a glass on the bedside table. I don’t want any more of the drug-addict business. If she can’t sleep she can take them; it’s her life. I’m learning, but slowly.

  Now I can’t sleep. I find myself staring at those “by the numbers” paintings Dad did of The Blessed Mother and The Sacred Heart. For some reason they’re hung the wrong way. Usually they’re hung with The Sacred Heart on the left as you look at them.

  I can’t say I’ve ever consciously noticed a special way to hang these pictures but it must have seeped in during nine years of parochial school.

  I don’t think enough, ideas come out of nowhere. Maybe that’s what thinking is. But right then an idea comes. At my age now, I’d consider Jesus, even at his oldest, thirty-three, as a snot-nosed kid, a hotdogging post-adolescent. I lie there in the semidark. Johnny boy, you’re getting old all right.

  When I was a kid, the beard made Jesus look older, like another breed of human being, more serious, a grandfather or father figure.

  Now the kids are the ones with beards. Having a beard is the same as wearing jogging shoes or sweat shirts, a cheap shot at staying young.

  I look at Mary. She couldn’t’ve been more than sixteen or seventeen when she had Jesus. Now, let’s say the archangel Gabriel really did come down and tell her about God being the father and the baby being God, too, and telling her what to name it; would she still be believing that seven, eight months later?

  And Joseph, if he’d really had nothing to do with her, what’s he thinking?

  And what happened to Joseph? You never hear about him after Jesus is twelve. Even if he isn’t Jesus’s father, they could at least say he died or ran away or got run over by a rampaging donkey; something.

  And what a lousy day they chose to celebrate Saint Joseph’s birthday, two days after Saint Patrick’s. They don’t actually know when either of them was born, so they could’ve picked any day. Joseph is limited to holding off donkeys and cows while Jesus is being born; then to giving a few carpentry lessons.

  Next, there’s the marriage feast of Cana. Mary’s all of forty-six, forty-seven; nice age for a woman, fully mature and no real decrepitude set in yet. So Mary pushes Jesus into his career before he’s ready; wants to show her friends what a hotshot son she’s got. I wonder if he did a few parlor tricks at home first, to practice.

  Or maybe Mary was tired of having a thirty-year-old galoot of a son still hanging around the house.

  I’m looking at these two pictures and spinning. I’m for fantasy but this was supposed to be real. This whole mystique invades the psyche and changes you. I’m wondering how much of it’s left in me; I’m sure there’s a lot. I lie out there in bed having these sacrilegious thoughts, wondering what it’s all about.

  The next morning we get a call from Ethridge. Mother takes it; she’s holding the receiver against her chest, making exaggerated whispering mouth movements. “He wants you, Jacky.” I pick up the living-room phone. She can stay on her line and listen.

  Ethridge comes on in cool, masterful tones. This call must have been fairly high on his list; it’s only quarter past nine.

  He goes through the basics of Dad’s condition, spreading the old medical jargon. I listen. Finally he comes to the crux of the matter.

  “I’m scheduling your father for release today, Mr. Tremont. You can pick him up after twelve o’clock.”

  I’m stunned. I can’t believe it.

  “You mean he’s recovered, Doctor?”

  “Well, no, but he’s in a stable condition.”

  “Then how can you release him? As he is, he can’t live outside a hospital.”

  “Well, Mr. Tremont, your father’s condition is stable, medically; there’s not much we can do for him. He’s basically custodial.”

  “What does that mean, Dr. Ethridge? What does custodial mean in this case?”

  “Mr. Tremont, we just cannot hold hospital beds for patients who can’t profit from medical care.”

  I’m still having a hard time believing it.

  “But, Dr. Ethridge, we tried having him home. I slept with him, fed, bathed him, spent all my time with him and still couldn’t keep him alive. He does need hospital care.”

  There’s a slight pause. Ethridge is gathering his limited patience.

  “Mr. Tremont, your father should probably be in a convalescent home. I’ll give him an extra day so you can have time to find a place. The social-services personnel here should be able to help you.”

  He hangs up.

  I sit there not knowing what to do. I hear Mother shuffling up the hall. She’s in a state; shaking her fist.

  “I always knew that Ethridge was an SOB! Daddy liked him just because he came from Wisconsin. I know he made a mistake on that gall-bladder operation!”

  I lead her to a chair.

  “Take it easy, Mom. Having another heart attack won’t help anything.”

  “Who’s been paying money for over twenty years so they could build their big new hospital? We pay and pay; now when we need them they throw us out. A bunch of kikes and niggers, that’s all they are.”

  She’s crying.

  “Jacky, I don’t want Daddy going to any old people’s home. Think of it. All the years we’ve worked and saved, taking care of you kids, and now he winds up like this.”

  “It’s a convalescent home just like the one down the street here, Mother, not an old people’s home.”

  “Don’t tell me; I know. It’s only a fancy name for the same thing. Daddy and I would look in at those poor souls down the street and we’d feel sorry for them. We were so glad we had our own place and now it’s happening to him.”

  She’s crying now. I wait. I want to phone Joan but things here need settling first. What choices do we really have? I don’t know how I can force the hospital to keep Dad. I know there’s no way I can sustain him, especially with Mother here. He has to go in
to a home, that’s all there is to it. Finally I calm Mom down; and phone Joan.

  I explain the situation, tell her how upset Mom is. Joan asks me to put her on the phone. I sit back.

  After about five minutes nodding and saying yes, bringing up complaints but backing off, Mother passes the phone to me.

  “I think Mom understands, Jack. It’s psychological more than anything else. There’s the whole Irish business about the poorhouse. She’ll be all right. You go to Perpetual and talk to the social-service people.”

  It gets resolved just like that. I make breakfast for Mother and myself. She’s still vacillating between acceptance and resistance. Billy comes in from the back and I tell him what’s happened. He’s set to go burn down the hospital. He starts Mom up again. Behind her back, I desperately give him the signal to cool it. Lord, it’s hard enough.

  After being shuttled around the Horn three times, I find social services in the hospital basement. The woman who’s assigned to me is a nice person; a listener. She phones and verifies, calls for Dad’s records. She’s not rushing or pressing in any way. She explains the nature of Perpetual-run homes for members. She shows me the names of other places accredited by Perpetual.

  I’m shocked by the prices. Mother’d be wiped out in short order. I ask how Dad can qualify for one of the Perpetual-run convalescent extensions. These are covered by the insurance plan. I’m feeling like a cheapskate copping a plea.

  She smiles, speaks with a little Scottish brogue or some thing, is about my age, maybe younger; graying-black hair, light blue eyes.

  “Well, Mr. Tremont, if he needs medical as opposed to custodial care, he could qualify.” She goes carefully through Dad’s records, looks up, smiles.

  “It shows here your father has an indwelling catheter; that would definitely be classified as medical. If he’s dismissed with that catheter, you should have no trouble.”

  She’s happy for me, for Dad. My stomach sinks. Am I willing to keep a catheter on for maybe thirty dollars a day? Is it my decision to make?

  I thank her and say I’ll be right back. I slink upstairs and hang around the urology clinic till I catch Sam at an off minute. He remembers me immediately.

  “It sure is too bad about your dad, Mr. Tremont. I’ve never seen anybody take such a bad turn so fast.”

  I ask about the indwelling catheter. He says Santana has scheduled it to be removed this afternoon. I ask if it can be left in. He looks at me. I explain the situation. He shakes his head.

  “You’ll have to check with Dr. Santana. He’ll be right out; talk to him.”

  When Santana comes, I step up. He backs off two steps.

  “Dr. Santana, could you leave the indwelling catheter on my father for another week or so?”

  He looks at me; wishing me away.

  “Medically speaking, that could make sense, Mr. Tremont. Do you have a special reason?”

  “The convalescent home where I’d like to place him would prefer it.”

  I leave it at that, hoping he’s not up on the details for this kind of thing. He looks at me again. He has papers in his hands he keeps going back to.

  “All right, Mr. Tremont, we’ll leave it in.”

  He walks away. I go to Sam and start explaining. He’s leaning against the urology sign-in desk, holds up his hand.

  “I heard. OK. He’s scheduled for discharge tomorrow, right?”

  “That’s right. Thanks a lot, Sam; thanks for everything.”

  We shake and I head back downstairs.

  I tell the lady, whose name is Mrs. Trumbull, the catheter will stay in. She glances over her cards.

  “There might just be a place available at Cottage Villa. I’ll call.”

  On the phone, she goes over Dad’s situation. She looks up at me and smiles as she hangs up.

  “There’s no opening right now but there will be soon. They want you to come for an interview.”

  She pulls out a card with an address and signs it. Cottage Villa is about a half mile away, on top of a hill near the San Diego and Santa Monica Freeway Interchange. I drive there.

  From the outside, the place looks great. It’s built with an open U-shaped front enclosing a large lawn with flowers. There are colored umbrellas spread around and picnic-type tables. It could be a low-priced golf club in Palm Springs.

  Extending back from the turns of the U are two long corridors. The wheelchair in all its variations is the main theme; stainless steel and strained faces, pale wrinkled skin, white hair, everybody in dressing gowns. I work my way to the office.

  The lady there tells me how convalescent homes are 70 percent women; the men die young. I’m in luck because there’s a man who should die within the next forty-eight hours; Dad can have his place.

  She asks if I want to see the room but I don’t have the courage. She shows me another that’s exactly the same. It looks like a small motel room with high-sided beds. There’s a door on the corridor and a window to the parking lot. A man is sitting in a wheelchair by the window playing with himself.

  She says she’ll call the hospital and tell them when to move my father; the hospital will supply the ambulance. I tell her about the indwelling catheter and ask if it can be removed soon as possible without Dad losing Perpetual coverage.

  “Don’t you worry, once he’s here we do what we want; the doctors are very understanding.”

  I’d hoped it would be something like that.

  God, it’s good getting outside again. I look up at the sun, then across the green to an almost motionless scene on the patio. I feel footloose, carefree, potent. I swing without pain into the car, gun her up and charge out of the parking lot, something nobody back there will ever do again.

  At home, Mother comes shuffling up the hall. Before I open my mouth she starts. She can’t accept the idea of Daddy in a home. Couldn’t we hire a professional nurse and have her stay here with Daddy in the house? We could fix up the back room so she could live there.

  It’s something I hadn’t thought of. I’m just feeling I have everything settled, now this. I sit down to get my breath, listen to her, nodding, trying to make it fit.

  I pick up the phone and call Joan. It’s the best way to tell Mom about the home without being interrupted. There’s something magic about a phone. Most people will interrupt if you’re talking to them or talking to somebody else in the room but won’t interrupt if you’re talking to someone else on a phone. I explain the situation to Joan, including the indwelling catheter. Joan agrees to it all.

  “Remember, Jack. It isn’t the end of the world. If we don’t like it, we can always take him out.”

  I bring up the new idea of having a nurse. Joan says she’ll talk to Mother. I hand over the phone, go back in the bedroom, stretch out on the bed, pick up the receiver and listen.

  Joan’s doing it again. She’s already worked out an angle.

  “Look, Mother. It’s no different from having him in the hospital, only it’s closer. He’s getting medical care, something we can’t give him. It’s not so far to visit. While he’s there we can start looking for a nurse to stay at the house. We can’t just find somebody overnight, it’ll take time. We’ll call the Catholic Welfare Agency.”

  I put down the receiver and try to relax. I’ve been tense all day and my blood pressure’s pounding. One of Mother’s Valium and a glass of water are beside the bed. I slug it down, stretch out and wait.

  It’s amazing how fast it works. Maybe it’s all in the head but I feel myself unwind. The creeping worries around the edges of my unconscious recede and fade. I don’t feel like sleeping but only staying in this rested, as opposed to restless, state.

  Mom comes back to me after she hangs up. Just walking down the hall, it seems, she’s changed her mind. She starts off with how nobody cares about old people.

  “Even if you have money, they only want to tuck you away somewhere with strangers. It didn’t used to be that way. Oh, no! My sisters and I took care of my mother for seven years when she was
half paralyzed. Then when she died we shared Pop around too.

  “And you sure can’t count on a visit or a phone call from grandchildren, even if you’ve had two heart attacks and your husband’s dying in the hospital; they couldn’t care less. Nobody cares about you when you’re old.”

  She isn’t crying, only tolling off these facts as if she’s repeating some kind of litany. I can’t argue with her.

  I’m still riding loose on Valium. I’m listening to Mom but she isn’t bugging me at all; I’m almost enjoying it. I feel like the master guru, ready to advise the world.

  Next day, Joan begins looking for a nurse. Mother’s willing to pay eighteen dollars a day, room and board; but she’s never going to get any trained person at that price.

  And Mother has so many restrictions. This person has to be Catholic, can’t drink or smoke; of course, can’t be black or Mexican or Cuban. Mother has a special category for Cubans. In fact, it can’t be anybody with a foreign accent of any kind. And nobody too young or too old. We’re looking for an ugly female, over forty, under fifty, who’s competing for sainthood. I’m glad this is Joan’s end of things.

  I’ll spend as much time as I can at the convalescent home. I want to see what kind of care Dad gets. I’ve heard the usual horror stories of mistreatment, oversedation, neglect. I’m hoping he’ll only be there a week or two till Joan finds somebody.

  The next morning I get a call from Perpetual; Dad’s being released to Cottage Villa. He’ll arrive there before noon in the hospital ambulance. I tell Mother, give her breakfast and go over.

  He arrives on a stretcher. He has the indwelling catheter. I walk beside the stretcher while they wheel him to his room. I help the nurse settle him into bed. He’s anxious, jerking his head around, watching but unaware. He doesn’t recognize me and doesn’t respond.