Dad

by William Wharton

  “That’s all I want.”

  She reaches into a small space hidden behind the penholder. She pulls out a card with her tanned hand, well-veined, slightly liver-spotted and garnished by a silver-set emerald worthy of Paulette Goddard. She signs it. He takes the pen from her hand, somehow a subtle act of intimacy. He signs too. She hands the card across to me.

  “Take this to Dr. Benson, the administrative director of Perpetual. Tell him you have engaged us concerning a potential malpractice suit; show him this document you’ve written, just as it is. Tell him we’ve seen it. Also, write out any and all treatment or consultation you want for your father and mail it by registered letter to his physician in care of the hospital.”

  During this speech, her husband has strolled silently from behind the desk and around beside me. I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes off him; I know he isn’t going to pull out a silencer-extended Luger and fit it cross-armed in the crook of his elbow but I think of it. He’s only anxious to make a quick trip in the Maserati to the courts; tennis, that is. He snaps a brief stiff bow.

  “We’re certain this card is all you will need, Mr. Tremont.”

  I take the card. She stands. This is it; I’m dismissed all right.

  “Thank you very much for your time and consideration. What do I owe you for your services?”

  She’s pulling a hand-knit Irish sweater over her shoulders.

  “The secretary will bill you. Please let us know if you wish to pursue this matter further. And would you have the secretary nearest the door make two Xerox copies of this statement for our files?”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Tremont. I don’t think you will need us anymore.”

  They usher me to the door, smile as they pass by: empty-handed, no sails, no rackets, no golf clubs, no Luger.

  The secretary makes the copies and tells me I’ll be billed at the end of the month. It turns out to be a hundred dollars for that little card, a hundred dollars well spent for an ace of spades I can stick in my sleeve, a card I can shove up Ethridge’s ass.

  I go home and try explaining things to Mother. Now she’s afraid Perpetual is going to throw them out of the plan.

  “You know, Jacky, they don’t have to keep us on. The union pays most of the insurance, we only pay twenty-three dollars a month.”

  I try convincing her they can’t throw them out just because we insist on proper care. And actually it doesn’t matter. With Medicare they’re mostly covered anyway. I listen to her hammer away. I’ll think she’s stopped but she’ll start up on it again.

  Another thing about the poverty mind is there’s so much shadowboxing, threatening, but when it comes to standing up to some “boss” figure, the poverty person usually collapses completely. They’ve been so brutalized, dominated by life, they get deeply scared at the first sign of combat. The fear of losing what little security they have totally incapacitates them.

  I go feed Dad. I’m holding back with my card. Let Ethridge simmer some, and I’ll concentrate on Dad.

  I decide to paint him. That way I can get something done at the same time I’m sitting with him. I’ll do it out on the patio. I can’t see how Mrs. Kessler or anybody can object to that. Also, I can prove to Alicia I really am a painter from Paris, France.

  Alicia’s already feeding him when I get there. The medical records and medicine have come.

  “Man, you really threw it through the roof, didn’t you? Gawd almighty, Missus Kessler was fit to be tied. Now look, Jack, your Daddy here’s a nice man; don’t you go and mess things up for him.”

  I take over the feeding. She has others to do and now she knows I can do it.

  Dad’s in much better shape. His attention still wanders but he’s not trying to get away. He half watches me, or at least my hands, as I put a bit of food on the spoon and tilt it into his mouth. I do it the way Alicia does, the way you do with a baby, mixing the bites: a bite of peas, then a bite of chocolate pudding, then one of meat; next a drink of milk. Constantly changing around seems to work better than feeding one thing at a time. I get it almost all down in less than an hour. I have my cuff and take his pressure: one ninety over a hundred, still high but better.

  When I’m finished, I put a light sweater on under his robe and move him into the wheelchair. I tie him in with the belt of his robe and wheel him outside. I’ve left my painting box beside the main door to the patio. I set up my box, keeping an eye on Dad. I’ll do a three-quarter view, just the head.

  I start the drawing and as I do it, I see how much he’s changed. It’s as if a whole layer of civilization, of superego, has been wiped off his face the way an actor wipes off makeup with cold cream. It’s his face, but much younger, much less used, not lived in. The face isn’t my father. I want to paint it true, true to what I think I’m seeing and true to what I’m feeling.

  I’m getting into the underpainting when Dad begins mumbling, then talking. I slide closer to hear. He turns to me and speaks quite clearly.

  “Ed, what do you think we’re going to do?”

  I’m Ed again.

  “I don’t know, what do you think we should do, Jack?”

  “Geez, I hate seeing us lose the old farm; I can’t even remember any other place. I don’t want to live in Manata and go to a town school. I know I won’t like that at all.”

  I wait.

  “Yeah, Jack, that’s right.”

  I look to see if anybody can hear us. Nobody’s near and nobody’s looking.

  “What happened, Ed? Dad always works so hard. He’s out in the fields before sunup and works till dark; even in the wintertime, he’s always working. Nobody could ever say Dad’s lazy, nobody.”

  “That’s right, Jack.”

  Dad peers toward me, into me, as if he’s trying to see through a blur of time and memory.

  “What’d he do wrong, Ed? Why’s he have to sell out to Uncle Bill? I don’t get it.”

  We’re into something I know a little bit about. I know my grandfather sold his farm and started a store in Manata, but I’d always been told it was so the girls could go to high school. I never knew he sold it to his brother. I try staying in there; I nod with him. The last thing he says I can barely hear, like a radio station drifting off band.

  “I’ll never understand it, Ed. Dad’s a good farmer; he don’t want to run no store; he’ll never be no good being a storekeeper in a town !”

  And that’s the end of it. Dad sits staring at his lap, hands turned up. I wait awhile, then go back to painting. Dad looks as if he might be on the edge of crying but he doesn’t. I keep working. I finish the underpainting and get into the impasto. I want to finish the whole painting in one sitting if I can.

  I’m about halfway through the impasto, picking up some light in the penumbra, when Alicia comes out. She’s in her street clothes, going off duty. She stops and looks over my shoulder.

  “You certainly got him there, Mr. Tremont. Man, you really are an artist; I never knew no real artist before.”

  I stop, push myself back and look up. The sun is low behind her; I can see light between her legs through the nylon dress she’s wearing. She’s not wearing a slip. She catches me looking and crosses her legs standing up.

  “You want to paint me?”

  She laughs and puts one hand behind her head.

  “I’d make a just fine model. You don’t see many girls my color with one green eye, do you, now?”

  She’s absolutely gorgeous in that setting-sun light.

  “I’d love to paint you, Alicia, but what would Mrs. Kessler say to that?”

  I put another touch on the backlighted wing of Dad’s nose.

  “Not here; oh, no, not here! OI’ Missus Kessler’d have cat conniptions, wouldn’t she? Oh, yes! You’d have to come to my place. Little Jessica’d love seeing a real artist paint her mother.”

  She laughs again and crosses her legs the other way.

  I add more burnt sienna to the background over Dad’s head. I’m too stirred up for any real painting
. I look at Dad. He has no idea what’s going on; I don’t myself. She must figure me for a capital dud.

  “Well, now there; don’t you keep your daddy out here too long, now. It’s beginning to get cold.”

  I smile up at her into the sunset.

  “I’ll bring him in soon, Alicia. You have a nice evening and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She looks into me, pinning me with that green eye.

  “That’s right.”

  She looks back over her shoulder, already on her way. She’s laughing.

  “I’ll see you.”

  I watch her walking away; even in flat shoes she has nice moves, long, sure strides. I watch till she turns in to the parking lot.

  I finish the painting in another half hour. There’s something so sad there, so lost, I can hardly look at it anymore. I definitely can’t show it to Mom. It’s a good painting, though; too good.

  During the next week, I come twice a day to feed Dad. Things are going reasonably well with Mother, but Joan is almost out of her mind trying to find a nurse Mom will accept. It begins to look hopeless after she’s interviewed twelve and Mom has turned thumbs down on every one.

  Mother takes on a little more herself every day and I’m mostly trying to hold her back. One day I come home to find her weeding the backyard. Her argument is she can’t bear seeing Daddy’s flowers get overgrown by weeds. Besides, she’s sitting down and only pulling easy weeds. What can you do? After that, between feedings, I’m weeding.

  I don’t know whether it’s because Mrs. Kessler catches on to the little flirt Alicia and I are having, or it’s part of the regular rotation cycle, but Alicia is moved to the evening shift. It’s probably just as well. Her vivacity and joy are getting to me. One day she told me how she was raised by her mother without a father, too, just like little Jessica. There’s something about women who’ve never been dominated by males turns me on.

  I wonder how much I worked my way into Marty’s feeling about men. I tried my damnedest not to make too many waves but you never know.

  Saturday evening, at eight, I’m going out to dinner with Sandy and Pat Mock, longtime friends. Billy’s staying with Mom for the evening. I decide to stop in and see how Dad’s doing, at least that’s why I think I’m stopping in. I’ve already given him his six-o’clock feeding.

  When I go into Dad’s room, I see right away something’s drastically wrong. Dad looks dead except he’s breathing with a loud, deep, rattling snore. I’ve only heard the death rattle a few times and that was over thirty years ago but it’s a sound you don’t forget. He’s pale, greenish white, and there’s perspiration on his face. I quickly run out and Alicia’s coming from the other hall, smiling at me.

  “Alicia, would you check my dad? There’s something seriously wrong!”

  I run on to the desk looking for Mrs. Kessler but she isn’t there. The RN is in the other wing, giving medication. I run for her.

  “Please come with me, Nurse; my father might be dying!”

  She’s fat and at least sixty years old. She wobbles after me down the hall.

  When we get there, Alicia’s rubbing Dad’s wrists. The nurse takes his pulse with one hand while I take it with the other; it’s weak and fluttery. She wraps on her cuff, pumps and watches. There’s no movement of the dial over fifty. She looks up.

  “Alicia, call the hospital. Get an ambulance here quick.”

  She turns to me.

  “Can you do cardiopulmonary resuscitation?”

  I nod. I think of my trying to teach Dad, his squeamishness about my putting my mouth over his. I’m wondering why they don’t have a resuscitation unit here at a convalescent home.

  “Does he have any dentures?”

  I shake my head. I’m going into some shock already.

  Now we can’t get any pulse. Time for cardiopulmonary resuscitation. She pulls him by the legs down toward the end of the bed so I can position myself over him. I tilt his head back and start the mouth-to-mouth. At the same time, I begin the cardiac compression. I’m holding Dad’s nose and blowing in hard, two breaths every eleven seconds. Then I stop the breathing and do the compressions. I’m pushing down on his sternum about sixty times a minute. Then I go back to the breathing.

  Alicia comes in and says an ambulance is on the way. The RN puts her to rubbing Dad’s legs. They’re already mottled and blue from lack of circulation.

  I think of the autopsy painting by Rembrandt in Amsterdam, or was it the Vatican? I’m trying hard not to think about what I’m actually doing. Alicia moves beside me and assists with the cardiac compression. I concentrate on the breathing. The RN keeps taking the blood pressure and frequently pulls open Dad’s lids to check his pupils. She says we’re up to eighty over fifty now; also he seems to have better color.

  I’m beginning to wonder how long I can keep it up. I’m dressed in a suit and shirt with a tie. Sweat’s soaking through my shirt. I’m beginning to feel dizzy from hyperventilation. I try thinking of something else besides when in hell the ambulance’s ever going to come.

  Alicia slides her hands under mine on Dad’s sternum and takes over the compressions. That way I can concentrate all my attention on the breathing.

  I keep on with the mouth-to-mouth; Dad’s lips are slippery with slobber. The nurse says he’s up to ninety over sixty. I look over at her; she looks like a candidate for cardiac arrest herself, but we’re keeping him alive.

  Now the moisture is drying around Dad’s mouth; his lips are drying and so are mine. Between breaths I take several deep breaths for myself and try working saliva into my mouth. I’m sweated down to my socks; black spots drift in front of my eyes like dust motes on the cornea. We keep working in silent desperation but nobody comes. This is a minimum Saturday-night staff and the rest of the patients are unattended.

  We’ve been at it over twenty minutes when we hear the ambulance siren. It rolls up to the back door. Alicia leaves and an attendant comes running with her up the hall. The RN tells him to bring in a resuscitator. While we’ve been working, it’s gotten dark and there’s no light on in the room. It isn’t exactly dark but more bluish twilight.

  He runs back, and two of them come in with the resuscitator. They lift Dad’s head and put the mask over his face. They get the oxygen going and Dad continues to breathe. They roll in a black leather stretcher and we lift Dad onto it while I keep up the cardiac compression.

  One of the ambulance guys moves in beside me and takes over. I help roll the stretcher down the hall and into the ambulance. I go back to the room for my coat I’d dropped on the floor.

  I’m absolutely dripping sweat. The RN is gone and only Alicia’s there. She hands me the coat, then leans into me. She lifts her head and we kiss, deep, a mouth-hungry, wicked-tongued, active kiss. My lips are numb and dry; I can’t feel anything.

  “I hope someday somebody loves me the way you love your daddy.”

  I slip my coat over my shoulders. It presses cold sweat against me.

  “He’s a wonderful man, Alicia, he’s easy to love. You would be, too.”

  “Come and tell me how he is, will you, Jack? Come see me, huh?”

  I nod. I know I won’t. My mind is somewhere else, partly in that ambulance, partly in Paris.

  I turn and run down the hall. I jump into the ambulance and we’re off. They have the light turning and the siren whoop-whoop going. I take over cardiac compression while the attendant adjusts his resuscitator and prepares an IV of what looks like a simple saline solution. When he gets it taped on and running, he takes over again. His forehead is breaking out in sweat. The driver signals for me to come up front with him and I climb into the passenger seat.

  “How the hell do I get to Perpetual from here, anyway? I’m lost.”

  I look out the window and we aren’t on the freeway! We’re on Washington Boulevard, too far south. I get him aimed in the right direction. He tells me they aren’t a regular Perpetual ambulance; they got an emergency call. I’m too scared, too tired, too exas
perated to comment. I keep watch as we go through red lights; we’re making good time. But we’d’ve been there already if we’d taken the freeway.

  They’re expecting us when we arrive. Dad’s moved into one of the emergency cubicles with a doctor and two nurses; they pull the curtains around him. I’m told to go outside in the waiting room. The pros have taken over; I’m ready, I’m not fighting. I’m so strung out I feel gutted.

  I keep wondering if Dad’ll ever regain consciousness. I’m sure he can’t live long after a shock like this. I wonder how much brain damage he suffered; I don’t know how long he was alone in that bed with a diastolic under fifty before I found him.

  Half an hour later, the doctor comes out. He motions me into a small room. I figure this is where he tells me Dad’s died. I’m ready. There comes a point where you’re ready to give up.

  “How is he, Doctor?”

  The classic question, the dumb question.

  “Well, Mr. Tremont, he’s still alive and that was a close one. Could you tell me exactly what happened?”

  I give him the details, but I don’t exactly know what happened. This is a young doctor, probably doing his residence and he’s taking notes of what I’m saying. He has Dad’s charts there. I imagine Saturday-evening emergency is not “top gig” for a doctor.

  As I review what’s happened, I find myself getting mad again. I begin ranting about how my father can’t live outside a hospital and inform him I’ve already told Dr. Ethridge this but was ignored. I lay it on about the ambulance driver getting lost. This doctor writes away, then looks up at me.

  “Don’t get upset, Mr. Tremont, you’re overwrought.”

  I’m having a hard time holding on; I don’t have the energy. Just then I remember the Mocks. I look at my watch and I’m already over an hour late. I ask the doctor for a phone; there’s a booth in the waiting room.

  I call Pat and Sandy and tell them what’s happened. They’re most sympathetic and I’m needing sympathy. It’s beginning to register what’s been happening. I’ve been so busy fighting I haven’t had time to think.

  I call Joan. I tell her as gently as I can. There’s a long pause on her end of the line. When she starts talking, she’s crying.