Dad

by William Wharton

  Of course, the car turns right over. We’re both smiling like lunatics. These sunglasses have mirror lenses, and are curved so they wrap around the face. With our beards and these glasses on, we look like monster insects from The Lost World, or gangsters or hip drug addicts.

  But they do keep the sun out, they practically keep air out; be great for motorcycle riding. He must’ve paid a fortune for them. That’s the way he is, tight as a witch’s cunt; then bango, big-shot spender.

  The rest of that day we beat our way across Missouri. Late afternoon, we reach St. Louis. We manage to get ourselves lost in a complex series of overpasses, underpasses and crossover exits.

  We’re going round and round as if we’re on a roller coaster and getting nowhere. Looming over all is the most god-awful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s some kind of steel rainbow. It curves up in the air hundreds of feet, but doesn’t go anywhere. It looks as if the people in St. Louis decided to build their own Washington Monument and got confused; or the damned thing melted in the heat so it bent over and the top stuck into the ground. The Disney approach has totally invaded American thinking.

  After we go through the loop-the-loops at least six times, we give up. We cruise off our roller coaster in the shadow of that towering steel rainbow and into one of the most desolate black ghettos I’ve ever seen. There’s nothing but boarded-up brick buildings, cracked streets and thousands of people hanging loose on corners. Here’s this monstrosity looming over them, costing millions of dollars, and these people live in filth.

  We stop at a gas station and ask how we get on the main route east. After half an hour twisting through St. Louis, we’re on the open road again. America is clots of people, joined by gigantic straight highways. Most of this country is practically empty.

  We start looking for a motel when we’re fifty miles into Illinois on the other side of St. Louis. We stop at twenty different places but they’re all filled. We move on another thirty miles, going off at each little dink of a town, drifting up and down tiny streets in our Batmobile, looking for lit motel signs.

  Finally, we pull over on the roadside at a picnic place to camp out. I have Tom’s tent and a blanket. It’s so hot we won’t need the blanket; this air’s stiff with humidity.

  I’d half hoped we’d leave humidity in Missouri but it goes all the way to the Atlantic. I don’t know how people stand it. Sure I do. They run from air-conditioned houses to air-conditioned cars, drive to air-conditioned movies, shopping malls, restaurants. They move between air-conditioning machines like people living on the moon or a hostile planet where the air’s unfit for humans. It just about is.

  It’s dark when we unpack the tent. It’s tangled and still has dirt from Topanga Canyon wrapped in it, our own forty acres here in Illinois. There are some tough knots to untangle. I just pulled up and rolled it when I packed. Dad isn’t saying anything, only struggling in the dark with the knots.

  We aren’t there five minutes when the mosquitoes hit. They must come out of the grass. At first it’s only a few, along with some lightning bugs, but then there are swarms.

  I wrap myself in the blanket to fend them off. Dad slaps once in a while, but keeps at those knots.

  The tent is a simple pup tent with a floor. We’ll be crowded but it’s better than sleeping in the car or driving through the night.

  At last we struggle ourselves inside the tent with the mosquito netting pulled across. We beat down twenty or so of the beasts we’ve closed in with us. I hear thousands outside trying to chew their way through. I’m slippery with blood from the ones I’ve squashed, my blood.

  We stretch out side by side. I never realized what a thick, broad-shouldered old dog Dad is. I’ve slept in pup tents with other guys and there was plenty of room. I peek to see if he’s got extra room but he’s pushing against his side, too.

  And now we begin hearing the trucks. I’m sure they’ve been going by all the time but we didn’t notice. One passes about every two minutes; there’s hardly any time between. One roars off east and we start hearing another, west. Just our luck, we’re on a slight grade. All the eastbound trucks are shifting down to make the hill while the westbounds are double shifting up a gear.

  We lie out like that for an hour, neither of us saying anything, hoping the other guy is asleep but knowing he isn’t.

  Then the wind starts. It quickly blows up into a real Midwest thunder-and-lightning storm. We didn’t exactly do a merit-badge job putting up our tent, either. What with knots, dark and mosquitoes, it’s sagging in every direction, mostly front to back, like a swayback horse.

  Bam! Crash! Flash! Thumble! Rumble! Crack! Flash! The lightning and thunder are almost simultaneous. It goes on and on. At least now we can’t hear the trucks. And some rain! Some wind! The tent slowly begins collapsing against us. Anyplace we touch, the rain leaks through. What do mosquitoes do in a rainstorm? Drown? Swim? Dig holes? They can’t fly, that’s for sure.

  We begin edging toward each other. Then we roll up on our sides and tuck spoon-style away from the tent. The whole wild world is doing its damnedest out there. Dad reaches over my shoulder.

  “Here, take this, Bill. Otherwise, we’ll never sleep.”

  In a flash of lightning I see it’s a “reddy,” Seconal. Where in hell did my father get a thing like that? And what’s he doing carrying it in his shirt pocket?

  I have a hard time swallowing any pill even with water. But I slug it down with some apple juice in a bottle at the head of the tent. Dad pops his like a true pill freak.

  Imagine, him popping reds; shows what you don’t know.

  14

  I’m up early. When I telephone the hospital, they say Dad’s condition is critical but stable.

  I take my notes from Max and sit down at the typewriter again. I type out a formal request for all the neurological examinations he said should have been done. They include an LP, or spinal tap, a brain scan, an EEG—electroencephalogram—certain blood tests and psychiatric consultation. I make a clean copy of this letter and mail it registered to Dr. Chad at Perpetual. The original I put on my clipboard along with the statement of Dad’s case and the Knight & Knight signed card.

  At the post office I make photocopies of all these for record. After that, I go back home and type out a recapitulation of last evening’s events at the convalescent home. Mother is curious about what I’m doing. I put her off as best I can; I’m barely holding myself together.

  I go to the hospital. I stop at intensive care to see Dad but he’s still wired, taped up and unconscious. God, he looks so pitiful! It gives me strength to go through with all this.

  I ask the nurse at the desk for the administrative offices. They’re on the top floor of the building; I take the elevator up. I find the office of the administrative director and tell the secretary I’d like to see Dr. Benson. She gives me a look as if I’d asked to see God.

  “Dr. Benson is very busy, sir. Dr. Benson is preparing for a conference in Boston. Who are you and what is it you want?”

  I go for broke; give her a quick summary of the situation. She listens with her pasted-on smile but doesn’t interrupt.

  She sees me for what I am, crank. I’m getting nowhere. I pull the Knight & Knight card off the clipboard.

  “Give this to Dr. Benson, please. Tell him my attorneys have suggested I present this card before action is taken. I’ll be downstairs in the intensive care unit with my father; the name is Dr. Tremont.”

  I don’t stay while she’s reading the card; it’ll work or it won’t. I walk out. This part of the building doesn’t smell like a hospital. It has the ordinary office smell of typewriter ribbons, erasers, used perfume, starch, paper and the electronic smell of computers. I take the elevator down to Dad in the nether regions.

  I sit in the room with him. I check to see if the IV, catheter, monitors, oxygen are all in place. I tuck in his bedclothes; all meaningless moves, just puttering around, trying to hold myself in. A few nurses look at me but I’m so deep into grief
and anger they turn away. I’m half expecting a security guard. If he does come, he’ll need a submachine gun to get me out. I stare at Dad; he seems miles away, in another world.

  The water’s hot. I pour some in the washbowl and dip my shaving brush to soften it. I spin the brush on the soap and start lathering up. I work myself a thick soap beard, open my razor and strop it a few times on the strop hanging beside the mirror. That mirror has a crazy crack through the middle so I can make myself look as if I have a thick nose with three nostrils. I keep promising Bess I’ll buy a new one but always forget. I start scraping away, wiping the suds and cut stubble off on my finger.

  Ten minutes later, a large, tweedy man comes strolling onto the ward. I watch him stop at the nurses’ section. Even if I didn’t see abject panic on the nurses’ faces I could tell this is top dog. He has proprietorship written all over him.

  The nurses point and he heads over. As he comes in the room, he switches on the overhead light. I walk past him and turn it off again.

  “I think we can see well enough for what we have to discuss, Dr. Benson. My father is in a very sensitive condition and the light might bother him.”

  Two points for me and the lines are drawn. He pauses, gives a benevolent grandfatherly grin and pulls out the other chair in the room. I’ve taken the armchair for myself; he’s stuck with the armless one. He turns the chair around to straddle it, the knight talking to the peasants from his horse. It’s tubular steel frame with black seat and black padded back. It helps him maintain his Marlboro-Chief Surgeon role.

  “My secretary says you want to see me, Mr. Tremont.”

  So that’s the way we play it. OK.

  “That’s right, Mr. Benson.”

  No accent, just lay it out quietly. He wants me to go on; I wait.

  I’m wishing it all weren’t so important so I could enjoy our little farce. There’s something crazy in me. I desperately avoid this competitive confrontation nonsense; it’s unrelated to my ideal of the good life. But when I’m in it, I enjoy myself. He waits as long as he can.

  “Well, Dr. Tremont, I’m a very busy man; my schedule is tight and I fly to Boston in three hours. Just what is it you want to see me about?”

  I pick up my clipboard and pull off the statement I showed to Knight & Knight; I include the write-up of what happened last night. I hand this to him, switch on the small light beside the bed and tilt it away from Dad.

  “I think you’d better read this first, Dr. Benson.”

  He takes it from me, riffles through the pages; it’s up to thirteen single-space now.

  “Really, Dr. Tremont, I don’t have time to go through all this. Couldn’t you abstract this manuscript for me?”

  “No, I don’t think so, Dr. Benson; this is as succinct a statement of the situation as I can possibly present. I’m sure reading it now will be to your advantage.”

  He sighs, pulls his glasses from his coat pocket. The Knight & Knight card is dislodged, lifted a bit, as he slides them out. He quickly tucks it back, eases his glasses free. That quick move verifies Knight & Knight. He adjusts his glasses and tilts his head back to read through his bifocals. He’d like to move the papers closer to his chest, but he’s stuck trying to read straddled around the chair.

  “Dr. Benson, I presented this statement to the firm of Knight & Knight; they suggested I show it to you.”

  He shoots a full double whammy over the top of his glasses. That, combined with his graying cowlick forelock, gives him the look of a mean Will Rogers.

  I’m not going to wait around while he reads, so I go over and fuss with Dad some more. I feel his head, cool; take his pulse, irregular, racing; and tuck the bedclothes in. I stare at the monitors, pretend to make some notes on my clipboard, then stand leaning in the doorway watching the nurses. They’re all in a semi-catatonic state. Here’s Dr. Benson, himself, on their floor in a patient’s room with a wild-eyed, bearded man.

  I wait till I’m sure he must be almost finished, then go and play with Dad again. His breathing is deep, his mouth open.

  I hear Benson putting the papers together; he clears his throat. I sit in my chair again. He hands the statement to me and I lock it onto the clipboard. I slip the letter with my list of requests on top. I wait. He pulls the card out of his pocket now.

  “I suppose this means you intend to institute a suit against the hospital, Dr. Tremont?”

  I wait, staring at him, through him, for perhaps five seconds.

  “I’d rather not, Dr. Benson.”

  “It seems to me, Dr. Tremont, that all your complaints, though serious, would not constitute a malpractice suit.”

  “Knight & Knight disagree with you on that, Dr. Benson.”

  He’s pissed all right. I’d love to be there when he rips into Santana and Ethridge. He stares at the card again. I know he’s repressing an urge to call that security guard and have me thrown out.

  “Just what is it you want, Dr. Tremont?”

  Knight & Knight primed me for that, God bless their reptilian hearts.

  “Dr. Benson, here’s a copy of a registered letter I mailed to Dr. Chad this morning. It lists some of the things I’m asking for.”

  I hand the letter across to him. It’s in the envelope unsealed. He reads it through carefully; looks up.

  “Are you a neurologist, Dr. Tremont? These are rather specific requests.”

  “No, Dr. Benson.”

  He stares at me again; let him stew; he’s about to burst but he’s keeping his administrative cool. This guy earns his money for Perpetual.

  “I see nothing amiss in arranging for these tests if they haven’t already been performed. Most are somewhat superfluous in this case, but I can approve these procedures.”

  He looks over at Dad.

  “But the condition of your father is rather critical, some of these tests are rigorous.”

  “Naturally, Dr. Benson, I don’t want these tests given until my father is in a condition to support them; I assume Dr. Chad has the medical judgment to determine that. I’ve chosen him on the recommendation of medical friends in this area not associated with Perpetual.”

  “Dr. Tremont, I assure you Dr. Chad and any doctor here at Perpetual is fully qualified to make these kinds of decisions.”

  I almost expect him to stand and salute; for God, Perpetual and the AMA.

  “I disagree, Dr. Benson, but that isn’t the question here. The issue is whether or not I bring a malpractice suit against the Perpetual organization, against Dr. Ethridge and against Dr. Santana. My attorneys await my decision.”

  I sit back. There’s sweat in the hollow of my back and it surprises me when I press against it. It’s his move again. He goes to the door and one of the nurses scurries over.

  “Would you get me the records for Mr. Tremont, please, Nurse?”

  She practically does a full Oriental bow and a back flip. She runs off.

  When he comes back, Benson turns the chair around, sits down in it and crosses his legs. We’re through with the cowboy act.

  The nurse comes in. She hands the records to Benson. He opens them on his lap and starts from the front. He’s either a quick study or he’s only going through the motions.

  He could be thinking of something else. I couldn’t care less. I hope he doesn’t skip over that gall-bladder operation. I wait. He closes the record and looks up at me.

  “Well, Dr. Tremont, your father is a very sick man. I’m not sure Dr. Ethridge isn’t correct in his diagnosis of a sudden decline to deep senility, or there could be some stroking. Just what is it you want from the hospital?”

  I’m ready. I was awake two hours last night spinning my head on that one.

  “First, Dr. Benson, I want to be the one who decides when my father is ready to leave this hospital.”

  I let that sink in. He half nods his head.

  “Also, I want full visiting rights any time of day or night.”

  I pause but he doesn’t respond. I go on.

  “I
want my father to stay here in the intensive care unit until it’s absolutely clear it is no longer necessary.”

  He looks sidewise at me on this one but I charge on.

  “I want all tests or any treatment that I or a consulting physician deem necessary.”

  That one hurts too, but he dips his head slightly. He doesn’t know what’s coming.

  “Dr. Benson, I’ve lost confidence in your nursing staff. You’ve read about the disgraceful incident where my father was tied to a chair here in this hospital with his wrists lacerated, his hands swollen and his, catheter torn out. I don’t want anything like that to happen again. If I consider it necessary, I want the right to sleep with my father in his room and care for him or see that proper care is given.”

  “Come, Dr. Tremont, we do have hospital rules. You could never stay in the intensive ward here, for example.”

  “Let me finish, Dr. Benson. Here in the intensive ward I’m not worried, there’s sufficient nursing coverage, but in the regular wards, this cost-saving technique of a central station for a large number of patients is not adequate.”

  Benson stands up. He puts his hands in his pockets, bends his knees and rocks on his toes. He’s into his dismissal routine. I remain seated and cross my legs. I lean forward.

  “And when I decide my father can come home, leave the hospital, I want whatever support equipment I consider necessary, including Perpetual-supplied nursing aid.”

  He goes into a head-shaking routine. He pastes on an old-style “ain’t this ridiculous” smile. Maybe he is Will Rogers.

  “I’m not sure all that can be arranged. It’s completely against hospital policy, especially your staying with the patient at the hospital.”

  “Dr. Benson, I’ll be here with my father the rest of the morning; if, after consultation and reflection, you decide you can fulfill my requests as I’ve described them, would you have them typed out, signed by yourself and delivered to me here?”

  I pause.

  “If not, you have the card from Knight & Knight; you may contact them or they’ll contact your attorneys.”