Dad

by William Wharton

  He struggles himself up off the floor and falls back into his rocking chair; cocks his leg under him.

  “Mother and I should have some fun while we can. If we get feeling good enough, we should take a trip back to Philadelphia; visit all the old places, our family and friends. We had some good times there in Philly.”

  When Mother comes out of the bathroom, she’s made herself up but she’s weepy. She isn’t crying, but the hollows under her eyes are dampish. I talk them into taking a car ride with me.

  We tour slowly through Cheviot Hills where there are handsome, big houses and lovely gardens. This is something Mom loves. These houses represent her idea of what the good life should be and she likes to think she lives near it. She also enjoys making fun of any architectural idiosyncrasies. She constantly reiterates how glad she is to have just a little place in a quiet neighborhood, something she can take care of herself. It’s painful listening to her vacillate between self-righteousness and resentment. But I know she enjoys it.

  Dad’s sitting in front again, imitating my feet and hand movements. He’s pushing on his brake and steering an imaginary steering wheel. Mom giggles, snorts and tells him to stop it. But now he’s enjoying clowning for her. With automatic drive there’s nothing to driving this car. He probably could do it. And why the hell should he go through the business of a driving test? What’ll they do if they catch him, throw him in prison?

  I drive them home and suggest a nap. Mother’s upset. She whispers to me.

  “Tell him to stay in his own room, Jacky, tell him I need a rest.”

  How can I tell Dad that? I gently suggest that Mother’s tired, needs a good sleep.

  “I’m not going to nap, Johnny. I’m going to dig a hole in the backyard, sink a tin can in it and do some putting.

  “You know, John, I’ve always wanted to play golf. I’ve got an old putter in the garage and some golf balls. I’ll make my hole and put a flag in it; then I can tell people I’m puttering in my garden.”

  I think of his grave.

  He gaily snickers as he works his way down the steps to the patio, out the gate and into the garden. I hop in the car and drive back to Marty’s. It’s Saturday, she has the day off, so we can house-hunt.

  Marty’s beginning to show. She’s still looking for a doctor who will deliver her baby the Leboyer method; that’s the Birth Without Violence Frenchman. What would the world be like if people could all be born with a minimum of trauma; come into this world feeling wanted and holding on to some memory of the pre-birth state? Maybe people wouldn’t be so afraid of dying if they remembered what it was not to be born yet. I’m convinced a good part of the world’s troubles are built around death fears.

  We use my folks’ car; it’s more comfortable than Marty’s old Toyota. We roll down Wilshire to Santa Monica, then south toward Venice. We tour around looking for “FOR RENT” signs. We’d like to avoid an agent if possible. Marty’s paying two hundred where she’s living and they can go up to two fifty or even three hundred for the right kind of place.

  After asking at a few houses where the renters are still living, then telephoning some other numbers which turn out to be agents, we’re beginning to get discouraged. Everything is either too small, has no yard or won’t take children.

  About three o’clock, I suggest we have a glass of wine and some cheese at Suzanne’s restaurant on the boardwalk; Marty’s never been there. Suzanne comes to our table. Suzanne remembers me from painting and sits with us. She won’t drink any wine but has a cup of herb tea. I tell her our problem. She’s all turned on about Marty being pregnant.

  Suzanne asks Pap, the transvestite dishwasher, if Gerry Lynn has rented her place yet. Pap doesn’t know but has the phone number. Suzanne says she’ll phone.

  Marty turns to me.

  “She’s so nice, Dad. Why is she being so nice when she doesn’t even know us?”

  It brings back what Dad said; almost the same words.

  I’m still in a daze. I can’t put together the timid, shy man who came down here on the motorcycle, the life-defying vegetable in the hospital, and now Jake, out there building himself a one-man, one-hole miniature golf course.

  Suzanne comes back. She has fine, brown, lithe arms and legs, softly covered by a thin cotton blouse, no bra, wrap-around skirt and sandals. She also has thin feet and long toes. Some of these natural children-people can be a reminder of how humans are meant to be.

  “Gerry says she hasn’t promised the place and knows the landlord wants to rent again soon. The rent’s two thirty. The trouble is she won’t be moving out for another month. She’s there now if you want to go over. Here’s the address.”

  She hands Marty a small card.

  The house is five blocks in from the beach, and we can’t believe it. This is an old-fashioned, wooden, one-story place with overhanging roofs and gables. Most houses around here are stucco.

  Even more impressive, there’s a sequoia redwood in the front yard. It completely dwarfs everything, so the house looks like something from a fairy tale.

  We’re trying to figure the unlocking mechanism on the gate when a woman comes to the door. She has a baby on her hip and a three-year-old hanging on to her jeans.

  “Wait a minute; I’ll get that.”

  She skips down the two steps on the porch and untangles the hook and chain.

  “You must be the people Suzanne called about.”

  Marty’s staring at the house.

  “I love your place; it’s like a house in Germany, not Californian at all.”

  “Well, come on in and look around.”

  She turns and walks back up the steps; nice firm ass tightly held in by jeans. Having women take up jeans must be one of the main events of the twentieth century.

  The door opens directly into a living room with two big windows. There’s a wide arch separating living and dining room. In back is a large kitchen leading onto a service porch and a backyard. The right side is two bedrooms in line going back, with a bathroom between. The backyard’s small, enclosed by bushes and a wall. Marty’s entranced.

  “What a wonderful house you have here, Gerry.”

  “If you like it, it’s yours. I’m leaving next month. The rent’s paid up.”

  She shows us around outside. I do some checking for termites, foundation sag or roof leaks, the real problems a house can have. Gerry serves us apple juice and honey cake. Marty calls Gary at work; he’s coming right over.

  When Gary comes, he and Marty check everything again. It’s fun watching them. They seem like such babes compared to Gerry. Gerry and I sit in the living room; she asks if I’m still married. I tell about Vron, Billy, Jacky and living in Paris. While we’re talking, she puts the baby on her breast.

  I’m torn between watching the baby nurse and embarrassing Gerry. I love seeing a baby’s rosy face when it’s sucking on a warm, turgid tit.

  “It’s all right; you can look; I don’t mind.”

  Marty and Gary come back. They’ve decided to take the place. Gary calls the owner and makes an appointment. Gerry takes the baby off her breast. A pearl of thin milk forms on top her nipple before she drops her T-shirt over it.

  “You can move your stuff into the garage whenever you want. Let me know if I can help.”

  We say goodbye and walk to where we’ve parked. Gary gets in his car and goes back to work.

  Marty and I drive to my parents’.

  They’re on the patio sunning. Marty hasn’t seen Dad since his resurrection and I’ve tried to prepare her. The beard is the part she can’t believe but I keep telling her that’s the least of it. Marty kisses Mom and goes over to Dad. He puckers up and kisses her on the lips.

  “My goodness, Martha, you’ve certainly grown into a lovely woman, a blonde version of your mother.”

  Marty leans back, pleased, confused by this kind of talk from a normally quiet, timid man.

  “Thanks, Grandpa. That’s the way I’d like to be, like Mom.”

  Mothe
r pushes up on one elbow to turn her face out of the sun.

  “That’s certainly a pretty dress you’re wearing, Martha, those colors are perfect for you.”

  Dad peers and smiles his pirate smile.

  “But what are you hiding under that dress, Martha? A football?”

  Mom giggles nervously.

  “Don’t mind him, Martha. He’s awful these days.”

  Dad pushes himself to his feet, goes over and kisses Marty again. He puts his hand on her stomach.

  “Just think what’s in there, Bette, another member of our family, somebody we don’t even know yet, a blend of you and me, Gary and his parents, Johnny and Vron, Vron’s parents. We’re all in there, another new layer being formed.”

  He kisses Marty again.

  “Thank you, little granddaughter, it’s the best present in the world.”

  Marty breaks out crying. She’s a tender, emotional person and isn’t accustomed to such open expression, such clear feelings; none of us are. Mom has tears in her eyes.

  “Don’t be afraid, Martha; it’s the biggest experience a woman can ever have and I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful mother.”

  Marty leans over Mom and shares a soft kiss and hug.

  “OK, everybody, it’s time to break out the champagne. Is there beer in the refrigerator?”

  We all try getting the conversation running at a less charged level. We tell about the new house in Venice. Marty mentions how she wants to have the baby by natural birth, mentions Birth Without Violence. Mother’s convinced it’s all nonsense and dangerous.

  “You’ll see, Martha. When you start having hard labor pains, you’ll want a shot. I can tell you.”

  Marty’s taking it easily. She doesn’t know, but she’s mucking in one of Mom’s favorite martyrdom areas. Nobody, but nobody, should have a baby without fear, pain and violence. It’s what verifies a woman.

  I take Marty home and have dinner with them. They’re excited about the house. I stay over and we don’t get to bed till after midnight. What an exciting time for them, new house, new baby; I enjoy basking in their joy.

  The next day after breakfast we loll around while I’m pretending I’ve gone to mass. I’m just ready to call my folks to see how they are when the phone rings. It’s Mother.

  “Jacky, you’ve got to come! He’s gone completely crazy for sure. Come right away; I’m scared to death! I’ve got to hang up now, hurry !”

  She hangs up.

  Damn! It’s never going to end! Mother smells I’m leaving soon and she’s working up something to keep me. I know this isn’t true, only self-justification, but it occurs to me.

  Soon as I arrive, Mom’s giving me frantic signals. This time she’s really trying to get my attention without Dad seeing it. This must be serious.

  Dad is vaguely preoccupied, distressed; I’m wondering what could’ve happened. Mom ushers me into her back bedroom and closes the door. Dad’s wandering around, aimless, restless, in the garden.

  “Jacky, he’s crazy!”

  She starts crying. I take her in my arms.

  “What happened, Mom?”

  She can’t talk for several minutes, just holds me tightly. Then she lets go and settles onto the bed. Her legs are so short they don’t touch the floor. She still has on her nightgown, bathrobe and slippers. Her hair’s up in curlers and her face is cold-creamed. It must be serious for Mother to let anybody see her this way.

  “Jacky, he’s talking about people I don’t know or people I’m sure are dead. He insists we go to Cape May, New Jersey, to see how things are. Can you imagine?”

  She’s crying again.

  “And he’s back to calling me Bess!”

  She peeks out the window. Dad’s weeding along the patio wall.

  “Jacky, he wanders around the house, opening and closing doors, looking into closets, into the cupboards, all the time shaking his head. It’s as if he’s looking for something he’s lost.”

  She pushes the back of her hand into her mouth.

  “I think he’s lost his marbles, Jacky. He can stare at me as if he doesn’t quite know who I am. It scares me. He’ll be sweet and kind; then he looks at me with those crazy eyes and I almost expect him to ask, ‘Who the hell are you?”

  Through the window, I’m watching Dad in the garden. He’s pacing like a tiger or a lion in a cage he knows too well but, like a caged animal, still looking for some little chink, some opening or corner he’s never found.

  “He’s strong, Jacky. I know him. I’m afraid when he comes into my room nights. He comes so silently, sneaking, as if we aren’t married, as if he feels guilty about coming in. Then he talks to me while we’re making love and calls me Bess. He even talks about the things he’s doing. He was never like that, Jacky; he never said anything about things like that. I tell you, he scares me!”

  It’s getting awfully thick. I need to talk with Dad. It could be nothing, only Mother’s love of dramatizing, or there might be something wrong. Maybe he’s starting to slip back again and these are the first signs.

  Dad’s in the greenhouse. He’s working his cuttings and plants into shape again. Maybe there’s nothing to talking with plants but I’m sure they know when somebody cares. There’s some kind of telepathy going on. Just because they can’t speak doesn’t mean there isn’t communication.

  In the greenhouse, Dad turns to me immediately; he looks in my eyes. Mother’s right; it’s almost as if he’s somebody else, as if he’s trying to decide if he knows me, can trust me.

  “What did she say, John?”

  I lean over and pretend to inspect a green plant with thick cactus leaves and a small yellow flower growing on top of the leaf.

  “She says she’s scared, Dad. She thinks maybe you’re crazy.

  He looks down at his feet, then picks up an empty bag for one of his flowers.

  “Take me for a ride, John. I need to talk in private and I don’t want any interruptions.”

  I follow him out of the greenhouse. When I’m out, he reaches back and sets the timer for his automatic mist-waterer; a thin fog of water sprays with a hissing sound. I wonder if he invented this watering system himself or it’s standard for greenhouses. You never know with Dad; he’s always developing some little gimmick to fit his convenience and might just not ever mention it. Until the past few weeks, I never truly realized what an extremely private man he’s been.

  I warm up the car. Dad gets a sweater and his hat. I don’t know what he tells Mother. I have a feeling again things are getting out of control. Dad gets in the car.

  “Could we drive to Venice, John? It’s a sunny day, I’d like to see the ocean.”

  I’ve just turned onto Beethoven Street when he blasts me with it. He isn’t looking at me; he’s staring out the front windshield.

  “Johnny, what chance is there I have a wife and four kids in Cape May, New Jersey?”

  My first response is he is crazy, Mother’s been right all the time. My second is fear, closely followed by confusion. I concentrate on driving. I want to get parked before we go into this.

  “I don’t think there’s much chance, Dad.”

  I try keeping my voice neutral, concerned; I’m fighting down panic.

  “So far as I know, you’ve been living here in California more than thirty years, after living in Philadelphia almost twenty-five years. You held a regular job at Douglas for twenty years, and have been sleeping in Mom’s bed every night except when you were sick in the hospital.”

  I’m trying to be reasonable; play the psychologist; stay on top of things.

  “Of course, I’ve personally been away most of these last years, so I’m not really the one to ask; maybe Joan or Mom.”

  I want to act as if this is a logical question. I’ve no idea what I’m dealing with. I have a bad habit of being flip when I’m scared.

  But my insides have started to jiggle. It’s a sure sign I’m shocked, even when my head doesn’t know it yet. Right now, the worst part for me about getting
older is I’m losing my nerve, my ability to keep on thinking, solving, planning when I’m upset, tired, worried.

  Dad’s crying. At first it’s only tears, deep sighs; no sobbing. I don’t know what to do. I head for a parking area where we can have some privacy. I pull in facing the ocean with a view over wide beach to the breakers. A group of surfers are slipping on wet suits and unloading boards about seventy yards to the right but they’re the only people around. Dad turns to me.

  “You mean there’s no chance I have a house in Cape May next to Bill Sullivan and Ira Taylor, across from brother Ed and Gene Michaels; that I don’t have a truck garden there and I don’t have four kids, you, Joan, Hank and little Lizbet?”

  There’s such anguish on his face, such hope that I’ve made a mistake.

  “Look, Dad. I don’t really know. I know I’m here and I’m fifty-two years old. Joan’s forty-nine. I don’t know about Hank or Lizbet. But if you want, we can take a plane and fly to Cape May. We can visit this place.”

  I’m not sure if I’m being cruel or not. He’s taking it in, shaking his head; he stares in my eyes.

  “But, Johnny, it’s the best part of my life; how can it not be true?”

  He searches my eyes some more, then looks down.

  “I know you’re right. How can you and Joan be in two places at once? Sitting here, I can’t even make myself believe it.”

  We sit beside each other, quiet.

  “But I’ve got to tell you. My life there’s as real to me as we are here, sitting in this car looking at that ocean.”

  He stares out the windshield.

  “All this time and I never put it together. I think I’ve spent at least half the last thirty or so years there. But it was always separate. I know I was here all the time. I know you’re right, but sometimes, lots of times, my mind wasn’t here, and not just when I was sleeping either. I’ve been away a lot.”

  The resident psychologist is intrigued. The scared son is being displaced somewhat.