Dad

by William Wharton

  “Maybe you made all this up while you were sick, Dad; you were out of your mind for a long time. Maybe you got this idea in your head then and it’s coming back to you now.”

  I wait. Dad stares more at the ocean. There’s nothing to do but wait, let him put it together. We sit quietly for almost five minutes. My mind’s racing ten to the second, all the way from Mother’s “crazy” theory to wondering if this reality might only be a dream and what Dad’s talking about is the real reality. Maybe he’s about to wake up and we’ll all vanish, the sky, ocean, car, Dad, me; everything.

  “John, it’s something like the ocean out there. The top, the waves, the surf, the foam are us, here, right now. We call it real because we can see it. But my life in Cape May is the water, it’s under the surface and holds everything up. If I loosen my hold on that, I feel everything else will fall in.”

  He’s quiet again.

  “Probably Mother’s right, Johnny; I am crazy. It might even run in my family the way she says. Dad had very personal ideas for running his life that were definitely peculiar. Who else would put together three row houses in the middle of South Philadelphia so he could have a regular old-time farm kitchen? You’ve got to admit that’s not normal. I don’t think Dad ever really left Wisconsin in his mind. Do you remember the pictures of hunting dogs on the walls, and that gigantic bear head along with the elk and deer heads, hung in the same room where we used to eat? Then there was that huge table he built so we could all sit down at the same time, with twenty-four drawers built into it all around, each drawer with dishes, salt, pepper, knives, forks. Nobody does things like that unless they’re a bit strange.”

  I nod. I don’t like hearing him talking down Granddad. He doesn’t mean it; he’s only searching for answers. My grandfather was such a pleasure to me, a proof some few people are still real.

  “Then there’s Uncle Orin and Uncle Pete; they never did adjust to the city, stayed farm boys all their lives. Neither of them ever held a regular paying job. And look at the people they married, big fat women who couldn’t keep a house; their places smelled so bad you kids wouldn’t even go visit.”

  He’s speaking without screening; he’s not acting out the role he’s cast for himself, neither the reclusive, shy, dominated man nor Jake the big-timer, free spender. This is almost like hearing myself, or one of my few closest friends, desperately trying to break the walls of aloneness, searching for some communication.

  “Johnny, I don’t think I ever truly left the East Coast. Some part of me stayed back there and another small part never even left Wisconsin. I hated those jobs at G.E. in Philadelphia and at Douglas here in California, so gradually I moved myself down to Cape May and set myself to farming the way we did in Wisconsin. Now, all that sounds crazy, doesn’t it, but that’s what I think might’ve happened.”

  I look at Dad. He’s another man all right. Why is it I had to wait so long to know my dad is a man like myself, more like me than anybody I’ve ever met; genetically self-evident, since I have no brothers. His casting me as his brother Ed makes sense now. We have, in our deepest selves, beyond the masks of time and experience, a communal identity.

  What is it that keeps fathers and sons so far apart?

  “You’re not crazy, Dad. We all do what you’ve been doing. We make up daydreams, and who knows what’s going on in our deepest sleep? Not even the best psychiatrists really know. You’re not crazy, you’ve just been doing what we all do, only better.”

  I want to see how he’s taking it; how much he can talk about his fantasy world. I think it might help.

  “Tell me, Dad. What do you do in this dreamworld in Cape May? What do you do for a living?”

  When I say “dreamworld,” he blinks. He keeps looking at me but he blinks down hard. He’s not sure he should tell me any more. I can almost hear the scales balancing in his mind.

  “I’m not sure it’s a ‘dream’ yet, John. All I know is it isn’t here in this world. Do you think it’s possible I could be living half the time in heaven before I’m dead on this earth? Have you ever heard of a thing like that happening?”

  He looks at me seriously. I shake my head. I want him to go on. I don’t want to make any more stupid mistakes. He stops and looks down at his hands. He twists his ring, the JHT ring on his finger.

  “You know, John, I even wear this ring there in that other place.”

  It’s the first time he calls it “that other place.”

  “There, Johnny, I built a house exactly like the one we have here; only I built it there first. I drew the plans for this place from my memory of the one there. But for some reason I made this one all backwards. The L goes the wrong way, all the rooms are on the opposite side, going the other way, like left-handed and right-handed. Everything here is backwards. The house there is on a little hill and we have bedrooms in the attic, too.

  “We have seven acres there. I raise produce for the market in Philadelphia. I truck it up in an old ’29 Ford I converted into a flatbed truck. I go up on Tuesdays and Fridays. Gosh, Johnny, it seems strange telling you all this, because you’re there too, only you’re much younger; you can’t be more than fifteen.”

  He stops and shakes his head.

  It sounds great to me. I wouldn’t mind going back and being fifteen again, living on a small truck farm at Cape May near the sea. I wonder if there are any chickens—some beautiful Plymouth Rock, black-and-white-check, brown-egg-laying chickens, or Rhode Island Reds.

  “Are there any chickens there, Dad?”

  Now I’m playing Lennie in Mice and Men.

  “Sure there are chickens, Johnny; interesting you should ask because they’re your job. Bill Sullivan showed us how to build a coop and we have a hundred laying hens now. I take up twenty or thirty dozen eggs every time I go to Philly. Kay, Ira Taylor’s wife, showed Joan and Mother how to sew up pot-holders and I sell those too. We make out all right.”

  It’s so crazy but I find myself wanting to get into his world. We sit there two hours with the sea rolling in on itself while Dad tells me about it. He wants to talk. He’s kept it to himself all these years and now he wants to share. When he knows I’m not going to laugh, that I’m enjoying it too, he can tell me everything.

  He has concocted the most incredible, elaborate, complete fantasy anyone could possibly imagine. He can give the names of roads, of his neighbors on both sides, up and down the road. He’s peopled his world with his best friends, the people he’s loved. The life is somewhere between the best of country living and an idealized suburb. It also includes the quality of a two-week summer vacation at the shore. There is all the good, the best parts of his life, and none of the bad. Listening to him is like Laura Ingalls Wilder, as told by Lewis Carroll, produced by Walt Disney.

  The sun is setting and I realize it’s late. I don’t want to stop him but I know Mom must be worried.

  “Look, Dad. What can we do about this? Mom can’t take it; she’s terribly upset. What is it you actually said to her?”

  “I got confused, John. And that never happened before; I’ve always kept it all separate. But you know since I’ve gotten out of the hospital I’ve had so much fun; I’m having a hard time keeping the two places apart. I think I said something to Mother about how the corn was growing. Then I could see she didn’t know what I was talking about so I changed the subject. Then, later on, I wasn’t paying enough attention and I started talking about going into Cape May. I just meant walking into town for the evening. When I realized what I was saying, I turned it into talking about moving from here in California to Cape May and that got her all upset. I couldn’t think of anything else to say that didn’t sound completely crazy.”

  Boy, I can imagine how Mother reacted to that. No wonder she called me. First he’s talking about corn plants, the farm boy strikes; then he’s moving back East. Part of Mother’s whole personal validation is how she “broke away” from all that life in the East. Any going back would be admitting defeat.

  “You’ve
got to be careful, Dad. You’d better think about all this some more.”

  “That’s right, John. I’ve got to do some thinking. I guess you’re right and all that life there isn’t real, but then I can’t let it go either. I’m not sure I could let go even if I wanted to. I just have to figure some way to put it together or else get it separate again.

  “Moving to Cape May might not be such a bad idea anyway, John. We could be near the beach the way we are here. Bess’s two brothers, George and Will, are just up at Wildwood and our Gertrude lives in New Jersey too, in Haddonfield; we’d be near our family and friends. I wouldn’t be growing corn or anything, I’m too old, but I’d have the feeling of putting myself back together.”

  I ease out and begin driving up Rose. I imagine Mom’s already called the police. She doesn’t trust me any more than she does Dad, and she definitely doesn’t trust the two of us together.

  “Look, Dad. Would you like some help working all this out? I can ask around and find somebody who specializes in this kind of thing.”

  Dad isn’t fooled. He closes his eyes, folds his hands and sits quietly. I turn onto Palms.

  “You’re right, John. I probably need a psychiatrist or somebody like that. At least he can tell me if I’m crazy. I don’t think I can figure this all out by myself; you just can’t imagine how big it is. It’s a whole world. It’s as if I’m dying or I need to kill part of myself and don’t want to. Yeah, John, get me somebody; I don’t care what it costs.”

  “It won’t cost much, Dad. You’re covered under Medicare. I don’t think any doctor can deny help. They have psychiatrists at Perpetual, too. I could get you an appointment with one of them if you want; then it won’t cost anything.”

  “No. Get me a good psychiatrist, Johnny. Get somebody who knows about old people and old people’s dreams. Part of all this has to do with getting old, I can feel it.”

  We roll into Colby and I park in the driveway.

  “Dad, I’m just going to tell Mother you had a dream and it was so real you got confused. That’s not exactly a lie and it’s something I can tell her.”

  He turns to me and smiles. God, he has a nice smile; it goes directly through me.

  “OK, John. You’re the boss. And I’ll try to be more careful from now on.”

  As I expect, Mother’s in a dither. She’s called Joan. But she’s so glad to see us, she swallows the dream story without much fuss. In fact, she’s very commiserating with Dad and gives him a hug. I think bad dreams are something she knows. You don’t have two nervous breakdowns without night traumatization of some kind.

  That evening I call several friends. The Marshalls give me the name of a young gerontologist in Santa Monica. They’d had trouble with Joe’s dad before he died and they recommend this guy highly. I try getting a call in to him but it’s an answering service. I leave a message that I’ll call in the morning. I make these calls at a phone booth around the corner while Mom and Dad are watching TV. Dad doesn’t wear any of his costumes and seems detached. He’s worried all right.

  When I’m in bed, I’m surprised to hear the door open, and Mom comes in. I look at my watch and it’s one o’clock in the morning. She has a small flashlight but I turn on the lamp beside the bed. I sit up.

  “Jacky, I have to talk with you; I think I’m going crazy.”

  She sits on the edge of the bed and starts crying. I reach over and take her hand. She has incredibly small hands, like Joan. It’s amazing how the two of them get so much done with such tiny hands.

  “You’ve got to do something, Jacky. He crept into my bed and then got to talking about moving to Cape May again. Now you know that doesn’t make any sense. He’s living in the past, Jacky. He’s talking about his brother Ed and Ira Taylor and Gene Michaels and Ken Barlittle. None of those people want to see us, Jacky. We’re all too old. It’s too late to move back there, especially with my heart. I can’t leave Perpetual and Dr. Coe; he’s the only thing that’s keeping me alive. You know that.”

  Boy, what a mess! I guess he couldn’t keep it to himself. He’s so full of his “world” he wants to share it. It’s love but it hurts. I don’t know what to say.

  “Jacky, you’ve got to get him a psychiatrist. There’s one at Perpetual. Maybe a specialist like that can talk to him. I think he’s completely off his rocker; honest I do, Jacky. He’s so peculiar.”

  “I’ve already called a specialist, Mother. I have an appointment with him tomorrow morning. Dad asked me to do it. He said he didn’t want to use the psychiatrists at Perpetual, so I’m having him see a doctor for mental problems of older people.”

  It’s hard to deceive the old deceiver but I got her this time. She stops crying and stares at me. She’s giving me her “you never know when wonders cease” look. This is one of her rarer “specials.”

  “So that’s what you were doing during the Mary Tyler Moore show.”

  I nod.

  “But it’ll cost a fortune, Jacky. What’s wrong with the Perpetual doctors?”

  “This is what Dad wants, Mom. It’s covered by Medicare so it’ll only cost you twenty percent. Who deserves the best of care more than Dad?”

  There’s no answer to that one. Taking the wind out of her sails best describes it; she sits there, canvas flapping.

  “Now you go back to bed, Mom; everything’s going to be all right. We only have to be patient; it’ll work out fine.”

  She leaves without another word. I lie in the dark not able to sleep.

  19

  At nine-thirty we go downstairs and pay our garage bill. We get a receipt for the stud in Philadelphia. The car’s ready; those poor guys were working before we even got out of bed.

  Dad’s more relaxed; all that rapping in the dark must’ve helped.

  We begin rolling, gliding, through beautiful Pennsylvania countryside. Dad tells how when he was in high school his dream was going to Penn State, a university not far off the road here.

  Our idea is to beat it clear into Philadelphia on this last leg. We’ll be staying with friends of my parents. Their name is Hill. The house is in a suburb, called Bala-Cynwyd.

  Late afternoon we get there, that is, Philadelphia; but it’s seven o’clock before we finally find our way to the Hills’ place. And then nobody’s home. It’s getting dark and we’ve no place to go. These people were expecting us; we can’t be more than a day late, at most. And tomorrow we’ve got to deliver this boat to the mob.

  Dad pulls out the Hills’ letter again. There are directions on what we’re supposed to do if they’re not home. It says there’s a key hidden on a two-by-four to the left of the inside back screen door.

  We go around and look. There’s a screen door but it’s locked from the inside with one of those old-fashioned hook-and-eye locks. We peer in but can’t see far around enough to know if there’s a key.

  Now this is a fancy house in a damned fancy part of town. All these houses are in the hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar class, at least. I’m expecting a cruiser to come along any minute; we’ll have a squad of mustachioed heroes charging with pistols and tear gas.

  There are lightning bugs flying around; we don’t have any in L.A. or Paris. Every time one of those bugs lights up in the corner of my eye, I think it’s a searchlight and we’ve had it. Dad looks at me.

  “Billy, we’ll just have to break in. They’re expecting us; they only forgot and locked the screen door.”

  You never know with Dad; now he’s leading us into five to twenty for breaking and entering. He finds a cellar window with a cracked pane of glass. We wiggle it around till the putty falls out. We lift the two pieces, reach in, open the window and lower ourselves into the cellar. We go upstairs to the screen door. The key’s there all right. Then Dad goes back down to the cellar and fits the pieces of glass in place. He’s too much. He doesn’t want the Hills to know they blew it and locked us out. I’ll never understand that generation.

  On the dining table is a note. It says there’s beer and hoagies in the
refrigerator. The Hills know Dad’s an absolute fiend for these Italian sandwiches stuffed with cheese, spiced meats, tomatoes, lettuce and who knows what else. At least it’s a step up from pizza. The note says they’re visiting friends and will be back later.

  We demolish those sandwiches. Probably they’re the Philadelphia equivalent to tacos. We guzzle the beer. Then we go sit in the living room. Man, this is a beautiful home. Three of Dad’s paintings are on the walls. We’re sitting on low couches in a living room carpeted wall-to-wall with a ruby-red deep-pile rug. It’s like being inside a heart. Dad starts telling me about the Hills.

  Pat is a physicist and Rita, his wife, is a mathematician; they have four kids, two about my age. One daughter’s at Harvard, the other at MIT. The young kids are geniuses, too.

  Come to think of it, Dad has practically no artist friends. All his buddies are scientists; biochemists, physicists, astronomers; or they’re mathematicians, doctors, dentists. Maybe he’s in the wrong business. There’s for sure something of the scientist in him. He’s always full of weird semiscientific ideas and questions. He continually reads crazy books about black holes or genetic engineering. Or he’s trying to explain gravity or working up half-assed all-inclusive field theories for the universe.

  But, in another way, he could never be a scientist. He’d never bugger himself with all the facts and memory part. He’s not one-eyed enough to make it; he’s always seeing too many sides, more sides than there are most times.

  There’s a mob of pets around the house. First, a dog named Natasha trotted downstairs when we came up from the cellar. She doesn’t bark, just goes to Dad when he calls her name, and nuzzles him. She’s some kind of giant, grayish poodle. Two or three cats slither out of the woodwork, too. They brush against us, purring, then go their way. Upstairs, we find a medium-sized boa constrictor, some gerbils, a guinea pig, two parakeets, three fish tanks, six or seven lizards, what looks like a baby squirrel and a litter of hamsters. This place is a private zoo.