“The psychiatrist says Dad is one of the most intelligent, imaginative men he’s ever had as a patient. He wants to give Dad some intelligence tests which don’t depend on how much schooling he’s had. Dad’s probably a genius of some kind.”
Mother leans back in her “don’t kid me” lean and stares.
“Oh, come on, Jacky. He’s smart maybe, but he’s no genius. I’ve lived with him all my life. He’s a perfectionist but he’s never been able to think up anything except toys for you kids or different crazy gadgets. He’s the original lack-of-all-trades’ and he’s never earned more than six thousand dollars a year in his life. If that psychiatrist thinks he’s a genius, he must be half crazy himself.”
“Mom, you ought to go see Dr. Delibro. Maybe you can give him a new viewpoint on Dad. As you say, you know him better than anybody. Dr. Delibro is trying to help Dad get things together and you could help more than anybody.”
I can actually feel her paranoia surfacing. Mother doesn’t want any experts of any kind working on her. During the war, she didn’t take a job in a defense plant because she was afraid they’d X-ray her chest and find out she had tuberculosis. Mom was a closet tubercular for over thirty-five years. When Perpetual gave her a chest X-ray as part of the entrance examination, she was shocked to find out she actually had lungs. I’m waiting to see how it will go.
“He’ll probably decide I’m crazy, Jacky. If he thinks your father’s a genius, he could easily think I’m insane. If he finds out about my two nervous breakdowns, he’s liable to lock me up and throw away the key.”
“You’re not crazy, Mom; but it could certainly help him to understand Dad if you’d talk to him. He needs all the information he can get.”
I’m starting to hope now. I have to be careful not to make any false moves. Just then, Dad comes up the hall. He’s wearing his hat, his striped shirt and has a scorecard in his hand. He’s begun keeping a line-score for the games he watches. He stops on the way up the hall and goes into the bathroom. Mother leans toward me and stage-whispers.
“All right, I’ll go; anything if it’ll help him come to his senses.”
When the game gets under way, I sneak into the back room and call Delibro. I tell him Mother will keep the Friday appointment. Boy, we’re deep into psychiatrists now; I can’t help wondering how it will all turn out. I go into the living room and tell Mother it’s set. There’s no use trying to keep it from Dad, so I tell him Mom is going to visit his psychiatrist, too. He turns away from the game and gives me a quick look. But the ball game’s on and we settle in to watch the Dodgers slip past the Phillies.
Later, out in the greenhouse, I tell Dad he doesn’t have to worry about the psychiatrist telling Mother anything they talked about in private; I tell him a psychiatrist is something like a priest in confession. Dad’s spraying liquid fertilizer on some plants. He looks up and smiles.
“Oh, I’m not worried about that, John, but I’m not sure it’s such a good idea having her visit a psychiatrist.”
I don’t have time to answer because just then Billy arrives. He’s almost as dirty as when he arrived the first time. He’s been down in Ensenada camping on the beach.
After we get him showered, I ask if he’ll stay around the house next day so I can visit Marty. I feel I’m not getting enough time with her. Billy can’t really say no to that, and I think Mom’s glad to have him there; she’s that scared of Dad.
I call Marty and we agree to meet tomorrow down at the French sidewalk café on the beach and have breakfast together.
Billy will sleep out in the garden bedroom. I’m in the side bedroom, while Mom and Dad sleep in their own back bedroom. That evening, as she walks past in her nightgown. Mother gives off looks like a vestal virgin being sacrificed to the Minoan bull. I shut the door to my little side bedroom and pretend I don’t notice.
21
Dad’s awake and over to Marty’s before I’m up. The bed in that back bedroom is like sleeping in a bowl of oatmeal.
I’m lying there awake, knowing I have to take a piss. I creep out quietly, bare-ass, sneak around back and pee against the wall. It’s then I notice the car’s already gone. I don’t feel like going in the house so I streak back, jump into bed and start the slow, soft descent into feathers.
I’m not even asleep again when Grandma comes pushing her way in. I pretend I’m asleep. I want to watch what she’s up to this time.
One thing, at least she’s not being spooky. She stomps straight over and shakes my shoulder. I open my eyes slowly. She’s white and shaking. I slide up so I’m sitting against the pillow.
“What’s the matter, Grandma? Sit down here; you look awful!”
She collapses on the bed beside me and begins crying. She grabs hold of my hand. Isn’t it just my luck, the day Dad decides to take off, somebody dies. Shit! I’m scared and I’m still bare-ass.
“Billy, you’ve got to help me! I don’t know what to do! What can I do? He’s acting completely crazy and I’m afraid to even talk with him!”
“What’s he doing, Grandma, tell me! What’s happened? What’s the matter?”
“He’s insane, Billy. That psychiatrist should see him now; then he’d know.
“Oh, God, I wish your father was here. I’m sure we’ll have to lock him up this time; with my heart I can’t stand it anymore!”
Jesus, if she’d only get to the point, or at least leave the room so I can dress and find out what’s happening.
“Just tell me, Grandma; what is it? What’s Grandpa doing? Tell me!”
“You won’t believe this. He’s there in the bathroom; he’s been there all morning. I got worried and went in to see what could be the matter; you’ll never guess what he’s doing.”
She pauses and gives me about two seconds. If I had two more seconds, I’d’ve said he was on the john trying to take a private morning shit. What else?
“Billy, he’s floating tiny boats made out of matchsticks and pieces of paper in the sink. I almost died! He didn’t seem to notice me so I stood there watching him.
“He fills the sink, puts his little boats in, pulls the plug and lets the water out. He even makes waves with his hand so the boats go around in circles, just like a kid. Nobody can tell me that’s not crazy, Billy; he’s completely insane.”
“Yeah, Grandma, what happened then? Did you ask him what he was doing? He might only be trying to fix the sink.”
She looks at me as if I’m crazy too. I’m stalling for time; what the hell could it be?
“Well! At last I got up my nerve and went further into the bathroom so he notices me. He turns around and smiles as if there’s absolutely nothing wrong. I try to speak as normally as possible; I don’t want to get him excited. ‘What’re you doing there, Jack?’ I’m scared to death. You never know what he’ll do next.
“He says something about a woman named Carol Alice, then twists his fingers in the air muttering about the world spinning; then, clear as day, looks me in the eye and says. ‘Maybe you won’t have to worry about earthquakes anymore, Bess.’”
Jesus, if Grandma’s got this even half right, Grandpa’s definitely flipped! He’s been different lately but this is weird!
“And that’s all?”
“Well, Billy, I was so scared I backed out of the bathroom and came here to wake you up. Maybe we should call Martha and tell your father. I don’t know who this Carol Alice is, but it sounds like a nigger name to me; probably one of those nurses he was flirting with at the hospital. There’s no fool like an old fool, I always say.”
“Look, Grandma. We can’t get hold of Dad for awhile; he’s down at the beach with Marty and I don’t know what they’ll do after that. You go outside while I dress. I’ll go see what it is with Grandpa. Then you can stay here and relax, just lie back on this bed and pull yourself together.”
I finally chase her into the garden, get dressed and settle her in the bed.
I go in the house expecting anything. I’ve never had any experience de
aling with crazies except once when two girls at UCX SUCK OD’d on acid. But that was only temporary and there were mobs of other people around.
I sneak through the side door. The bathroom door’s still open and it’s just as she said, he’s leaning over the sink and there are tiny matchstick boats floating in the water. He’s leaning back on the hamper with his cane beside him. He sees me right away when I come in. I figure I’ll go along with it till I find out what’s going on.
“Playing boats, Grandpa?”
He looks at me and smiles. He probably has one of the nicest smiles in the world. Maybe that’s part of being bonkers you have a nice smile.
“Billy, what do you know about the Coriolis effect?”
I’ll tell you, he catches me with that one. I only vaguely remember it from an oceanography class. But Jesus, what a question in the early morning on an empty stomach.
“Not much, Grandpa, isn’t it something about the water going down the sink twisting right in the northern hemisphere and the other way in the south?”
“That’s part of it, Billy. But most experts insist the Coriolis effect isn’t strong enough to make water in a little washbasin like this go any particular way at all.”
He pulls the plug out again and I watch with him. Sure enough, the water twists around clockwise, as you’d expect. His little boats swing around, get caught in the whirlpool, and he fishes them out just before they go down the drain.
“Now, watch this time, Billy.”
He fills the basin to the top and puts his boats back in. This time, before he pulls the plug, he starts the water spinning in the opposite direction, counterclockwise, with his hand. Then he pulls the plug. The boats are moving counterclockwise, but gradually the water reverses itself and they all go down clockwise.
“Did you see that, Billy? That’s the twenty-sixth time I’ve done it here and it’s been like that every time.”
“But, Grandpa, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? That’s what the Coriolis effect is supposed to do.”
He pushes himself farther back on the clothes hamper and picks up his cane. I can’t say he looks particularly crazy. And where the hell did he find out about the Coriolis effect?
“Billy, here’s the problem. This Coriolis acceleration effect is only point zero zero five, that’s five thousandths of a centimeter per second per second, while normal gravity force is around nine hundred and eighty-five centimeters per second per second. In other words, the force of gravity is almost two hundred thousand times stronger than the Coriolis force. That’s why scientists are so sure it won’t happen in a basin of water; the gravity force should thoroughly beat out the Coriolis so it won’t happen. By almost any computation, it just shouldn’t show up in such a small basin of water. But right here now, with twenty-six trials, my coefficient of error is getting mighty small. Something’s wrong.”
He leans forward and starts filling the bowl again. I go up closer to him; it’s almost like being back in a lab at school.
“Now, Billy, the reason water twirls with a cyclonic motion going out of the basin and down the drain is because friction from gravity is exerted on the water by the side of the basin. The water closest to the sides is subjected to the most friction; the water in the center, away from the sides, spins easier with whatever motion it has, so you get the water moving at different speeds, fast in the center and slow at the sides. This is sped up when the surface gets smaller as the water goes out the drain. So the whirlpool or water cyclone going out, down the drain, is what you’d expect. But it’s the direction, its always being clockwise that gets me. I’ve been thinking maybe our basin here is designed with a warped bowl to make water twist out and go down faster; maybe that’s it.
“Billy, would you mind phoning Standard Plumbing up on Sepulveda and ask if they design basins and tubs with some kind of twist? I’d do it myself but I hate using that phone.”
I say sure I’ll do it, anything to help him get his mind off this crazy business. Shit, where the hell did he learn about acceleration, gravity; coefficients of error? I thought he only went to eighth grade.
I find Standard in the phone book and, after about three tries, get somebody in the manufacturing division who assures me all their bowls, both stainless steel and porcelain, are regularly shaped. I’m sure he thinks I’m trying to work up a complaint about some crooked sink. I tell Granddad what he said. He shakes his head.
“Well, Billy, that eliminates one idea. Maybe we ought to try other sinks. Where can we go near here and find a lot of sinks?”
People keep asking me questions and then answering before I can say anything.
“I know, Billy. The bowling alley just over the hill. I went to visit there while I was doing the wash once and they have at least ten sinks all in a row.”
Christ, he’s pushing himself up off the hamper; he’s ready to take off.
“But, Granddad, Dad has the car. We don’t have any way to get there; it’s too far to walk.”
“The motorcycle’s out there on the driveway, Billy. We can take that. I’ve ridden on back with your father and we won’t have any parking problem.”
He’s serious! But if Grandma finds out I’m taking Granddad to the bowling alley on the motorcycle to float toy boats, she’ll call the cops. Granddad gets out those crappy helmets we keep here; he’s ready to ride. What the hell, if that’s what he wants; besides, I’m beginning to get interested.
I push the bike to the end of the street before revving it up. Granddad walks along beside me; at least he didn’t bring his cane. I’m hoping Grandma won’t hear us. He clambers on back, kicks down the foot pegs and holds on tight. What the hell gave my old man the idea to tear around with his old man on back of this two-wheeled heap? You never know with Dad, in some ways, he’s really flaky.
We roll up to the bowling alley, walk past the alleys and into the rest room. It must look like a very kinky pervert rendezvous. Thank God, it’s early and there’s practically nobody there; we have the place to ourselves. First, we make plugs with paper towels and fill all the bowls. This takes almost ten minutes. I don’t know what the hell we’ll say if the manager comes. I decide right then, if anybody does come, Granddad’s doing the explaining.
Well, when we let the water out of those sinks, all ten go down clockwise. We fill them again, give the water a start counterclockwise before we pull the plugs; same thing, reverses and goes down clockwise. Granddad must be wrong about his mathematics and physics. I wonder where he got such an idea anyhow.
We tool back to the house. I let him off at the corner and push Dad’s bike into their driveway. Granddad goes in the front door and I walk around back to see if maybe Grandma’s dead on that soft bed. She isn’t there.
I go inside and she’s in the living room with Granddad. He’s finishing off a story about how we took a short walk around the block. Lucky the helmets are out on the bike. Grandma’s looking at me to see what I have to say; she’s still scared. But I’m not saying anything unless Granddad wants me to.
We sit like that, all separate, everybody waiting for somebody else to do something, or say something. I’m wishing Dad would come home, it’s getting very uncomfortable. Then Granddad stands up.
“Come on out to the workshop, Billy; there’s something I want to show you there.”
Grandma isn’t liking this at all, but she isn’t getting in the way either. As I go out, I turn around and shrug my shoulders, just to show I’m sort of with her; but I’m not.
In the workshop, Granddad picks up one of his little specialty inventions he always made for us as kids. It’s a stick with notches cut down one side and a small propeller mounted on the tip. We always called them “twirly sticks” and this one is new made, a hand-carved propeller mounted with a straight pin.
“Remember how this works, Billy?”
He hands it to me along with a short, smooth stick. I run the smooth stick fast up and down along the notches till the propeller begins spinning. It always mysti
fied us as kids and I still don’t know what makes the propeller spin.
“Do you notice anything about that propeller spinning?”
He leans forward on his cane and stops the propeller with his finger. I start rubbing the stick back and forth again. He lets it get going fast, then reaches out and stops it.
“Now, watch carefully. If you notice, it always spins counterclockwise.”
This time he gives the propeller a good start clockwise with his finger. But as I begin rubbing, the propeller stops, reverses itself.
“I’ve been making these ‘twirly sticks’ for forty years and I’ve never been able to make one go the other way. I’ve tried cutting the notches all angles, different spacing; I’ve made left-handed ones and right-handed ones; I’ve tried designing propellers every pitch I can think of, but they always go the same way.”
He stops, looks at me and smiles again. He spins the propeller backwards with his finger and we watch as it reverses itself while I rub the stick.
“What’s it all about, Grandpa? Why do you think it does that?”
“I don’t know, Billy; maybe some scientist could explain it; I can’t. What interests me is it’s the opposite of the Coriolis effect in our sink. Come on, now I’ll show you one more thing.”
He leads me into his greenhouse. In there, he’s rigged a little hose from his watering system so it runs into a funnel and the funnel is fitted into an old bucket. He has a small plug in the funnel with a string on it. First he turns on water till the funnel is full. Then he puts the tip of the notched stick on the edge of his funnel and begins rubbing back and forth till the water in the funnel is vibrating, quivering on the surface.
“Now, Billy, pull the plug and watch what happens.”
I pull and watch the water pour out through his funnel into the bowl while he rubs away on his stick. The water goes down counterclockwise, anti-Coriolis!
Dad Page 38
