Dad

by William Wharton

  I’ve got to admit that when he dances in one of his wild costumes, and the beard, he looks like a satyr straight from a Rubens. Every time it happens, Mom panics. She leans back with her hands across her mouth and peers over them with scared eyes. He thinks she likes it, that she’s wowed by his dancing. He reminds me of how some people dance when they’re drunk, with an awkward grace they normally don’t have. Dad’s drunk all right, drunk on life.

  Mother insists this is proof, another proof, he’s insane.

  “No man his age dances around by himself; it isn’t natural.”

  I keep my mouth shut about how she always seemed to admire old Lawrence Welk doing the same thing. I listen to her until she’s finished. Her nerves are definitely shattered; I don’t know what to say.

  “What can we do, Mom? Do you want to live in separate houses? We could probably rent this place and get enough so you could each have a small apartment. I don’t know what else to suggest.

  “Dad’s perfectly fine; he’s only enjoying himself, that doesn’t mean he’s crazy. We have the best expert in the area working on it. Dad’s only trying to make the most of the little time he has left.”

  I should’ve stopped there.

  “Honestly, Mom, sometimes I think you’re the one who’s acting crazy, making such a big fuss over nothing at all.”

  This sets her off.

  “Me, crazy? You’re the one with the beard, living in Europe and keeping my grandchildren away from me. I know you love your father more than you love me, and I don’t blame you; I was never cut out to be a mother, I’ve always done everything wrong no matter how hard I try.”

  She’s crying now. I can’t get close; she keeps pushing me away.

  “Even the grandchildren hate me. They never call or come to see me. And I know why, too. You and Joan talk against me to them behind my back; you poison their minds!”

  Even she realizes she’s gone over the edge with that one. I wait till I’m sure she’s finished.

  “Mom, why don’t you stay here with me and we’ll let Dad go live with Joan? That way Joan can watch and see if there really is something seriously wrong. You might be right; those psychiatrists don’t know everything, and you’ve lived with him a long time. This way you’ll get a chance to rest up your heart and you won’t have any trouble with Mario. I promise to stay out of your way. I’ll be your chief cook and bottle washer.”

  She stares to see if I’m serious. She’s not crying anymore.

  “I think I’d rather stay in a hotel.”

  “That sounds like a good idea, too, Mom. You go live in a hotel and Dad can stay here with me.”

  She expected me to be upset with that idea.

  “No, Jacky, that’d cost a fortune. The kind of place I’d want to stay would cost forty dollars a day, at least.”

  “But, Mom, that’s the way you should spend your money. That’s what money’s for, to do things you want. You’re not going to live forever and you have a right to enjoy yourself. Go, get a nice comfortable room with a view over the ocean. You could have room service and really relax.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not going to waste the little money we have that way! You never know when you’re going to need it, Jacky. I know damned well nobody’s ever going to take care of me. Nobody loves me and nobody cares if I live or die, so I’d better have some money to take care of myself.”

  This little repetition of the old speech does her worlds of good; she begins to be more herself. We gab on some more, me trying to stay out of the familiar mousetraps.

  Mom finally agrees to Dad’s living with Joan while she stays on at the house. We’re just going to sun on the patio and pretend we’re on an ocean cruise. She acts as if she’s doing me a big favor; some favor! I’ll probably need a prefrontal lobotomy and a triple-strength straitjacket at the end of one week. A week or two with Mom in this state could be just what it would take to push me over the line. We artist types are notoriously unstable folk anyway.

  I go around the block to a public phone booth and call Joan. I tell her Mom’s ready for Dad to live with her and she’ll stay with me.

  “Are you sure?”

  I rough out our conversation. Joan wants to know what Dad thinks about it. I realize I haven’t even consulted him. I know he’ll enjoy the chance being with Joan, Maryellen and John; talking with Mario. The other kids are away at school or married. Joan still isn’t convinced.

  “You’re positive about this?”

  “I think so, Joan. I can’t say she’s completely happy with the idea, but then she doesn’t seem happy with anything. She wouldn’t be happy at the Miramar Hotel even if it were free.”

  There’s a long silence.

  “Jack, you’ll be absolutely insane at the end of three days, four days. I’ll come over and find you hanging by a clothesline from that lemon tree out back. Maybe Mom’s right, you are crazy.”

  “Look, just tell me something else; get me off the end of that clothesline.”

  Joan lowers her voice on the phone.

  “Listen carefully. You go out into the back room, pack your clothes quietly, sneak over the fence and hop the next plane to Paris. Never write again and have Vron send a telegram saying you were killed in a plane crash.

  “I’ll take out a post-office box here and you can write to me once in a while under another name. I promise I won’t tell a soul, not even Mario. Goodbye!”

  With that, she hangs up. I dial her back.

  “Hello?”

  “Look, Joan.”

  “Who is this, please?”

  “It’s me. Cut it out, Joan. It’s me, big brother, Jack, Johnny, Jacky, John Tremont.”

  “Sorry, you have the wrong number; my brother died in a plane crash five minutes ago.”

  She hangs up again.

  I’m out of quarters. I go in the liquor store, buy a beer to back up my “bar” alibi and call again with a quarter from the change.

  “Damn it, Joan, don’t hang up again; I’m squandering the family fortune in quarters!”

  “OK, Johnny. But don’t ever say I didn’t give you a chance to bail out. While I’m cutting you out of that lemon tree, don’t give me any evil eye or anything.”

  “OK, nut, I promise.”

  “So Dad’s going to live with me and you’re going to—yeachk—live with Mother. Oh boy!”

  So it’s decided.

  Joan and Mario will come over in the van to pick him up. I’ll explain to Dad. The whole thing sounds sensible enough.

  When I get home, I go in the garden bedroom and stretch out for a few minutes going over everything, looking for the loopholes. Then I go in and tell Mom I’m going to call Joan and work things out with her. I should’ve known from her answer it was never going to work.

  “Sure, she’ll say it’s OK; she’s been trying to steal your father away from me ever since she was a little girl.”

  I pretend she didn’t say it; she’s nervous, excited. I go into the living room and explain what’s happening to Dad. Mom’s followed me. Dad’s willing to go along with whatever we want.

  I call Joan and go through a replay. We’re turning into a pair of fine international spies.

  Back in the bedroom, I pull a suitcase from the closet for Dad; Mom’s followed me again. Cripes, every time I pack something she takes it out. Finally, I give in. All that really counts is getting Dad away from this madhouse. Mom’s throwing things into and out of the suitcase; she’s going on about how it’s hotter in the Valley in the daytime and colder at night. Dad’s going to need light socks for the day and warm pajamas for nights. She insists he should bring an electric blanket. I know Joan has electric blankets. I say this but it’s ignored. She pulls some wool blankets from the cedar chest and wants them packed too. By the time she’s finished, it looks as if Dad’s climbing Everest without Sherpas.

  In the living room I explain it again to Dad. He’s so calm about things I’m not convinced he understands. He only wants to make sure Mom is going along
with all this. I tell him Mom’s back there packing for him now. He smiles and says how nice it will be playing with John and Maryellen.

  So we sit and watch some stupid TV program. Mom doesn’t come out from the bedroom.

  When you’re living around a heart patient, there’s always a fear, a deep anxiety. I get up casually and go back.

  Mother’s on her knees beside the bed. The suitcase is still open, half packed, overflowing. Clothes, blankets are spread on the bed.

  “Whats the matter, Mom; are you all right?”

  She gives me a sideways look as if I’m the stranger-intruder.

  “I’m appealing to the only friend I have left, the only one who cares about me at all, God.”

  Piously she leans her face on the edge of her bed and mumbles into the bedspread.

  “And now, even my husband of more than fifty years is leaving me.”

  Honest to God, the temptation to give her a swift kick in her pious, protruding rump is almost overwhelming.

  “Mom, you know that’s not true. This is your idea. You’re the one who can’t live with Dad and needs a vacation. Don’t forget that. We’re all making special arrangements for you, hoping to make you happy. Dad isn’t leaving; you’re sending him away for a while so you can rest.”

  But she’s not hearing. She’s maybe getting messages directly from God, but she’s not hearing me.

  “He doesn’t love me, none of you do. He only wants to leave me. You saw it. He jumped at the chance; all he wants to do is get away from me, anywhere.”

  “That’s nonsense, Mom, and you know it. Dad will do whatever you say. He wants you to be happy. It’ll be good for everybody if he goes there. You and I can rest up here.”

  “That’s what you say. It’ll be good for him but it won’t be good for me. I’ll be here alone and he’ll be over there with Joan’s family laughing and living it up, having a good time. He’ll forget all about me in a week. You’ll see!”

  “Come on, Mom; that’s ridiculous. I’ll be here with you and we’ll have fine times together.”

  I help her up off her knees and she sits on the side of the bed. I try putting some of the things into the suitcase. I’m going to need at least three suitcases to get all the crap in.

  “Leave it, Jacky. You can get his stuff later; he’s never coming back here. You can take everything he owns later, another time.”

  This is my chance; I close the suitcase before she changes her mind again. I carry it to the front room and wait for Joan. Now Mom won’t come out of the bedroom; she’s mad at Dad.

  Dad catches on fast and goes back. From in front, I can hear her crying and making a scene. After a few minutes, Dad comes and stands in the doorway beside the TV.

  “I’m not going, Johnny. You were wrong. Mother doesn’t want me to go. I’ll stay here. You call Joan and tell her.”

  OK, I’m ready to unpack the clothes, put them in the closet and call Joan. Dad settles into his rocker and stares at the TV set; I don’t think he’s seeing much. He might even be in Cape May again.

  I carry the suitcase back to the bedroom. I’m beginning to feel like the fall guy in a Marx brothers’ movie. I meet Mom on the way up the hall. She’s pointing and pressing me back into the living room with her finger. Her head is tilted back and there’s fire and tears in her eyes. I stop, back up as she advances.

  “Don’t you dare bring those things into my bedroom; he’s not going to stay in this house one minute more than he has to. If he doesn’t want to live with me, he doesn’t have to. And if he doesn’t want to stay married to me, just because I’m sick and have a bad heart, that’s all right, too.”

  I retreat in front of her, suitcase in hand, all the way into the living room. Dad’s face is white; he’s stunned. He’s sitting in the platform rocker with his foot tucked under him. Mom’s raging away.

  “Stop it, Mom! What’re you talking about? What in heaven’s name are you trying to tell us?”

  Then she starts crying hard; puts her face in her hands, standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. I stare at her, not knowing what to say. Then she turns around and two-step shuffles down the hall, back into the bedroom and slams the door. I put down the suitcase and go over to Dad. I’m mixed up. Some deep part of me is beginning to see it all as hilariously funny. This could be hysteria or maybe I really am a cold-hearted bastard.

  “Well, Dad, it looks as if she really wants you at Joan’s after all. Come on, now, relax, it’ll all work itself out; you know how Mom is.”

  Dad stares; there are tears in his eyes behind his glasses. He lifts the glasses carefully and wipes his eyes with his knuckles but doesn’t say anything.

  For something, anything, to do, I flip the TV channels until I find a Western with John Wayne. If anything can settle us down, John Wayne with his manly, crooning voice should do it.

  We sit pretending to watch; neither of us really there. Perhaps that’s one of the big appeals of TV; you can do something with someone else after you’ve run out of things to do; caromed togetherness.

  About fifteen minutes later, Joan and Mario roll into our driveway with the camper.

  I explain all that’s happened since I last talked to her. Joan pulls over one of the dining-room chairs and sits close to Dad.

  “What do you want, Dad? What can we do to help most?”

  He starts shaking his head and tries to say something but can’t. Then he bows his head and cries. His hands stay still on his lap and he cries. Joan looks over at me, then leans closer to Dad and takes him in her arms. She pulls him closer and the rocker rocks forward. He pushes his forehead into her shoulder next to her neck.

  We three sit there like that with Dad crying. Mario’s standing in front of the shut door with his arms folded. After a long time, Dad gets so he can talk. He says all he wants is for Mom to be happy. He’ll do anything. It bothers him terribly she won’t come out of the bedroom and now he’s afraid to go back. He’s totally immobilized by her fury. His eyes are like those of a mouse between a cat’s paws, going back and forth from Joan to me, to Mario, to the bedroom door down the hall. I don’t know how long he can take stress like this. He’s still not all that strong. I’m fading myself.

  Joan goes down the hall to talk with Mom. She no sooner gets the door open than Mom comes roaring out.

  “Get him the hell out of here. I don’t want to see his face again. He doesn’t love me, he’s always loved you kids more than he loved me. Get him out of here! I don’t ever want to see him again! Here we’re married more than fifty years, and now, when I’m sick, he wants to leave me.”

  Dad stands up in front of his rocker. He stands there, still slightly crouched over, leaning the backs of his legs against the chair, his arms spread.

  “But, Bess, I mean Bette, that’s not true. I don’t want to go anywhere. I’ll stay. I want to stay right here with you.”

  “Get out! I’m sick of looking at you. You’re driving me crazy; what good are you to me or anybody?”

  Jesus, if he leaves he’s wrong and if he stays he’s wrong. Talk about the old double bind; Mom is a past master. She’s still got double binds on me dug deep into my soul, like wires wrapped around a tree when it’s young. They’ve given me an unresolvable case of perpetual guilt. It’s hard to feel guilty about anything real when you’ve got deep untouchable guilts like those.

  Joan and I look at each other. We’re paralyzed. It’s the old black magic again. Mario takes two steps into the room. He leans over Dad.

  “Come on, Dad; let’s get in the car.”

  He turns to me.

  “Jack, you get the suitcase. Joan, you try talking to Mom.”

  Joan walks down the hall.

  “Now calm yourself, Mother. You’re making a big deal over nothing. It was your idea for Dad to come visit at our house so you could have a little peace and quiet. Dad will be right back, soon as you feel better and Dad is more himself.”

  But Mom isn’t hearing anymore. Her communicati
ons are strictly one-way.

  “You too! I thought at least my daughter loved me. Now you’re stealing my husband. I know you; you’ll take him to your house and talk to him till he’ll never come back.”

  By this time, Mario has gotten Dad up and through the door onto the porch. With Mom’s last speech Dad starts back through the door. Mom breaks past Joan and blocks him.

  “Don’t you come in here, John Tremont! When you walked out that door, you walked out of my life. I don’t want you in this house!”

  She has the imperious finger out. Dad looks around for help, for some direction.

  Then he looks straight into Mom’s eyes. He stares for what seems forever but it can’t be more than ten seconds. He shakes his head, turns away and starts out the door. Mario helps him across the short porch and down the three steps.

  They’re going across the lawn when Mom comes charging out the door and down the steps with Joan rushing after her. Mom grabs Dad by the arm and starts pulling. Dad’s offering no resistance either way. Mario’s holding on to Dad; as much holding him up as anything. Dad is definitely walking wounded; he’s lost all volition. He seems to have stopped paying attention to what’s happening. Mom’s screaming.

  “Don’t leave me, Jack! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, help me; my own children are kidnapping my husband! Somebody call the police! Mother of God, help me! They’re taking my husband away from me!”

  Holy cow! I’m afraid some of the neighbors are going to come out and join in the fray, or at least call the cops. But this is California; they’re probably all looking through the venetian blinds enjoying our little drama; better than Channel 9.

  “Don’t let them take him away! He’s my husband! I love him! I want him here with me!”

  Now she’s dropped to her knees on the grass. Dad’s staring at her not saying anything. I take his other arm.

  “Come on, Dad, it’s all right. Mom’s overexcited; you know how she is.”

  Mario and I push Dad up into the back of the camper. They’ve got the bed all fixed for him. I go to Mom and take her arm to help her up. She gives me a strong elbow punch in the stomach. I step back. She’s a strong woman all right. Those years of pushups, sit-ups and flopovers have given her a good elbow punch.