The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
into place on his side of the bed. My heart’s going blubablubulub in the dark, and I’m convinced I’m about to have a heart attack. God, how much strain can a fifty-two-year-old heart take? I’m completely freaked out.
Dad’s lying tense beside me. I put the bedside lamp on again and look at him. He stares back at me with empty eyes, then starts after the butterflies again. Lord!
I get up and go to the bathroom. Going back in the room, I still catch the shit smell.
He’s picking away at his butterflies. I lie beside him and breathe slowly, trying to relax. It’s then, lying there, I figure out what he’s doing. He’s picking the pattern off the wallpaper across the room. Something’s wrong with his perception and he’s seeing that flower pattern hanging in front of his face. He’s picking flowers. I watch some more and I’m sure of it.
I roll out of bed and pull one of the extra white sheets from the cedar chest. I drape it over the two small photographs hung on the wall. One is of Joan in third grade, a school picture at Saint Alice’s, back in Philadelphia. She has her thumbs pressed onto the desk in front of her. The other is me, seventh grade, same position. Those pictures have been on that wall since my parents moved into this house, over twenty-five years ago. I drape the sheet over them so it covers that whole wall. Then I get in bed beside Dad.
Almost immediately he subsides. What in hell can be wrong with his perception?
I put my arm over top of him, across his chest. That way, I’ll know if he moves. So I lie on my side, one arm over his shoulder. I can feel his body tense, shivering, jerking, kicking; like a dog dreaming.
I can’t get to sleep. About the time he seems to settle down and I’m drifting off, he’ll jump, kick a foot or push out an arm. But he must have settled down because finally I do sleep. I’m to the point where I could sleep on a pile of nails.
This time I wake and I’ve been punched in the eye! What he’s done is throw out his arm in a violent swing and smashed it across my face. My nose is bleeding, my lip is cut. He’s really given me a good one.
I go into the bathroom and look. I could be in for a shiner. The nose stops bleeding and the lip is cut inside my mouth. It’s eight o’clock in the morning; I don’t feel I’ve gotten any sleep at all.
But Dad’s been in bed for nine hours and he’s slept most of that time; it isn’t all bad. When I go back to the bedroom, he’s awake. I walk him to the bathroom. He takes his own weight and I only have to guide him. He goes to the toilet, both a piss and a shit. I’ll never get used to wiping the ass of a grown man. I’m not tuned to being a nurse. It’s something I’m finding out about myself. I take him back to the bedroom and help him get dressed. He’s better than he was last night, more with it. He even helps some with the arms of his shirt and lifts himself so I can pull his pants on.
I feed him breakfast, take him out to the patio, tuck him into one of the chaise longues and turn on the music. I’m talking all the time but nothing’s coming back. My chatter means no more to him than the chatter of a squirrel.
Then, sometime in the afternoon, and I can’t tell what the turning point is, he sits up straighter and takes notice. He turns and looks at me, straight in the eye, with a weird twinkle of recognition. Surprised, I lean forward and he points into the garden.
‘Mandy’s out of the pasture, Ed.’
Who’s Ed, who’s Mandy, what pasture? My mind spins. There’s just that; then he nods his head a few times to reassure himself, a habit he’s always had, then settles back. I try to think. Ed has to be his brother, an even year older than Dad. They grew up as farm boys together in Wisconsin.
The best thing is go along.
‘Don’t worry about it, Jack; it’s OK.’
I want him to stay in there. I wait. Then, about fifteen minutes later:
‘Hand me the eighteen wrench there, Jim.’
‘OK.’
He starts the business of putting two things together. He’s holding something invisible in his left hand and pushing something invisible in his right hand against it. He’s pressing hard as he can, applying full strength and gritting his teeth. He’s pushing from one direction to another, grunting with the effort and completely concentrated.
‘How’s it going there, Jack?’
But he only keeps grinding away and won’t answer.
Those are the two big moments of that day. I put him down for a nap and climb in with him again. I sleep, I don’t know whether he does or not. He doesn’t clobber me or anything and we get in two peaceful hours.
After that, I cook dinner and we eat. Then I turn on the television. This time I leave the lights on. I put him in his platform rocker and sit a little behind it. I rock his chair the way you would a baby’s cradle, the way he always did himself; he’d keep it rocking with a slight body movement while he watched. I want to reproduce things as much as possible.
But it doesn’t matter. He begins leaning forward; then he falls to his hands and knees on the floor. He starts scooping up those phantoms of his and picking at the patterns on the rug. He crawls down the hall and into the bathroom. He looks into the toilet the way a dog does; I half expect him to push his head in and take a drink. He pulls himself up, using the sides of the sink, and stares at himself in the mirror, not moving, not doing anything; just staring. Then he grabs hold of the hot and cold faucets and pulls on those. He isn’t trying to turn them on, only tugging. I lead him back into the living room and put him in his chair.
It starts all over again. He does the doorjamb-inspection routine several times. I’m watching, trying to get some idea of what’s going on in his mind.
Silken ears filled with seed, every shining hair connected to a single kernel. I gently squeeze drops of oil in each ear. Some stalks have four or five, it should be a fine crop.
The sky’s hot but the ground’s still moist on my feet, sheltered from the sun and wind. The glistening, blue-reflecting, green, wide leaves and pollen-heavy tassels rise around me. I step carefully, slowly through my self-made jungle, shaking new pollen into open crotches of waiting leaves. A slight breeze blossoms. I stop and listen to the rattling clatter as tassels and twisting leaves bend into each other.
What can be the matter? Who is this giant infant? Is this the way he was as a child? Is he back there with no memory of his entire life? Is nothing left? Can a whole lifetime be lost just like that? It’s as if somebody passed a gigantic magnet over the memory tapes of a computer and wiped it all out. The computer, the tapes look the same, but there’s nothing in there anymore.
He ends up on the floor stretched in front of the TV like a dead Indian from a cowboy movie. Do I wake him? What do I do? I’m having a hard time making decisions. I bring some blankets out and cover him. I slip a pillow under his head carefully not to wake him. He’s sleeping deeply.
I’ll sit there in the chair and keep an eye on him. I close and lock all the outside doors; pull the venetian blinds. There’s no door to the hallway or the kitchen, but I close all the doors in the hall. I feel safe enough, even if I do drop off.
I also do the same kinds of things you’d do with a baby. I move the junk from the coffee table and low tables, things with which he might be able to hurt himself. I sit back in the rocker, call Joan and tell her things are OK. She tells me Mom is behaving herself, Mario’s keeping out of sight. I hang up and then don’t last five minutes.
When I wake he’s gone again! For a minute it doesn’t register. I try to hold down the panic. Well, he can’t have gone far; he’s probably in the kitchen. I go in there but it’s empty. I go through and look in the hall. He isn’t there. The doors to the bedrooms and bathroom are still closed. I dash down the hall and look in each of them. He isn’t to be seen.
Hell, it isn’t a big house, I don’t think it has a thousand square feet. I make a quick check of the front and back doors; they’re still