The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
him?
I go into the middle bedroom, I look under that bed; in that closet, under everything. I’m about ready to start pulling out drawers in chests and looking there. I run into the kitchen, look under the table, in the oven. I go back to the living room. I look behind the couch, behind the chair. There’s no place left. It’s one of those locked-room mysteries. What happened to the body? It walked away, that’s what; maybe right through a wall. Maybe he’s turned invisible! I’m thinking all these things. That ‘invisible butterfly’ business has made a deep impression.
I collapse on the platform rocker. Should I call the cops? No, I’ve got to think this out. I take some deep yoga breaths. I get up and carefully go over all the doors. There’s no way he could’ve gotten out, the screen-door latch is still on. Even if he’d suddenly come back to his full strength and sense, opened the doors and walked away, closing the doors after him, there’s no way he could’ve latched the screen door behind him!
Then I notice there’s one door I haven’t checked. In the hallway, on the left, just after the kitchen and before the bathroom door, there’s a louvered door opening into a tiny two-by-three closet with the heater in it. They also keep the vacuum cleaner and brooms in there. It takes all my courage to open that door.
I open it, not really expecting he’ll be there. It’s the only place left, that’s all.
He’s standing with his back to me, fully clothed, leaning against the heater. I don’t know how he got the door closed behind him. I don’t know how long he’s been in there, but long enough to have crapped his pants. It’s amazing I didn’t pick up the smell; then again, the nostril hairs inside my nose are still coated.
I stand there, my heart’s pounding away, and I feel light in the head.
‘Hi, Dad. What’re you doing in here?’
He turns at the sound of my voice. He looks through me for several seconds, then turns back to the heater. I gently take him by the arm and lead him toward the bathroom. He doesn’t resist actively but there’s a low-level reluctance. He’d like to stay in that closet.
It’s two-thirty in the morning. I undress him, clean him off, fill the tub and throw the dirty clothes in. I wipe him off as best I can and put on the washed pajamas. I lead him back toward the bedroom. My nerves are on the very edge; it wouldn’t be hard for me to start bawling.
Now I’ve got him in my arms leaning against the hall wall and I’m afraid to open the bedroom door. Opening any door is getting to be a traumatic event. I tell myself I’ve got to call Joan in the morning. I need time to recuperate.
Dad lies out stiff on the bed when I finally get him in the room and stretched out. He lies there chattering and whining or whimpering sporadically like a puppy. What to do? I think of tying his hands so he can’t whack me again. My face is swollen and sore; I’d hate like hell to get hit in the face again. I bring my sweat suit into the bedroom, get undressed and put it on while I’m watching him, hoping he’ll go to sleep. I climb in bed with him. This time I do what I do with my wife.
Vron typically turns her back to me in bed and I tuck in behind her, knees behind her knees and my arm over her. I don’t sleep all night that way but that’s the way I start.
I find it a great comfort to sleep with someone. Sleeping with another human is one of the great life pleasures, maybe even a necessity. I’m sure it’s only recently humans have been sleeping alone. The single bed and separate rooms are probably partly responsible for our anxiety-ridden world.
Especially, asking children to sleep alone in the dark is cruel; time is different for a child, longer.
And, right now, Dad is like a child. I sleep with him. Small as he is, he seems monstrous. I’ve never slept with a man before. I’d slept spoon-style in a pup tent or in a foxhole, but we were in separate fart sacks and there was no direct physical contact except bulk. The smell is different, the feel, the height of shoulders, the breadth of chest, the all-over hardness, feeling of density; it’s entirely another thing.
But I figure I’ll hold him down if I have to.
We sleep! He sleeps; I sleep! We sleep through the night like mice. I never move and he doesn’t either. God, it’s nice!
I wake at nine o’clock and he’s still asleep, snoring lightly. I carefully unwrap myself. He’s in a tight, curled, fetal position again, still on his side. I pull the covers up over his shoulders. I’ll let him sleep long as he wants. If he sleeps through thirty-six hours, that’s OK with me. I take his pulse, it’s slow and regular.
I go into the bathroom and the shitty clothes are still in the tub. Maybe I expected the brownies would wash them. I run in hot water, scrub and rinse till the water is clear, not yellow. Then I hang them on the line in back. I Ajax out the tub and fill it to near the top. I keep peeking back at Dad; he’s dead to the world. I lower myself into the tub and try to relax.
After a ten-minute soak, I check him again and get dressed. I cook up my kind of breakfast; three eggs with cheese on top and some pieces of Canadian bacon. I organize Dad’s medicine and it’s coming onto ten-thirty. I keep checking but he’s still sleeping. I do the dishes and pick up around the house, sweep the living room, kitchen, bathroom and hall. I sweep off the patio. It’s almost noon.
So I begin to get worried. Maybe he’s had a stroke. Maybe he’s in a coma. Maybe I haven’t been getting enough food or liquid into him and he’s dying.
I calculate he’s been asleep for over twelve hours. That’s not counting whatever he was doing when he was in the closet draped over the heater.
Quietly I go in the bedroom. I pull back the curtains and open the venetian blinds. They’re always closed tight; even in the day you need to turn on a light back there. It’s a conviction of the poverty mind that bedrooms should be permanently dark. Maybe it has to do with working swing and graveyard shifts in factories. Dad’s done a lot of that in his time. I think he worked swing shift most of the time he’s been in California. Or maybe dark bedrooms are Irish or French.
But I want to let some light and air into that room. Otherwise, I’ll never get rid of the shit smell. Also, I want to let out the dark, poor spirits, let in the good fairies and sunshine.
I sit in front of the window. Sun’s streaming in so I open my shirt; I drift off in the chair with my head leaning against the wall.
When I wake, it’s two in the afternoon. He’s awake and I don’t know for how long. He’s on his back. He isn’t trembling or shaking, his eyes are more relaxed; but then I see his face is wet. He’s lying with his head on the pillow, crying. His whole face is wet with tears. Tears are running down the sides. I go close. The pillow’s soaking wet too. He’s crying quietly, not sobbing, only a long, continuous, uncontrolled crying.
I run my hand over his head, then put my hand on his. For the first time, he grabs my hand and holds it.
‘What’s the matter, Dad? Everything’s OK.’
He begins crying harder. He cries so hard, so hard, and now he’s sobbing. He won’t look at me. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling and he’s sobbing deep, twisting sobs. I keep talking to him, rubbing my hand over his, his other hand clutching mine.
What can it be now? What’s brought this on? I carefully lift, shift him to the edge of the bed so I can dress him, and he cries the whole way. It isn’t often you hear a man cry deep, sobbing non-hysterical crying like this.
I bundle him up and take him out on the patio. He leans his head back on the chaise longue and cries. I watch a few minutes and go in to make something to eat. I’m feeling completely helpless. I whip up a quick cheese sandwich and a glass of beer. When I come out, he hasn’t moved and he’s still crying. He’s going to dehydrate from tears alone.
I can’t get him to eat. He won’t open his mouth, he won’t chew when I force a bit of sandwich into his mouth. He isn’t resisting, he just isn’t paying attention, isn’t noticing the food. I try pouring