The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
peers toward me, into me, as if he’s trying to see through a blur of time and memory.
‘What’d he do wrong, Ed? Why’s he have to sell out to Uncle Bill? I don’t get it.’
We’re into something I know a little bit about. I know my grandfather sold his farm and started a store in Manata, but I’d always been told it was so the girls could go to high school. I never knew he sold it to his brother. I try staying in there; I nod with him. The last thing he says I can barely hear, like a radio station drifting off band.
‘I’ll never understand it, Ed. Dad’s a good farmer; he don’t want to run no store; he’ll never be no good being a store-keeper in a town!’
And that’s the end of it. Dad sits staring at his lap, hands turned up. I wait awhile, then go back to painting. Dad looks as if he might be on the edge of crying but he doesn’t. I keep working. I finish the underpainting and get into the impasto. I want to finish the whole painting in one sitting if I can.
I’m about halfway through the impasto, picking up some light in the penumbra, when Alicia comes out. She’s in her street clothes, going off duty. She stops and looks over my shoulder.
‘You certainly got him there, Mr Tremont. Man, you really are an artist; I never knew no real artist before.’
I stop, push myself back and look up. The sun is low behind her; I can see light between her legs through the nylon dress she’s wearing. She’s not wearing a slip. She catches me looking and crosses her legs standing up.
‘You want to paint me?’
She laughs and puts one hand behind her head.
‘I’d make a just fine model. You don’t see many girls my color with one green eye, do you, now?’
She’s absolutely gorgeous in that setting-sun light.
‘I’d love to paint you, Alicia, but what would Mrs Kessler say to that?’
I put another touch on the backlighted wing of Dad’s nose.
‘Not here; oh, no, not here! Ol’ Missus Kessler’d have cat conniptions, wouldn’t she? Oh, yes! You’d have to come to my place. Little Jessica’d love seeing a real artist paint her mother.’
She laughs again and crosses her legs the other way.
I add more burnt sienna to the background over Dad’s head. I’m too stirred up for any real painting. I look at Dad. He has no idea what’s going on; I don’t myself. She must figure me for a capital dud.
‘Well, now there; don’t you keep your daddy out here too long, now. It’s beginning to get cold.’
I smile up at her into the sunset.
‘I’ll bring him in soon, Alicia. You have a nice evening and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She looks into me, pinning me with that green eye.
‘That’s right.’
She looks back over her shoulder, already on her way. She’s laughing.
‘I’ll see you.’
I watch her walking away; even in flat shoes she has nice moves, long, sure strides. I watch till she turns into the parking lot.
I finish the painting in another half hour. There’s something so sad there, so lost, I can hardly look at it anymore. I definitely can’t show it to Mom. It’s a good painting, though; too good.
During the next week, I come twice a day to feed Dad. Things are going reasonably well with Mother, but Joan is almost out of her mind trying to find a nurse Mom will accept. It begins to look hopeless after she’s interviewed twelve and Mom has turned thumbs down on every one.
Mother takes on a little more herself every day and I’m mostly trying to hold her back. One day I come home to find her weeding the backyard. Her argument is she can’t bear seeing Daddy’s flowers get overgrown by weeds. Besides, she’s sitting down and only pulling easy weeds. What can you do? After that, between feedings, I’m weeding.
I don’t know whether it’s because Mrs Kessler catches on to the little flirt Alicia and I are having, or it’s part of the regular rotation cycle, but Alicia is moved to the evening shift. It’s probably just as well. Her vivacity and joy are getting to me. One day she told me how she was raised by her mother without a father, too, just like little Jessica. There’s something about women who’ve never been dominated by males that turns me on.
I wonder how much I worked my way into Marty’s feeling about men. I tried my damnedest not to make too many waves but you never know.
Saturday evening, at eight, I’m going out to dinner with Sandy and Pat Mock, longtime friends. Billy’s staying with Mom for the evening. I decide to stop in and see how Dad’s doing, at least that’s why I think I’m stopping in. I’ve already given him his six-o’clock feeding.
When I go into Dad’s room, I see right away something’s drastically wrong. Dad looks dead except he’s breathing with a loud, deep, rattling snore. I’ve only heard the death rattle a few times and that was over thirty years ago but it’s a sound you don’t forget. He’s pale, greenish white, and there’s perspiration on his face. I quickly run out and Alicia’s coming from the other hall, smiling at me.
‘Alicia, would you check my dad? There’s something seriously wrong!’
I run on to the desk looking for Mrs Kessler but she isn’t there. The RN is in the other wing, giving medication. I run for her.
‘Please come with me, Nurse; my father might be dying!’
She’s fat and at least sixty years old. She wobbles after me down the hall.
When we get there, Alicia’s rubbing Dad’s wrist. The nurse takes his pulse with one hand while I take it with the other; it’s weak and fluttery. She wraps on her cuff, pumps and watches. There’s no movement of the dial over fifty. She looks up.
‘Alicia, call the hospital. Get an ambulance here quick.’
She turns to me.
‘Can you do cardiopulmonary resuscitation?’
I nod. I think of my trying to teach Dad, his squeamishness about my putting my mouth over his. I’m wondering why they don’t have a resuscitation unit here at a convalescent home.
‘Does he have any dentures?’
I shake my head. I’m going into some shock already.
Now we can’t get any pulse. Time for cardiopulmonary resuscitation. She pulls him by the legs down toward the end of the bed so I can position myself over him. I tilt his head back and start the mouth-to-mouth. At the same time, I begin the cardiac compression. I’m holding Dad’s nose and blowing in hard, two breaths every eleven seconds. Then I stop the breathing and do the compressions. I’m pushing down on his sternum about sixty times a minute. Then I go back to the breathing.
Alicia comes in and says an ambulance is on the way. The RN puts her to rubbing Dad’s legs. They’re already mottled and blue from lack of circulation.
I think of the autopsy painting by Rembrandt in Amsterdam, or was it the Vatican? I’m trying hard not to think about what I’m actually doing. Alicia moves beside me and assists with the cardiac compression. I concentrate on the breathing. The RN keeps taking the blood pressure and frequently pulls open Dad’s lids to check his pupils. She says we’re up to eighty over fifty now; also he seems to have better color.
I’m beginning to wonder how long I can keep it up. I’m dressed in a suit and shirt with a tie. Sweat’s soaking through my shirt. I’m beginning to feel dizzy from hyperventilation. I try thinking of something else besides when in hell the ambulance’s ever going to come.
Alicia slides her hands under mine on Dad’s sternum and takes over the compressions. That way I can concentrate