The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
know she’s stewing. It’s the beard, all the attention Dad’s getting, his talking so much. It’s a lot of change, too much.
‘Don’t forget, Jack, those clouds used to be full of rain. You remember in Philadelphia it would rain sometimes for two weeks straight, even in summer. Don’t forget the rain.’
‘That’s right, Bess; but rain’s good for growing things.’
Dad’s been calling Mother ‘Bess’ since his recovery. I don’t know whether he’s doing it on purpose or it’s automatic, or he’s forgotten she wants to be called Bette. She’s been Bette for almost thirty years, since they moved out to California, and now he’s back to Bess. Mother’s real name is Elizabeth and she’s never been called that. Mother hasn’t said anything about the ‘Bess’ business yet, but I know it’s bugging her.
‘Jack, I remember once we took your two weeks’ vacation in Wildwood and it rained the entire time. We were locked up in one room with two beds and two kids for two weeks. I’ll never forget it.’
Dad’s still staring at the sky, eyes wide open; blue as the sky, but clearer. A smile works its way across his face.
‘Well, well, rubber ears!’
He says this, then looks around. Mother looks at Joan, then at me; there’s raw fear in her eyes. I get up, go over to Joan and pull her ear.
‘Well, well, rubber ears!’
Joan yanks away, then laughs. She leans over toward Dad and pulls on his ear.
‘Well, well, rubber ears.’
She leans close and kisses him on the cheek.
‘Dad, I’d forgotten; was that the time it rained so much? It’s the time at Wildwood I remember most.’
Mother gives a vintage snort.
‘You’re all crazy. You and your “rubber ears”.’
Then she laughs.
‘If anybody ever saw you three pulling ears like that, they’d be sure you were insane.
‘And it all came from the funnies, you know. He’d read the comics to you two with different crazy voices even after Jacky could already read himself.
‘Popeye pulled Sweetpea’s ear once and said that; then you all got started. I couldn’t relax without one of you sneaking up and pulling my ear.’
She’s laughing so hard now, she’s holding her hand on her chest.
‘It’s a wonder I didn’t have a heart attack or go completely crazy a long time ago living with such a bunch of nitwits.’
Within another week, Dad can get around with only a cane. He starts getting cocky, using the cane to investigate growing plants without stooping. He’s smiling all the time and singing or humming to himself. He drives Mother nuts hanging around the kitchen. And he’s asking questions, just like a kid. I’m caught between fires. Dad doesn’t want Mother working in the kitchen and she doesn’t want me to cook. I tell Dad I’ll watch Mom to see she doesn’t do too much. Dad’s all over Mother; he hardly lets her go to the john alone.
The other thing is: he, who all his life has been so reserved in physical signs of affection, is continually coming over to rub Mother’s neck or her back, or leaning down to give her a quick kiss. Mom doesn’t know how to take it. A couple times, when he gets up from his chair, unannounced, to plant one of his kisses on her, she gives me her ‘here comes the simp’ look; also there’s fear.
One day Dad asks if I’ll take him to the Salvation Army thrift store, just the two of us. He shows me his wallet; he has three twenties and a ten. I never remember Dad carrying more than five dollars in his life.
Mother’s in a tizzy wondering what we’re going to do. Dad says it’s a secret and he’ll tell her when we come back. I suggest she take a nap while we’re gone. She’s been complaining she doesn’t have a minute to herself with Dad hanging over her. So, quietly, while Dad’s getting out the street version of his aircraft-carrier hat and a sweater, I whisper to her.
‘Look, Mom, here’s your chance to have some time for yourself. Relax and enjoy.’
‘How can I relax when he’s acting like this, Jacky? Where are you going, what’s he doing now?’
‘I don’t know, Mom, and he doesn’t want to say. Don’t worry, it’s all right; I’ll be with him all the time. We’ll be back before five; try to get a good rest.’
We drive over to the Salvation Army on Eleventh Street in Santa Monica. When we get there, Dad goes sniffing around like a bird dog. He and I are back in the old days routing around in the dump for something to salvage and fix up. Dad’s convinced, has been all his life, that people throw perfectly good things away because they’re only tired of them or because there’s some little thing wrong he can fix.
We spend half an hour on the thrift-shop side. This is stuff that’s so far gone even the Salvation Army won’t try to fix it. Dad finds himself an old pair of Adidas running shoes. The laces are gone and the toe is coming out the left shoe but they’re his size and he gets them for twenty-five cents. They’re light blue with three dark blue racing strips and Dad’s pleased as punch. Those shoes should’ve tipped me off.
In the main store, I walk him past an enormous burnt-gold colored couch. It costs seventy-five dollars. Holy cow, if we come home with something like that strapped on top of the car, we can bury Mother the next day.
After I work him away from the couch, he noses around for a while in women’s purses, then blouses. Next, he looks up and sees the stock of Salvation Army furs. They look like a backwoods hunter’s private cache of last year’s killings. Dad heads directly for them, his eyes glowing.
‘Your mother’s always loved furs, Johnny.’
During the next ten minutes, he’s taking fur coats off hangers, holding them up, turning them around. He puts two on himself, strokes the fur, looks in the mirror. Thank God none of them strike his fancy.
I steer him over to the sweater section. A sweater shouldn’t cost much and Mother can hide it or give it away. Nobody can buy clothes for Mother. She even takes back half the clothes she buys for herself.
I tell Dad I’m looking for a pair of pants, and I head for the pants racks. I’m looking for anything reasonable in 33– or 34–30 under a buck and a half. If you don’t care much about being in style, you can get great buys. Dad follows along behind me. He pulls out a pair of violet velvet pants and holds them against himself. They’re size 38–34.
‘Are these too big, John?’
I try to keep a straight face; I won’t fall into Mother’s role here.
‘Yeah, probably. What size do you wear, Dad?’
He looks down at his waist. He’s lost so much weight his pants are folded under his belt and the trousers hang slack around his legs. He’s already gained back fifteen pounds but doesn’t weigh one twenty yet. He opens his belt and holds up the pants. I look inside the waist seam: 32–29.
‘But you’re more like twenty-eight-twenty-nine right now, Dad. The thing is, who knows how much you’ll weigh three months from now; the way you’re eating you could be the new Tony Galento.’
Dad tightens his belt, checks his shirttail and smiles.
‘Do you remember that fight, John?’
‘I sure do. I even remember where we were when we listened to it. It was the furthest I’d ever been from home. We were in Upstate New York with Ira Taylor and his wife, Kay.’
‘You’re right, Johnny; I almost forgot. Gee, that was a fun trip. I remember I promised you you’d see a mountain. Every time we’d go over a hill you’d ask if this was it. We had the ’29 Ford then.’
Dad pulls out a pair of red, blue