The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
from here in California to Cape May and that got her all upset. I couldn’t think of anything else to say that didn’t sound completely crazy.’
Boy, I can imagine how Mother reacted to that. No wonder she called me. First he’s talking about corn plants, the farm boy strikes; then he’s moving back East. Part of Mother’s whole personal validation is how she ‘broke away’ from all that life in the East. Any going back would be admitting defeat.
‘You’ve got to be careful, Dad. You’d better think about all this some more.’
‘That’s right, John. I’ve got to do some thinking. I guess you’re right and all that life there isn’t real, but then I can’t let it go either. I’m not sure I could let go even if I wanted to. I just have to figure some way to put it together or else get it separate again.
‘Moving to Cape May might not be such a bad idea anyway, John. We could be near the beach the way we are here. Bess’s two brothers, George and Will, are just up at Wildwood and our Gertrude lives in New Jersey too, in Haddonfield; we’d be near our family and friends. I wouldn’t be growing corn or anything, I’m too old, but I’d have the feeling of putting myself back together.’
I ease out and begin driving up Rose. I imagine Mom’s already called the police. She doesn’t trust me any more than she does Dad, and she definitely doesn’t trust the two of us together.
‘Look, Dad. Would you like some help working all this out? I can ask around and find somebody who specializes in this kind of thing.’
Dad isn’t fooled. He closes his eyes, folds his hands and sits quietly. I turn onto Palms.
‘You’re right, John. I probably need a psychiatrist or somebody like that. At least he can tell me if I’m crazy. I don’t think I can figure this all out by myself; you just can’t imagine how big it is. It’s a whole world. It’s as if I’m dying or I need to kill part of myself and don’t want to. Yeah, John, get me somebody; I don’t care what it costs.’
‘It won’t cost much, Dad. You’re covered under Medicare. I don’t think any doctor can deny help. They have psychiatrists at Perpetual, too. I could get you an appointment with one of them if you want; then it won’t cost anything.’
‘No. Get me a good psychiatrist, Johnny. Get somebody who knows about old people and old people’s dreams. Part of all this has to do with getting old, I can feel it.’
We roll into Colby and I park in the driveway.
‘Dad, I’m just going to tell Mother you had a dream and it was so real you got confused. That’s not exactly a lie and it’s something I can tell her.’
He turns to me and smiles. God, he has a nice smile; it goes directly through me.
‘OK, John. You’re the boss. And I’ll try to be more careful from now on.’
As I expect, Mother’s in a dither. She’s called Joan. But she’s so glad to see us, she swallows the dream story without much fuss. In fact, she’s very commiserating with Dad and gives him a hug. I think bad dreams are something she knows. You don’t have two nervous breakdowns without night traumatization of some kind.
That evening I call several friends. The Marshalls give me the name of a young gerontologist in Santa Monica. They’d had trouble with Joe’s dad before he died and they recommend this guy highly. I try getting a call in to him but it’s an answering service. I leave a message that I’ll call in the morning. I make these calls at a phone booth around the corner while Mom and Dad are watching TV. Dad doesn’t wear any of his costumes and seems detached. He’s worried all right.
When I’m in bed, I’m surprised to hear the door open, and Mom comes in. I look at my watch and it’s one o’clock in the morning. She has a small flashlight but I turn on the lamp beside the bed. I sit up.
‘Jacky, I have to talk with you; I think I’m going crazy.’
She sits on the edge of the bed and starts crying. I reach over and take her hand. She has incredibly small hands, like Joan. It’s amazing how the two of them get so much done with such tiny hands.
‘You’ve got to do something, Jacky. He crept into my bed and then got to talking about moving to Cape May again. Now you know that doesn’t make any sense. He’s living in the past, Jacky. He’s talking about his brother Ed and Ira Taylor and Gene Michaels and Ken Barlittle. None of those people want to see us, Jacky. We’re all too old. It’s too late to move back there, especially with my heart. I can’t leave Perpetual and Dr Coe; he’s the only thing that’s keeping me alive. You know that.’
Boy, what a mess! I guess he couldn’t keep it to himself. He’s so full of his ‘world’ he wants to share it. It’s love but it hurts. I don’t know what to say.
‘Jacky, you’ve got to get him a psychiatrist. There’s one at Perpetual. Maybe a specialist like that can talk to him. I think he’s completely off his rocker; honest I do, Jacky. He’s so peculiar.’
‘I’ve already called a specialist, Mother. I have an appointment with him tomorrow morning. Dad asked me to do it. He said he didn’t want to use the psychiatrists at Perpetual, so I’m having him see a doctor for mental problems of older people.’
It’s hard to deceive the old deceiver but I got her this time. She stops crying and stares at me. She’s giving me her ‘you never know when wonders cease’ look. This is one of her rarer ‘specials’.
‘So that’s what you were doing during the Mary Tyler Moore show.’
I nod.
‘But it’ll cost a fortune, Jacky. What’s wrong with the Perpetual doctors?’
‘This is what Dad wants, Mom. It’s covered by Medicare so it’ll only cost you twenty percent. Who deserves the best of care more than Dad?’
There’s no answer to that one. Taking the wind out of her sails best describes it; she sits there, canvas flapping.
‘Now you go back to bed, Mom; everything’s going to be all right. We only have to be patient; it’ll work out fine.’
She leaves without another word. I lie in the dark not able to sleep.
At nine-thirty we go downstairs and pay our garage bill. We get a receipt for the stud in Philadelphia. The car’s ready; those poor guys were working before we even got out of bed.
Dad’s more relaxed; all that rapping in the dark must’ve helped.
We begin rolling, gliding, through beautiful Pennsylvania countryside. Dad tells how when he was in high school his dream was going to Penn State, a university not far off the road here.
Our idea is to beat it clear into Philadelphia on this last leg. We’ll be staying with friends of my parents. Their name is Hill. The house is in a suburb, called Bala-Cynwyd.
Late afternoon we get there, that is, Philadelphia; but it’s seven o’clock before we finally find our way to the Hills’ place. And then nobody’s home. It’s getting dark and we’ve no place to go. These people were expecting us; we can’t be more than a day late, at most. And tomorrow we’ve got to deliver this boat to the mob.
Dad pulls out the Hills’ letter again. There are directions on what we’re supposed to do if they’re not home. It says there’s a key hidden on a two-by-four to the left of the inside back screen door.
We go around and look. There’s a screen door but it’s locked from the inside with one of those old-fashioned hook-and-eye locks. We peer in but can’t see far around enough to know if there’s a key.
Now this is a fancy house in a damned fancy part of town. All these houses are in the hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar class, at least. I’m expecting