The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
I’m surprised at my own reactions. I’m worrying what the neighbors will say. Maybe they’ll think I’m letting Dad go to seed.
Then it hits me. I start laughing. Dad’s laughing too; we’re still laughing when we pull into the driveway. Sure as hell the neighbors aren’t going to think we’re completely broken up over Mom’s heart attack.
We watch a Dodger ball game on TV. Afterwards, Dad starts up a conversation. He begins with how he’s always been an Angel fan because there are too many niggers on the Dodgers. My first impulse is to back off; I don’t want to ruin the good feelings we’re having. But he wants to talk; there’s something bothering him.
‘You know, John, when I was a kid and we first came from Wisconsin to the East Coast, we lived down there in southwest Philadelphia near a lot of Negroes. It wasn’t safe for us to walk through some parts of town and we’d kill any nigger who came west of Sixtieth Street or north of Woodlawn Avenue. It was like a war going on all the time.
‘It’s the main reason we moved to Upper Darby. I hated moving five miles from my family but we were afraid of those niggers. Saint Barnabas Church had the only school with no niggers in it and we were proud of that; even the priests used to talk about it in those days.’
He stops. I wonder what he wants me to say.
‘Now, Johnny, they tell us in church we have to forget all that. Our priest says it’s a mortal sin having those kinds of feelings. Honest, I don’t have anything personal against niggers, Johnny; it’s just a feeling I get down my spine, like a dog’s hair standing stiff when he’s mad or scared. And I’ll bet them niggers have the same feelings about me, too.
‘When Bette and I go to church at Saint Augustine’s, we always look around for some place away from any niggers or Mexicans. With this “kiss of peace” business, you’re supposed to smile and shake hands with the people near you, and we can’t get ourselves to do this with some Mexican or a nigger.
‘John, you can’t change people so fast. I tell the priest in confession and he tells me to pray for love and charity.
‘I pray, Johnny, but nothing comes. I’d sure as the devil hate going to hell just because I can’t work up love for a nigger. It’s not fair. You do what you’re supposed to do when you’re young, then they change the rules.’
He stops. I still don’t know what he wants from me. I’m glad it isn’t my problem, not just the race part but the whole business of somebody else saying whether I’m a good person or not. People give up control of their lives too easily.
I fix us a snack: beer, potato chips and pretzels. Dad goes to turn on the TV, checks himself and settles into his platform rocker; I sit in Mom’s gold chair.
‘You know, Dad, one trouble with your growing a beard is Mother’ll have a fit when we visit her. You can’t go to the hospital looking like this.’
He gives me one of his sly smiles, gets up and goes into the bathroom. He comes out a few minutes later with a surgical mask over his face, eyes twinkling.
‘Mother wears this when she dyes her hair. We’ll tell her I have a cold and we don’t want her to catch it.’
I choke on my beer and run to the kitchen sink. He follows me, worried. I peek at him again; he looks like a distinguished surgeon. Considering Mother’s fear of germs, it’s so diabolically clever.
We work out the mask routine in the hospital just fine. Dad even develops a creditable sniff and cough. His beard grows in a hurry. Within a week, it’s past the itchy stage and beginning to curl over. It’s curly and compact, a pubic-hair-type beard, wiry. The most amazing thing is it’s a grizzled, dark chestnut. Dad doesn’t have much hair left on his head, and it’s white. There are still a few dark hairs in his eyebrows, all that’s left of his original hair color.
But this beard is something else. It’s more dark brown than white. He looks at least ten years younger, incredibly vital.
I keep catching him staring in the bathroom mirror. Those split teeth of his are perfectly framed by a beard. I have a hard time adapting myself. It’s as if Dad’s stepped back a generation and we’re contemporaries.
Joan flips. She strokes his beard while he smiles and she gives him a big kiss. She almost laughs herself to death when we show her the trick with the surgical mask. But she’s worried Mother will find us out anyhow.
During that last week, Dad and I go regularly down to the Oar House, evenings. We have our pitcher of beer and it’s fun watching; one hell of a lot better than T V. We even have almost-conversations. We talk about Mother, her health and all the things we’ll arrange to make the house comfortable for her. He’s begun having ideas of his own. He rigs an intercom system between the side bedroom, where she’ll be, and the back bedroom; even into the garden bedroom. It’s a regular Amos ‘n’ Andy ‘Miss Blue, buzz me’ affair, but it works.
Once, he scares the bejesus out of me by ringing in the middle of the night. He says he wants to check if it’s loud enough to wake somebody who’s asleep. This is at three o’clock in the morning when he gets up for his nighttime pee. There’s a strong strain of joker in Dad.
Several times, I take Dad over to visit Gary and Marty. He doesn’t say much but obviously enjoys the conversation. Mostly we talk about the new baby or how Mom’s doing. We don’t watch TV.
The day comes to bring Mother home. We have everything ready. Dad comes out of the bathroom that morning clean-shaven; nothing said. We drive Mom home in the car and she’s babbling away ten miles to a minute. She’ll have another heart attack before we even get her in the house.
I put her to bed, pull all the blinds and insist she take a nap. I hadn’t realized before what a tremendous responsibility it’s going to be having her home. If anything happens, it’s more than fifteen minutes to the hospital.
I’m having more panic feelings than Dad. He and I share beer and sandwiches on the patio. He asks when I think he can sleep with Mother again. That one I hadn’t even considered.
Immediately after her nap, I find Mom sitting on the side of her bed working her arms into a bathrobe. She wants to use the toilet, insists she can’t get herself to ‘go’ sitting in bed on a bedpan. Nothing I say will stop her. We move down the hall, slowly. She’s holding a wall with one hand and me with the other. I maneuver her into the bathroom, she shoos me out and locks the door.
Dad and I hover outside, hearing her pee hit the side of the bowl, then the flush. We wait but she doesn’t come out. Finally, Dad can’t take it any longer.
‘Are you all right in there, Bette?’
Bette, by the way, is said as in ‘pet’.
‘I’m fine. Don’t hang over me so, it makes me nervous.’
Then she unlocks the door. She’s made up, and her hair’s in curlers. Guts my mother’s got; good sense I’m not so sure.
Things go a bit better every day. Mother’s color is coming back or maybe it’s only rouge. Our trouble is keeping her down. She’s wanting to take over again. At the same time, she’s complaining about how hard it is to breathe.
On the third day, we take her out on the patio. It’s a warm day with no wind and she’s been cooped up for a long time. It seems to help; she lies in the sun and tries to relax.
Dad’s doing most of the cooking. He’s justifiably proud of himself. Every morning he’s out of bed by eight and we take turns sweeping or making breakfast. It turns out he’s the mad sweeper, too. This drives poor Mother crazy; she wants us to vacuum; says we’re only pushing the dirt around, making everything dusty.
By the end of that week, there’s a full load of wash; Dad volunteers to do it at the Laundromat. He wants me to drive him there and show him how. Joan’s willing to do our laundry but Dad wants to do this himself.
So, while Mom’s