Dad

  He climbs in the car. He sits and doesn’t start the engine. I look at him; he’s white and breathing shallowly. He looks awful, pale, face all over shining wet.

  We start hearing a siren. It’s barreling out of the east and goes past us with that heehhoouuughhh sound a siren makes when you’re sitting still. A minute later, another one screams by. Dad watches till they disappear. He turns on the motor.

  “Well, Bill, I guess there’s nothing more we can do.”

  He puts her in gear and waits till the highway is empty end to end before he pulls out. Now he’s driving all of thirty-five miles an hour; but I’m not fighting. I’m considering walking the rest of the way.

  We stop at the next gas station and tank up. There’s a small snack place there, so we go in for a cup of coffee. My stomach’s so empty now the back’s hitting the front. I buy a piece of blueberry pie. I’m beginning to feel better, but Dad’s still white.

  “Billy, would you drive for a while?”

  I nod.

  “And take it easy, please, I’ve about had it.”

  He takes out a bottle of Valium from the glove compartment and pops one.

  “Boy, Bill, I can feel the blood pumping through my heart like a hydraulic press.”

  I keep it at fifty-five and the old man lies back in the seat the way I left it. He isn’t watching the road at all, just lying back staring at the headlining. It’s the first time he hasn’t had his eyes glued on the road. It’s spooky, as if he’s given up running things.

  “What do you think happened, Bill? There wasn’t any other car. It’s the middle of the day; I can’t see the guy falling asleep. I checked the tires; there wasn’t any blowout. What the hell could’ve gone wrong so this guy ruins everything, his wife, his children, even his dog? What the hell did he do wrong?”

  He gives a big sigh and I look over at him. There are tears in his eyes. He really is about ready to crack, but he’s not finished.

  “Maybe his kids were bugging him and he leaned back to give them a whack and lost control. God, I hope not, that’d be an awful thought to have at the last minute. Maybe the steering wheel cracked or the brakes gave out. So many things can go wrong, no matter how careful you are.

  “I only hope he never had a chance to look back and see it all, wife twisted like a pretzel against the dirt, his son gutted, his daughter poleaxed and his baby standing there like a walking piece of hamburger on the road crying, surrounded by strangers. It’s enough to make you hope there isn’t any life after death. How the hell could you live any kind of life, anywhere, doing anything, if you had to live with that?”

  Oh, God, I wish he’d only shut up. I’ll be upchucking that blueberry pie and coffee if he keeps on with this.

  “And damn it, Bill, there’s no way to get out of driving. It scares the hell out of me. I hate getting into one of these metal boxes and I’m glad every time I step out alive. I know I’m too tense when I drive but I keep seeing that kind of thing, only it’s us. It’s us, publicly dying on hot, or wet, or icy asphalt with strangers pawing over what’s left.”

  Jesus, you think he’s the iron man, getting things done, carrying through; then he collapses. I’ve slowed down to forty-five! I juice her back to sixty. He doesn’t even notice; only stares some more at that headlining.

  “It’s just destiny, Dad. Accidents are a question of bad luck. You can only do so much. There’s no sense sweating it; you can worry yourself straight past any fun in life.”

  He doesn’t move. Maybe he isn’t listening. It’s getting dark so I switch on the lights. It’s not that late but some big black clouds have blown up between us and the sun. I’m hoping we can make it to the other side of Indianapolis and find a motel. I’m pooped. We slept last night but it wasn’t real sleep. I was only unconscious; some part of me was fighting rain, thunder, lightning and trucks.

  Then he starts in again.

  “I used to feel that way, Bill; it’s part of being young. It’s also a question of recklessness. I looked up the word ‘reek’ once to see if there really was such a word. It means worry or care. As people get older they get more ‘reek.’ Bad experiences, accidents, near misses—seeing things like we just saw—pile up, accumulate in the brain. A person becomes more ‘reeky’ every year; continuity, survival, gets bigger and bigger.

  “Also, the brain itself is changing. Certain kinds of mental and physical skills begin declining as early as seventeen.

  “I’ve watched myself becoming less sure, Bill, less capable of making decisions. When I’m driving, I feel caught between the reckless, the twenty-year-old, and the inept, the fifty- or sixty-year-old, who might not have the skills to cope with an emergency. And I can’t help projecting my limitations onto others, like you, Bill. I can’t be comfortable when you drive in ways I couldn’t handle.”

  It goes dark fast and then the first big raindrops start. The road here outside Indianapolis is packed with giant semitrailer trucks. I pass one about every quarter mile. Thank God Dad’s all cranked up on the decline and fall of the human animal. He’d be a raving lunatic helping me get around these big bastards.

  When I turn on the windshield wiper, there’s only a humming sound. I look at the dash to check I’ve pushed the right switch. I joggle it on and off a few times.

  Man, this is going to be fun with the dark, the rain, the trucks and the voice of doom beside me. He leans forward, leaving the chair back. He fiddles with the switch; it’s kaput all right. I’m sure glad this bucket of bolts isn’t mine; I’d need to work full time just keeping it running.

  The rain is coming down in sheets now; I aim on the taillight of the truck in front of me; it’s the only thing I can actually see. I can’t pick up the white lines or the edge of the road. I’ve only got the two red lights repeated about a hundred times by each water splash on the windshield; and I’m afraid to stop.

  “Can you see at all, Bill? I can’t see a thing. Maybe we’d better pull over!”

  “I can see OK, Dad; I’ll just stay behind this truck. Long’s I see those taillights we’re all right.”

  He’s quiet. I know he doesn’t want to go on but what the hell else can we do? There’s no real shoulder on this road and it’s beginning to go under water already.

  “Look, Dad, you keep watch for a turnoff. If you see one, yell.”

  He rolls the window down two inches on his side so he can see out. The rain comes pouring in and swishes around the inside of the car. Even with the window open he can’t see; and with that big truck in front of us, there’s no way to pick up signs till they’re almost behind us.

  I’m tailing my truck at less than fifty feet; if I get farther behind I lose him. I’m going to get wet anyway so I roll down my window. It pours in like a boat sinking in a catastrophe movie; in one minute I’m soaking wet. I hang my head out to see if it’s any better, but the rain whips in my eyes so it’s worse than with the smeared windshield. I pull in my head and roll up the window.

  I catch some blinking lights coming up behind. I hold on to the wheel and hope for the best. It’s another semi who’s impatient with this big Lincoln tailgating one of his buddies. He steams by, and I lose whatever vision I had. The semi is throwing up dirty water and mud faster than clean water is coming down. I hold the wheel tight, keep up my speed and wait till I can see the taillights again. Our whole car gets a tug in the semi’s slipstream. I’m doing forty-five and he must be doing sixty. It’s almost a half minute of absolute blind driving, the windshield tinted brown mud, before I pick up the taillight again.

  But I’m getting the hang of it. If he puts on his brakes, the brake lights come on and I put on mine. The problem is I’m getting hypnotized by those two lights. They shimmer on the road and on the windshield; no hypnotist could think up a better gimmick.

  Just then, Dad hollers; more like yelps. There’s an exit coming in one mile. I put on the direction signal and ease to the right. I hope to hell I can pick up the turnoff. It’s pouring horse and elephant piss
now. The roof of this crate’s howling with sound.

  Dad sees the turnoff arrow just in time and I turn. There are no lights behind so I slow to fifteen. There’s a dim marking along the edge of the exit road; we curve off and down to a stop. There’s a sign across the road. I kick up the highs and roll out till we read “BROWNVILLE FIVE MILES.” I swing hard right and start that way.

  It’s a high-crown, narrow road, and the white line’s almost invisible. I ride the crown; if anybody comes speeding along without headlights, we’ve had it.

  We cruise into town looking out blurry windows for a motel sign. I’m hoping the cops or sheriffs or whatever they use for law here are inside. They’d never appreciate this Lincoln with no wipers nosing blind up and down the main street. We’re about to give up when we spot a sign, “HOTEL,” at the other edge of town. God, I hope there’s a room; spending the night wrapped in a wet blanket for two doesn’t exactly turn me on.

  This place is brick with a colonial porch. There are coach lamps with yellow bulbs on both sides of the door. Dad jumps out and dashes through the rain. He can’t get any wetter than he is, but people run hunched over in the rain as a natural thing. I know if they have a room he’ll take it even at fifty dollars a night.

  In about five minutes he comes out; he opens the door and smiles in.

  “I’ve got us a great room. The manager’s convinced I’m a bank robber just off the job and we’ve got the trunk filled with gold bullion, so let’s live up the part; at least put your shoes on.”

  He’s hyped again. Maybe he’s only glad to be alive, with a warm bath and dryness waiting inside. I give him the keys. He opens the trunk and struggles out his suitcase with my duffel bag. He hauls our bags onto the porch while I back the car into a parking area behind.

  I walk slowly through that warm rain. I’m smiling as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to walk through teeming rain in the night. There are hydrangea bushes off the edge of the porch and I lean over to sniff the flowers, no smell. Dad’s rocking back and forth squishing in his shoes. But he’s laughing.

  “Come on, Bill, you don’t have to overdo it. I’m sure this pussy’s already alerted the sheriffs in three counties.”

  We sashay into the lobby, dripping genuine Indiana or Ohio rainwater all over maroon rugs. We carry our own bags up to the room and it looks beautiful, two gigantic double beds.

  We take turns wringing clothes and taking showers. I’m completely out of dry things, so I borrow a shirt and trousers from Dad. I even borrow a pair of his jockey shorts and tennis shoes. Going down we look halfway presentable; I’m loose in his clothes and my feet are cramped in his size 8 sneakers, but we’re clean.

  Would you believe it, the manager comes over and casually introduces a gentleman who’s wearing a half-Stetson white hat. It really is, it’s the marshal for the town. He must have jumped up from dinner to come see the masked bandits without their masks. He starts polite conversation about where we’re coming from and where we’re going to; and, of course, about the car. Even if we’d gotten out of that car clean-shaven and in tuxes, this hotel manager would’ve called his friend the marshal.

  Dad looks him in the eye and asks if there’s a Colonel Sanders in town. A sheer stroke of genius. The marshal shakes his head, all sorry about that. Just for the hell of it I ask if there’s a Taco Bell, another mob franchise. He shakes his head and smiles again. He could be half catching on.

  “But there’s a Pizza Hut, fellas; just on the other side of town, toward 80.”

  He nods and smiles. He leads us onto the porch and points the only direction the place could be; it’s dark every other way. Just gives an idea how hard that rain was coming down when we went past a Pizza Hut without stopping.

  We bow and bend, thanking the marshal as he tips his hat to us; Spade Cooley saluting his horse.

  We board the Philadelphia Express and float our way blind to the Pizza Hut. It’s like coming home. We order a giant cheese pizza and a pitcher of beer each. We’re going all out. The pitchers are glass with curved glass handles like gigantic mugs, only with spouts. We drink our beer straight from the pitchers as if they’re beer steins. We wipe out the pizzas and an Italian salad. I can’t say I ever enjoyed food more in my life.

  There are two cute waitresses having a ball watching us drink from pitchers. If I were with any other guy except my father, I’m sure we could talk them into coming to the hotel with us; give that manager something to worry about.

  16

  Next day the strike hits. All RNs and doctors are put on full time, two shifts. Everything’s on emergency basis. The hospital accepts no new patients and they’re discharging or shipping patients to other hospitals.

  The RNs are forced to do all the bedside and dirty work normally done by LVNs. I volunteer to help wherever I can; there’s no way they’re going to move Dad out.

  I’m concerned he’ll be neglected with all the confusion, so I move in and sleep next to him. Over half the beds in intensive are empty anyhow. A little redhead nurse shows me what to look for with Dad and I change his sheets, his Pampers; give general bedside service. Except for renewing bottles on the IV, there’s not much medical involved. Chad’s cleared things for me to stay, so I’m having no trouble there.

  When I tell Mother about the strike, she wants to shift Dad to another hospital. Joan and I talk her out of that. Perpetual knows his condition and Dr. Chad seems to care. The move alone could kill him.

  Mother’s at home. Billy’s sleeping in the back garden room to keep an eye on her. He’s being great about it.

  It’s strange living in a hospital when you aren’t sick, especially sleeping in an intensive care unit. Most of the patients still here are desperately ill, too far gone to move, so the line between the well and ill is even more exaggerated than usual.

  After I’ve been around several days and haven’t bitten anyone’s head off, the nurses are more reasonable. Several times they use me as an extra hand, holding a patient still for an IV insertion or lifting and holding or shifting while they make a bed. I also help with the feeding of other patients.

  Early in the morning of the fifth night, I wake to the usual jingling of glass and metal, the main sound in a hospital. There’s a pale gray light coming through the window and I listen to the early going-to-work traffic. It’s the time when I usually have my most depressed thoughts. I’m lying in bed, half thinking, half in suspended animation.

  I glance over at Dad. His eyes are open and he’s looking at me! I mean he’s looking at me, not past me, or through me or around me! He’s looking into my eyes!

  I slide out of bed on his side and approach carefully. At first, I think maybe he died in the night, but his eyes are live, they follow me, keeping me in focus. I come to the edge of his bed. His mouth opens twice, dry pale lips, paper-frail. But he gets out a sound, a thin, high voice almost falsetto.

  “Where am I, Johnny?”

  I can’t believe it! He’s still looking into my eyes, waiting for an answer.

  “You’re in the hospital, Dad, you’ve been sick.”

  He nods his head slowly. He looks down the length of his bed and smiles.

  “I think I could’ve guessed that one, Johnny. But what are you doing here? Are you sick, too?”

  God, there’s something so clear, so young-sounding! I reach out and put my hand on his head.

  “Just take it easy, now, Dad; don’t force yourself. You’re doing fine.”

  He lifts one arm, his right, discolored with IV punctures and tape marks. It’s so thin the muscles are like ropes over bones just under the skin.

  “I don’t look so hot to me, Johnny. What’s happened anyway; was there an earthquake or a car crash or something?”

  I don’t know what to say, how much to try explaining. Just then, the morning nurse comes in. It’s the redhead again. Dad looks at her and smiles. She stands there staring, as shocked as I am, but recovers quickly.

  “Well, hello, Mr. Tremont, how ar
e you feeling this morning?”

  Dad looks over at me.

  “Isn’t she pretty, Johnny? I always wanted a redheaded daughter; left-handed like your mother and redheaded.”

  Now the nurse stares at me, bewildered. There couldn’t be a more drastic swing from death to life.

  “Nurse, I think you should page Dr. Chad.”

  Dad closes his eyes. I’m afraid it might only have been a moment’s clarity before some horrible final descent into death but I don’t want to disturb him. I pull my chair close.

  When Chad comes in, we’re still like that. Dad must not have been asleep, because he opens his eyes as the doctor and nurse bustle into the room. Dad looks at Chad and smiles.

  “My goodness, it’s like the House of David baseball team.”

  Chad looks at me, eyes wide.

  “He woke this way, Doctor. What do you think?”

  Chad’s taking Dad’s pulse; he puts a thermometer in his mouth. Dad keeps an eye on him; a quivering smile flashes around his eyes, his lips. Chad takes his blood pressure and looks at me.

  “One twenty over seventy-five.”

  He checks the thermometer.

  “Normal.”

  “Hello, Mr. Tremont, how are you feeling?”

  “I don’t know. How am I supposed to feel? I’ll say I feel mighty tired.”

  Chad’s leaning forward, peering into Dad’s eyes, feeling his skin. He looks under the bed at the urine bottle.

  “Well, Mr. Tremont; you’ve been sick but you seem fine now. What can we do to make you comfortable?”

  Dad looks down at himself in the bed.

  “Well, to start with, could you take off a few of these tubes and wires; then can I have something to eat? I’m hungry.”

  He holds up his withered arms.

  “It looks to me as if you’ve been starving me in this hospital. I’d say I haven’t had a good meal in a month or so.”

  I take his hand. It’s something I never would’ve done when he was well. We take liberties with the very ill.