Dad

  “My God, Jack. You make Lawrence Welk look like an old man.”

  Dad smiles and tries a little buck-and-wing, stumbles, catches himself.

  Nothing will do but that this is the costume he’ll wear the rest of the day. The Dodger game’s on at six and he wants a can of beer and some pretzels. He tells us he’s liable to do some loud cheering, so we’re not to get scared.

  Joan calls home. Mario says he’ll take the kids out to McDonald’s. Joan whips up hot dogs and potato salad. We have a great time watching the game. Dad turns down the sound and imitates an old-fashioned radio announcer recreating a baseball game, giving all the details—touching the resin bag, looking for the sign, all kinds of things that aren’t even happening. Joan and I laugh till it hurts but Mom’s quiet. She’s afraid of him. This man’s been away too long and came back too fast. I’m hoping it will work out all right.

  17

  We’re on the Pennsylvania Turnpike when we start hearing the noise. I think we’ve stripped a gear or maybe the transmission fluid’s low. Dad insists I shift out of drive to second and then to first. The sound’s the same in all gears. He thinks it’s the universal joint. How the hell would he know? As a mechanic, he makes a great painter. But what else can it be?

  “Bill, hold her in second and we’ll limp on to the next garage.”

  I keep her at a constant twenty-five for the next fifteen miles. The grinding gets louder so we’re beginning to sound like a cement mixer. Dad’s nervous as a mother cat, listening; opening a window, hanging his head out. He puts his ear onto the drive-shaft hump. He even climbs into the back, rips up the seat and jams his head in there.

  I’m beginning to think we’d be better off calling a tow truck. After all, the cost would be picked up by this Scarlietti we’re delivering to.

  We limp into a garage making such a racket it stops everything. It’s always fun seeing some bomb of a car crap out, and this clunker sounds as if it’s doing the death rattle.

  Dad goes looking for somebody. I’m afraid to turn off the motor, but I keep it in neutral to hold down the racket. Dad comes over with a mechanic. They signal me to roll her onto the grease rack. When I put her in first and start lugging, she sounds as if the bottom’s about to drop out. We just might need to phone and tell Mr. Scarlietti to kiss off this bucket of bolts. But if we do that, they’re liable to send somebody here to kiss us off.

  I climb out and the mechanic pushes the hydraulic-lift button. Up she goes, an elephant in an elevator. The mechanic shakes his head.

  “Sounds like your universal’s shot to hell, all right. You fellas keep prayin’ that’s all it is.”

  When the car’s up, he stops the lift and walks under. He moves along pushing his hand on different parts, shaking his head and muttering. I’m ready for the worst. Even if it isn’t anything important, this clown could rob us. He sees us in this wagon, he’s sure we’re touring millionaires.

  He fetches a wrench. Doctors and mechanics like to be mysterious. He twirls off four bolts and starts struggling to pull clear the front end of the drive shaft. He works it out and lowers it to the floor; wipes his hand into the crotch of the differential and shows it to us. His hand is covered with small silver, metal filings. He shakes his head but still doesn’t say anything. Then he pulls out the rest of the drive shaft, carries it over to his bench and knocks off the universal joint. It’s gored, silvered and generally chewed up. He wipes it with a grease cloth hanging from his back pocket.

  “Well, there she is. You ain’t goin’ much further with this baby.”

  We both stare. It’s an amazing chunk of metal sculpture; it looks like a giant pair of kids’ jacks, joined in a ball socket.

  After some palaver, it’s costing us a hundred fifty bucks. He needs to buy the joint in New Stanton. New Stanton is the name of this stop on the turnpike, but New Stanton, the town, is about ten miles away. There’s nothing else to do.

  We go into the hotel beside the garage and spend half an hour trying to reach the car owner, but can’t get an answer. We have to let the mechanic know right now so he’ll have time to get the piece tonight. Dad goes out and tells him to start, we’ll have to take the chance.

  The motel here’s in colonial style again, brick and white wooden columns again; there’s a restaurant attached. The mechanic says no matter what, we can’t have the car till tomorrow morning.

  “I’ll go check the prices, Bill. I think we’re in for an expensive night. You watch them take this thing apart so we can save ourself some money next time.”

  I go back in the garage and sit on a used oil drum. Two mechanics about my age are undoing the rest of the bolts, cleaning and greasing the drive-shaft seat for the yoke and joint.

  Dad comes back. He’s got us a room, twenty-five bucks. We sit there in the garage watching, and before I know it he starts.

  First he says something about how glad he is not to be a mechanic. Sounds simple enough, but I’m already suspicious. He’s leaning against a wall and I’m still sitting on the oil drum. These young guys are in front of us working. It’s one hell of a messy job. There’s oil dripping and crud from the bottom of the car keeps falling in their eyes.

  “But at least you’re doing something important and you get good pay, Dad.”

  I’m only being ornery; I could never be a mechanic, I’m not good enough. You watch a real mechanic at work and you know.

  “I’ll bet neither of these guys makes more than seven bucks an hour. If you work forty hours a week, fifty weeks a year, that’s less than fifteen thousand and you wouldn’t take home twelve after taxes and Social Security.

  “You can’t keep a family on that in America today, Bill, and there isn’t much chance of making more unless you open your own garage; then you’re a businessman.

  “And you’re always dirty, the kind of dirt you never get out of the cracks in your skin and under your nails; it gets driven into the cuticles. You’ve got banged fingers and hands all the time; and I’ll tell you, you’re dead tired at night. My dad used to come home nights filthy and absolutely bushed when he worked at G.E.”

  It’s coming all right; what did I say or do to bring it on? Maybe nothing. Maybe he’s been sitting back in his mind waiting.

  “Bill, what are you going to do in France this year?”

  There it is. OK.

  “Well, Dad, I’ll go down to the cabin, finish it off, then do some writing.”

  “How are you going to live? Do you have money saved up?”

  I tell him about the hundred fifty.

  “That’s nothing, Bill; a hundred and fifty dollars won’t last two weeks.”

  So I tell him Debby might come.

  He’s quiet a long time. We concentrate watching these poor bastards cleaning out the crap that got chewed off the universal joint. He’s not happy but he doesn’t know which way to go.

  “God, Bill, a hundred and fifty dollars won’t go anywhere at all with two of you.”

  “Her Dad’s chipping in. He doesn’t like her quitting school, but he’s giving her money so she won’t starve.”

  Dad’s quiet again. I’m hoping it’s finished. If I’m not getting help, I sure as hell won’t beg for it. We watch awhile but then he starts. He’s apologetic but firm, as if he’s taking a thorn out from under a fingernail.

  “Well, Bill, you’re nineteen now, an adult; so you’ll have to figure some way to earn money while you’re down there. I don’t know what to suggest. It’s hard finding work in France without papers. I really don’t see how you can make it.”

  “Well, the guy in Huez who hires for beet-picking said he’d take me on. I can make four thousand francs in two months. Along with Deb’s money, we’d have enough to live on.”

  I should leave it there.

  “But I could sure use the money you sent me when I was at Santa Cruz. Hell, I’ll be working to improve myself; writing’s a respected profession.”

  He looks up and stares me in the eyes.

  ?
??Bill, it’s probably not good sitting back knowing for sure money’s coming in. We have friends who’ve lived off money from parents all their lives. It ruined them. They have a childlike dependence combined with an arrogant ignorance. They’re never members of the real world.”

  So we leave it there. I don’t need to be insulted.

  It’s almost six when the garage closes down. We eat dinner at outrageous prices, then head up to our room. The only thing going is cars whizzing past on the turnpike. We watch a movie called something like It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Amsterdam. It’s about traveling in Europe. Dad and I get to laughing. We need something after all the heavy stuff.

  It’s past eleven when the movie’s over, and we crash. I’m pooped from all the Sturm und Drang. The lights are off and his voice comes out of nowhere.

  “Look, Bill. I hope you don’t feel bad about the money business.”

  He pauses. I don’t say anything. Let him think I’m asleep. I don’t want to talk about it.

  “It worries me, Bill, you might take the easy way. There are so many pressures to ‘take it easy,’ cool it,’ be groovy.’ I’d hate to have you be a twentieth-century dilettante. To me, that’s the enemy. I can cope with mere Communists—Russian, Chinese or Cuban—the Nazis, the Calvinists, the Baptists, the Catholics or the KKK, any ordinary group of dogmatists, but the real enemy, for me, the dangerous ones, are the leisured, advantaged dilettantes who have dominated and clogged the machinery of creativity and invention for centuries.”

  I wonder if he expects me to say something. No, I’d better keep my mouth shut.

  “I’ll tell you what, Bill. The mill needs a new roof. If you and Debby take off all the old slate, repair the slats and rafters where they’re rotted, then turn the slates over and put them back, I’ll give you five hundred bucks plus materials. If you both work hard, it shouldn’t take much time, and that kind of work could be a break from writing. Inner searching can be more tiring than you think; climbing over a roof will seem like a picnic. That way you’d get through the winter and have something to start sending around to publishers.”

  So this is what he’s been working up to. He knows I’m scared of heights. I’ll probably fall through that rotted, slanted roof and break my neck. I keep quiet but he still isn’t finished.

  “Another thing, Bill. I’d appreciate it if you don’t push it into everybody’s face down there how you and Debby are living together; don’t violate their idea of what’s right. OK?”

  Of course I say OK. So now he knows I wasn’t asleep.

  I think I’m home free, but just when I’m on the edge, he’s back at it.

  “Bill?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Bill, this thing with my dad and mom has been tough. I only now realize I’ve been in a kind of shock for the last three or four months.”

  I wait.

  “It’s been a long haul and it’s the sort of thing I’m not good at. If I’ve been too critical, don’t think much about it.”

  I wait and hope he’s finished.

  “I feel terrible leaving Mom and Dad. But I can’t justify staying away from Mother and Jacky any longer. It’s been hard for them, too. I had to leave.”

  Shit, I don’t know what to say. I keep pretending I’m asleep. I lie there quietly and listen to him lying there in the dark. He’s not sleeping; I can tell by his breathing. I lie still and listen. I think about what it is to be alive.

  18

  Next day, Dad really does dress up in his different costumes. He watches the Dinah Shore show in his dancing costume. He wears the bicycling-roller-skating costume to putter around in his greenhouse. More important, he hangs these clothes back in his closet after each change. He’s in the bedroom often and I’m sure he’s checking his wardrobe.

  Two days later, he wants us all to visit the Salvation Army again.

  He’s been making notes on his clipboard cards. Just before we leave, while Mother’s in the bathroom, he shows them to me.

  Each card has a different title, printed in capital letters with the “I”s dotted. These are his ideas for new costumes. One is his “Confession-Going Costume”; another is his “Having Tea with the Queen Costume”; then there’s his “Jogging Costume.” He also has one titled “Singing and General Fooling Around.” He’s written below what each costume should be like. The “Confession Costume” is a black shirt, black pants and a cape. There’s a note, “sort of Dracula-like.” It’s hard to know how serious he is.

  “I wouldn’t show these cards to Mom, Dad.”

  “Oh, sure, John. But you know, Bess used to like fun as much as anybody. It’s been too serious around here lately. Our trouble is we keep thinking of ourselves as retired people. Life has gotten boring and we didn’t even notice.”

  He looks at me, streams of waving light passing through his eyes; he’s staring at me, serious on the edge of his new perpetual smile.

  “I think you’re right, Dad. But remember Mother’s not well. She’s had some terrible heart attacks and we’ve got to go slow.”

  He nods his head and looks down.

  “You’re right there, John. We’ll go slow.”

  He pauses; Mother is coming along the hall.

  “But, I’ll tell you, we’ll go somewheres.”

  He pushes himself up with his cane and we head for the car. It’s already on the driveway warmed up. Dad helps Mom in back. He can’t actually help much, he has a hard time standing up himself; but he puts his hand under her arm and helps get her feet straight on the floor. This bugs Mother; the worst thing for her is feeling like an invalid. I stay out of it and slide into the driver’s seat. Dad climbs in front with me.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Bess, but I want to sit here and see if I can pick up the knack of driving again. When I’m back on my feet, I’d like to take that driving test. It’d sure be fun if I could drive; maybe visit the bowling alley.”

  He pulls out his clipboard.

  “By golly, that’s one I forgot. I want a bowling costume, something in black-and-white stripes for a shirt, then black pants like an official at a basketball game.”

  He writes on his clipboard. I glimpse in the rear mirror, backing out, and see Mom’s face. She’s not putting on; nobody’s watching her, but her face is set tight. She’s worried, scared, critical. She doesn’t know what to say, what to do.

  Dad turns around, lifting his knee onto the seat as he does it. It’s hard putting together some of his moves with his age, his physical condition.

  “You know, Bess, you ought to get yourself a few costumes, too. I don’t mean just more ordinary clothes but real costumes. Maybe a wig; they’ve got some fine wigs there at the old S.A. I’m liable to try on a few myself. I was too embarrassed last time but with the two of us we could have some good laughs.”

  I don’t look back. There’s a long silence. I definitely must talk to Dr. Coe, or at least have a long talk with Mother. She’s overwhelmed. Even if she were in perfect health, I don’t think she could cope.

  “All right, Jack; I’ll look with you; but remember, after all, we are in our seventies.”

  Now Dad swings himself up on two knees, leaning over back of the seat. He seems to have forgotten the things you’re not supposed to do when you’re grown up. Maybe it’s part of being so light and lean; he could have some feelings of being physically thirteen or fourteen years old.

  “Honest, Bess, you still look like a girl to me. Nobody’d think you were even forty years old. You can wear anything you want and look great. We need to get over the idea we’re old fogeys and stop worrying what people think. You sure as hell don’t see any of the young people asking us what to wear.”

  We’re both shocked. Not so much by what he’s said, not even by the strength and youth in his voice, but by the fact he said “hell”! I take a quick peek in the mirror. Mom seems fine, better than the last time I looked. The compliment from the mouth of a man who never compliments has completely undone her. There are tears in he
r eyes. I have a strong feeling I shouldn’t be there. Dad hasn’t used “hell” except as a place description during the past forty years I know of. But he doesn’t seem to notice he’s said anything out of the ordinary.

  It’s right here Mother decides to make a stand about the “Bess” business. Maybe she figures he’s caught out on language and now’s the time to strike.

  “Jack, couldn’t you call me Bette again? You know how much I hate Bess. I don’t know what’s happened; you’ve been calling me Bette since we came to California and now, suddenly, you’re calling me Bess.”

  There’s a long silence. Dad’s still up on his knees; I’m driving along Sepulveda Boulevard toward Olympic.

  “Well, Bette. I married you as Bess and I’ve always liked that name. It’s a name you don’t hear very often; it’s a strong name, like you. Every time I call you Bette I’m afraid somebody else might answer.”

  I sneak a quick mirror look. Mom has her eyes on it and catches mine. My mother, in a rearview mirror, where I can only see her eyes, gets across a full gamut of emotion. She’s telling me she’s afraid, confused and asking what she can do. That’s expression! Dad goes on.

  “But honestly, Bess, if you want to be Bette, OK. I’ll concentrate on it. I’ll call you Bette and you call me Jake. Say, I like that! It sounds as if we might be Prohibition gangsters or drug runners. It’ll be fun! We’re Bette and Jake. I have as much right to be called Jake as anybody. Maybe I can take up smoking again, get some of those little cigars Edward G. Robinson used to smoke.”

  He turns to me.

  “Do you think they might have any old derby hats at the S.A., Johnny?”