Dad

  “Come on, Mom. You’re making a spectacle of yourself. What will the neighbors think anyway?”

  This registers. She lets me help her up, then shakes my arm loose. Mario gets backed out, turned, and they start down the street. Joan looks back and waves.

  “Now, look, Mom; just let Dad go for today until you’ve had a chance to calm down. It’s all for the best, you’ll see. Let’s have a quiet night without Dad, then if you want him here tomorrow I’ll drive over to Joan’s and bring him back.”

  Mom breaks away from me and does her quick shuffle up the steps and back into the house. At a time like this, the way she moves, you’d never believe she ever had a heart attack. I stand on the lawn to peek around cautiously and check if anybody’s been watching; also to catch my breath. I don’t see anybody. When I walk in the door, Mom’s sitting in her chair.

  “Stop right there. You can get out of here, too. If you’re not packed and out of here in ten minutes, I’m calling the cops. This is private property and I don’t want you here.”

  The temptation is enormous to take her up on it but instead I flop into Dad’s chair. I spread my arms and legs to give myself the illusion of relaxation. I’m trying to figure whether I’m being a sadist or a masochist, or both simultaneously.

  “All right, Mom, go ahead and call the cops. I’d really like trying to explain to some flatfoot what this is all about. Maybe in explaining it, I can figure it out for myself. Go ahead, use either phone, call the police, call the fire department, call a priest—whoever you like—let’s have a party. Maybe one of them can tell me what in heaven’s name’s going on in your head. I sure as hell can’t figure it. You know, we ought to go see that psychiatrist tomorrow. You need help!”

  There’s a whole minute of quiet. I don’t even look at her. I don’t want to. She starts crying.

  “Now you’re calling me crazy. You steal my husband and now I’m crazy. You’d all like to see me dead. If only I could have died when I had that first heart attack, we’d all be happier. If it weren’t for my religion, I’d kill myself!”

  I think about Delibro and his question. I wonder how often she’s made threats like this when she’s wanted her own way. Mom gets up and goes into the back bedroom. I’m too drained to chase after her. I idly wonder if she would kill herself. What’s she got back there she could use to do it with? Who knows? She could have two liters of cyanide, a box of TNT and a Sten gun, the way she’s so secretive and always hiding things. Then I think, “Oh, the hell with it. She’s right; she’s better off dead than alive; we’d all be better off, especially Dad. I’m going to sit here and try to forget.”

  I turn on the ball game and get out a bottle of beer. I’m wishing I had Dad’s baseball-watching costume and a scorecard. He knew what he was doing, anything to block the static. And, to be perfectly honest, after about fifteen minutes, I’m into the game. It’s a good one, a pitcher’s battle. I guess the truth of it is, the human nerves can only absorb so much. My mind wants to turn off Mom and her problems. It’s an hour and a half later, in the top of the eleventh, score still tied, when she comes out. She goes to the bathroom first, then comes beside me.

  “You don’t really care, do you?”

  I look up, take another sip of beer, my third bottle.

  “Sure I do, Mom, but talking doesn’t seem to help. I thought some quiet and a long think might do you more good than anything. Why don’t you sit down and watch the game, settle your nerves.”

  She stands, looking down at me. I half expect she’s going to fly into me with fingernails and teeth, but slowly she sits down in her chair.

  “Mom, how about a glass of beer or some wine?”

  There’s a three-beat pause.

  “You’re drunk. I can tell. You’re just like your father’s brothers. You’re beginning already. It’s about your age when they start drinking seriously. I’ve been watching you. I counted one day and you had three bottles of beer and two glasses of wine. And that’s only what I knew about, what you actually drank in the house; God only knows how much you drank out in bars. You’re practically an alcoholic already.”

  I scrunch down a little lower and try to concentrate on the game. This is a new one. It’s the first time anyone’s called me an alcoholic; and it has to be my mother. If you have a mother for a friend you don’t need any enemies. Maybe it won’t be the last time, but this is the first; sort of a milestone in my life.

  “Well, Mom, I don’t think I’m an alcoholic but this is my third beer if you want to start counting. If you don’t want anything to drink, then say so; but no song and dance, please.”

  Another significant long pause. While I wasn’t paying attention, somebody drove in a run and I missed it; I even missed the replay.

  “Well, if you’re eating my food and drinking my beer, I might as well have some wine before you’ve eaten and drunk me out of house and home.”

  That’s where we are, so I go into the kitchen and pour some of the crappy cold, sweet wine for her. I’m acting out All in the Family in my mother’s house. I’m more like Archie Bunker every day. I’ll be calling black people “jigs” before I even know it.

  I ask from the kitchen if she’d like a cheese sandwich. There’s no answer, so I figure I’ll make one for myself and one for her. If she doesn’t eat hers, I’ll eat them both. So I make two toasted cheese sandwiches. I come out and hand one to her. There’s no response but she bites into it and takes a sip of the wine.

  “Tonight I’ll sleep in my bed all alone. Here I am a married woman with all I’ve had to go through, and I’m forced to sleep alone.”

  What does she want, that I should sleep with her? I hold back a minute before I answer; I try to remind myself she’s just out of her mind with frustration and worry.

  “But, Mom, you said Dad was bothering you in bed, that he was waking you up and you couldn’t get any rest. Here’s your chance to have a good night’s sleep.”

  The only response I get is a sniff.

  The whole evening goes like that. We watch some TV and she doesn’t say anything except make nasty comments about every show and everybody in them. I keep my mouth shut. I’d like to go in the bedroom and read a book but that would be the worst of insults, so I try to concentrate on the shows.

  Before we go to bed, Mom’s settled down some. One good thing is she can’t keep a consistent pose; she has to be changing all the time.

  I’m beginning to feel it’ll be all right; she’s made her scene, her point, now she’s going to settle in and enjoy her gains. Even so, I decide to sleep in the house, in the side room, in the crib with the inflatable mattress, the oxygen and everything. I’m still a bit worried about her; she can make herself so miserable.

  After the eleven-o’clock news I say I’m going to bed; still no response. I go back to that room, undress, climb into the bed and pull up the sides. I experiment with the oxygen thing in my nose with the tank on to see how it feels. I stare some more at Mary and Jesus. I breathe through my nose, sucking in oxygen and running over my mantra. I’ve a few frayed nerves to cool down. I must’ve passed out, because I don’t even remember hearing Mother go down the hall to her bedroom. I sleep, plugged in, floating on air, like Jules Verne going to the moon.

  I wake, I look at my watch and it’s two in the morning. What woke me is the phone dinging as Mom picks up to dial the living-room phone.

  I’m still half groggy; that oxygen really does it. I take out the plugs and turn off the tank. Who the hell can Mom be phoning at this time? Maybe she’s phoning back East, thinking of going back there to live with one of her brothers. But hell, it’s only five in the morning on the East Coast. I carefully pick up the phone.

  The phone rings more than ten times, then it’s Joan who answers. I’m sure she’s scared out of her mind, being wakened from a dead sleep.

  “Jack, is that you? Is everything all right?”

  Mom pauses a second; I don’t think she expected that. I almost interrupt but I want to hea
r what she has to say.

  “No, it’s only your mother. I want to speak to my husband and right now.”

  There’s another pause.

  “But, Mom, wait a minute, it’s two o’clock in the morning; Dad’s asleep. I can’t wake him up. He had an awful time getting to sleep as it was.”

  “You heard me, I want to speak to my husband.”

  “Mom, please; why not call again in the daytime? Whatever it is can’t be that important. Are you all right? Where’s Jack?”

  There’s a sniff you can hear over the phone.

  “Are you trying to keep my husband from talking to me? I’m his wife, just you remember that. I’ve been married to him for over fifty years and I want to talk with him right now.”

  There’s quiet. I’m wondering if I should interrupt. This is insane. Then Mario comes on the line.

  “Look, Mom.”

  Mario has called Mother “Mom” even before he and Joan were married.

  “Let’s be reasonable, huh? Dad’s asleep. You know how hard it is for him getting to sleep when he’s upset; give the guy a break.”

  On, and out she comes.

  “Get off the line, you filthy wop! Let me talk to my daughter!”

  I’d love to see Mario’s face. Joan comes on again.

  “All right, Mom; Mario’s going in to wake Dad; I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  There’s a long pause. I hear Mom working herself up into a cry. It’s easier listening over the phone than sticking my head out the bedroom door and really hearing her cry; it’s like watching on TV, not quite real. Then there’s some fumbling with the phone. I can almost see Dad in his pajamas standing there barefooted, without his glasses, looking into the hole of the phone.

  “Hello, Bess?”

  It’s a faraway voice. It sounds as if the receiver is two feet from his mouth. Mom shouts through her crying, close to the phone, loud.

  “It’s Bette, Bette, remember, your wife?”

  He’s slow responding and they must’ve pushed the phone closer to his mouth.

  “Oh, hello, Bess, I mean Bette. How are you? Where are you?”

  “I’m not in Cape May! I’m right here at home, our home, that’s where I am, in our house, where you should be; that’s where I am.”

  There’s another long pause. Then his voice is so low I almost can’t hear it and it isn’t because he’s holding the receiver away either.

  “Do you want me to come home, Bess? I’ll get dressed and come home right now if you want. Joan or Mario will drive me, I’m sure. I’ll be right there.”

  If Mom told him to commit hara-kiri, he’d spend the rest of the night looking for a proper knife.

  I’m tempted again to break in and tell Mom to get the hell off the phone. I want to console Dad somehow.

  Good old “Jake” is gone; this is John called Jack, Jack-of-all-trades, the guy who worked more than fifty years for nothing, who gave in on everything. Something terrible is happening.

  I’m almost crying as I listen to Mom telling him how she’s the only one who’s ever really loved him. He keeps saying he’ll come home right away and not to worry, that he’s on his way; but she goes on and on. Then, after she’s totally wiped him out, she tells him to go back to bed, he can come in the morning. Abruptly she hangs up.

  I wait till she shuffles past my room and into her bedroom. Then I phone back. Joan answers. I tell her I was on the line. Joan’s in tears.

  “You should’ve seen him, Jack. He winced with every word; cowering like a dog that’s been beaten too often. Mario’s back there now trying to help him get to sleep again. He keeps jumping up, wanting to pack his bags.”

  Neither of us can make anything funny out of this. Joan says she’ll pack Dad’s things and bring him over tomorrow. She’s worried she’ll blow up at Mom again, so she’ll leave right away. She asks me to please try talking some sense into Mom, try to find out what she really wants.

  I hang up and climb back into the crib. I put the oxygen plugs in my nostrils again and turn on the tank. What the hell, maybe I’ll get to be an oxygen freak, walk around with oxygen tanks on my back. It’s a long time before I sleep; I can hear Mom shuffling around, mumbling to herself in the back room.

  The next morning, I pretend not to know anything about the phone call. I get up refreshed; maybe sleeping with oxygen is the answer to senility, oxygenate the brain during the night.

  Mom must have been up until at least three in the morning, so she doesn’t wake till after ten. I fix us two good breakfasts and serve them on the patio.

  I have the music going, the table is set and the sun is shining. It’s a beautiful day. Mother’s put her hair up for the big reunion scene and she’s wearing her fancy housecoat; the vamp’s ready to vamp.

  She’s having a hard time knowing how to react to all the service. She’s still got the old iron will up, acting out her fantasy. I’m ignoring all that; talking about the beautiful flowers, the lovely day; sitting there on the poop deck pouring tea for the one and only first-class passenger. I don’t respond to anything she says if it’s along lines I don’t want to hear.

  After breakfast, we lie out on the chaise longues and the sun is wrapped around us. I’ve cleared the dishes, washed up, changed the records and come out again. I’ve got on the Hawaiian music; I have my shirt off and I’m spread out in the sun letting it soak into me. I feel deeply poisoned, polluted to my innermost being.

  “This is the life, all right, Jacky. I don’t know why you live in a dark, dirty place like Paris with all those foreigners.”

  I keep quiet. This is an old theme; at least the second part.

  “You’re right, Jacky. What I need is time to relax in the sun, calm my nerves. I can never get a minute’s rest when he’s around.”

  I wait, holding my breath. What’s coming now?

  “I phoned last night and asked Joan to bring your father home today but now I’m not so sure. I need a rest, Jacky; nobody should force me to play nurse to a man sick as he is. How can I do a thing like that after two serious heart attacks?”

  Last night? Two o’clock in the morning is hardly last night. I keep quiet. I’ll wait.

  “Jacky, maybe you ought to call Joan and tell her not to bring him. Tell her to wait a few days. I’m not ready yet. I’ll only strain my heart and kill myself, then what would he do? He’ll just have to live without his free nurse for a few days. It won’t hurt Joan to take care of him, she doesn’t do much else.”

  “All right, Mom.”

  I get up slowly, trying not to break the mood and still move quickly, hoping to catch Joan before she’s taken off over the hill with Dad. I go in and get her on the phone.

  “It’s all off, Joan. Stay there. We’re out on the patio sunning and now she doesn’t want to be a nurse; so keep Dad there.”

  Joan doesn’t answer for almost half a minute. Then she’s laughing, almost crying, the edge of hysteria again.

  “Come on, Jack; are you kidding? If you’re making this up, I’ll kill you.”

  “Honest, Joan, that’s where we are now. She’s the Queen of Sheba taking her morning dose of the old sun king Ra. I don’t know how long it’ll last but let’s take advantage. I’m sure you can explain to Dad. Maybe tell him last night was only a nightmare. If you want, I’ll talk to him.”

  “No, it’ll be all right. He’s so confused he doesn’t know what’s going on. I’ll spend the day with him sitting and talking, settling him down. He’s in an absolute state, wandering around the house, looking into things, asking me all the time when we go home. I have his bags packed but he keeps going in and touching them. I can take care of Dad but would you mind asking the Queen not to phone at two in the morning again? My nerves are completely shattered.”

  I hang up and go out to tell Mom it’s all arranged. She takes the news with her eyes closed; I go along with the game. I spread out, wishing I could get down to Venice and do some more painting. It’s a damned shame wasting good light lik
e this. I don’t know where the hell Billy is but I hope he doesn’t show up right now; it wouldn’t help.

  The next few days go fine. Mom doesn’t make any effort to contact Dad, in fact, doesn’t ask about him; he’s off the drawing board for some reason. We even have some almost rational conversations once in a while. I take her down to the Oar House one night, not a good idea. Next afternoon I take her to the Williamsburg Inn, semi-catastrophic. The morning of the third day we have breakfast at the French sidewalk café on the beach in Venice. She becomes convinced an older hippy type is flirting with her and wants me to shoo him away.

  Later in the afternoon, while she’s taking a nap in the back bedroom, I call Delibro. He asks why Dad hasn’t come back. I explain the situation. I try to tell what’s been happening, how Mom’s been behaving irrationally; he listens.

  “Well, that all sounds bad, Mr. Tremont. I really should see your father again, soon. This kind of trauma must be a terrible setback for him. His enjoyment and participation in this life is so tied up with your mother’s approval.”

  He pauses.

  “Frankly, Mr. Tremont, I don’t know what we should do. I’m concerned for your mother and she’s definitely dangerous to your father’s stability. Still, I don’t think we can put her in a hospital. She’s so logical in her irrationality. She’s a difficult woman, Mr. Tremont.”

  A hundred bucks an hour to find that out! I realize, after the fact, when he talks about putting Mother in a hospital he means some kind of loony bin. God, it’s not that serious, is it? But at least, Mom isn’t fooling him much.

  Delibro asks if we can keep it the way it is for a while, give Dad peace and quiet in a loving environment and Mom a chance to simmer down. He wants to know if Joan can bring Dad in for an appointment at least once a week. He asks me to try my best to get Mother in to him again.

  So that’s the way we leave it. I sit down and write home one more postponing letter. I promise in the letter, and, more important, I promise myself, I’m getting out of all this within the next week or two at the most. For Christ’s sake, how long can it go on? It’s so basically hopeless.