The Complete Collection. William Wharton
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 the 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 her 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 Edgar G. Robinson used to smoke.’
He turns to me.
‘Do you think they might have any old derby hats at the S.A., Johnny?’
I look to see if he’s playing Machiavelli. No, he’s only having a good time. He’s all excited about being Bette and Jake, suspicious characters. He can’t realize how he’s stripped Mom’s pretensions to the bone in one fell swoop. I don’t think he even knows how effective his threat to take up smoking again is. He’s playing. He has all the ego isolation and drive of a twenty-year-old.
The rest of our ride to the Salvation Army he goes over his lists and tries to interest Mother in his costume plans. He keeps calling her Bette and when she calls him Jack he corrects her every time, saying in a low, reminding tone, ‘Jake’.
I’m torn between commiserating with Mom and breaking up. I can see why Mother devoted her life to dominating him. He must have been totally irrepressible as a young man. No wonder his sisters warned her. He’s worse than either Uncle Orin or Uncle Pete. This is a strong, impish Rabelaisian id that’s been cooped up for thirty or forty years. Whatever could have unstoppered the bottle?
At the Salvation Army, I cut Dad off from the thrift shop. I know we only have so much time before Mother will flag; she’s already taken enough of a beating. Dad’s giving me signs behind Mother to make sure I steer her by the gold couch. He hasn’t forgotten. It’s so unlike him to even notice, let alone care, about what kind of furniture is in a house.
We slowly move Mother near the couch. But she’s still too much in shock to pay much attention. We’re almost past when Dad stops suddenly.
‘Johnny, we’re probably wearing Mother out with all this coming and going; let’s sit down on this nice-looking couch here and take a little rest.’
With that, he lowers himself onto the far end of the couch. I help Mom sit down and I sit beside her. Dad’s running his hand lovingly, possessively, over the nap of the couch. Mother’s holding herself in, exasperated.
‘We’ve been sitting in the car for the last half hour. I’m fine.’
Dad sneaks a little kiss on the side of her neck; Mother swings around to see if anyone’s seen.
‘Just look at this couch, Bette. You know, this is the kind of couch I’ve always wished we had for our living room.’
Mother looks down at the couch. She’s only doing it to shut him up, but then looks more carefully, her furniture-appraising eye in action. She struggles herself to a standing position. I stay seated. Dad watches. It’s like watching a very rare bird flitting around a trap. She goes to the back and pulls at an edge of the upholstery. She finds the price tag and reads it.
‘There must be some mistake here, Jacky. It says seventy-five dollars.’
We both get up and look at the tag. Dad peers at it, looks at me and smiles.
‘Maybe it’s supposed to be seven hundred and fifty. It looks like a seven-hundred-and-fifty-dollar couch to me. They could have left off a zero by mistake.’
Mother goes around lifting all the pillows on the couch and turning them over. She does the same with the back pillows. It’s the kind of thing Dad and I would never think of. There could be a hole in every one of those cushions and we’d have bought the couch, holes and all. Mother leans close and gives me one of her conspiratorial whispers.
‘Jacky, go over casually to that nigger there and ask if this is the right price. Don’t let her suspect you’re really interested.’
She leans down and begins smelling the couch. I can’t figure what she’s smelling for. I ask the woman at the counter; she comes over and looks at the ticket.
‘That’s right, ma’am, seventy-five dollars. It certainly is a pretty couch, ain’t it?’
Now Mother starts her pensive consideration. Every aspect of the living room must be considered. Yes, it goes well with the rug, yes, the drapes, yes, the dark wood of the Chippendale-style dining furniture. She’s onto the lamps when Dad slips off. He’s convinced she’ll buy it now; that part of his mission’s accomplished. I stay with Mom. I’ll go help with shirt selection after he’s found the pants.
Now Mother’s wondering what she’ll do with the sectional couch she has.
‘Maybe Jeff and his wife would like it, Mom; they’re just setting up house and don’t have much money.’
She goes hmmm, smiles and nods. That’s that. Next.
‘How could we ever get it home, Jacky? Do they deliver?’
I go over and ask. They’ll do it but it costs twenty dollars.
‘Don’t worry, Mom, I can do it myself.’
‘You’ll scratch the roof of the car and you know how Daddy is about that car.’
I tell her I’ll put it on the roof upside down; we’ll take the back streets home; they’ll give me rope to tie it down; somebody will help me get it on the roof; no, the roof won’t collapse; we’ll put the cushions inside the car, it isn’t likely to rain, there will be enough room for all of us; I’m sure the guy next door, or Billy, can help me get it off the roof; don’t worry, I have my checkbook with me. These are the