The Complete Collection. William Wharton

       4

      Next morning I wake at eight-thirty, feeling more with it. That nine-hour time difference knocks me for a loop.

      I make breakfast. At home we’re not coffee drinkers but my folks are. Thank God they’re not serious coffee drinkers; they don’t grind or perk or filter, just instant.

      It’s an electric stove, flat coils; I’m not sure if the hottest is 1 or 6. I try 6. I look in the cabinet drawer near the dining room and there’s the card with Dad’s medication written out, just as Joan said. I sort pills and work from lists, how much in the morning, at lunch and before bed. I’ll go along for now but Dad’s got to take over this part himself.

      I’m prepared, after breakfast, to talk about Mother’s condition. Joan and I agree he’ll take it best from me.

      Now, this is weird, but Dad’s convinced I’m working for the government in some kind of secret intelligence. He’s had this idea for more than ten years. He won’t refer to it directly. He’ll look at me slyly, bashfully, and say, ‘How’s the job going, John?’

      He apparently could never accept that a grown man would paint pictures for a living; it isn’t within his parameter of sensible behavior.

      Mother has no trouble; she has me pegged for an old hippy. I have a beard, I live in Paris and I’m mostly likely a drug addict. She dismisses my life as a total waste. But Dad needs some excuse and he’s come up with this one.

      Joan thinks it’s the world’s greatest joke. One Christmas she mailed me a man-sized Zorro costume she’d sewed up herself. With it was a toy detective kit for taking fingerprints and a magnifying glass.

      At first, I tried disclaiming my spook status but then decide to go along. What the hell; he’s doing it for me. Now I only say, ‘Things are fine, Dad.’ That’s usually enough; we never go further.

      I gather the pills, pour coffee in his cup and knock on the bedroom door. I’m determined not to give him coffee in bed. I call through the door.

      ‘Time to get up, Dad; coffee’s ready.’

      ‘OK, Johnny, OK, I’ll be right out.’

      I realize, as I’m standing there, we’re playing another game.

      Dad was born in 1904. For men born in that year, World War I ended when they were fourteen and World War II started, at least for the U.S., when they were thirty-seven. Dad missed war.

      This is lodged somehow in the back of his mind. I’m sure he knows he’s lucky to have escaped, but he never lived that phony ‘man’s man’ life in the field. It bothers him.

      Dad stayed at home until he was married, and then Mom took over. He’s always lived in a woman-dominated environment; never lived as a single man or with other men.

      All his brothers have had brief bachelorhoods; one was in W.W.I. They’re also much involved with hunting. For years, Dad wanted to take me hunting with his father and brothers, but Mom wouldn’t have it.

      ‘Oh, no! If you two go, you wash all your own clothes and stinking underwear. And I won’t have any of those smelly deerskin gloves or wild-Indian moccasins around this house either. I’ll tell you that!’

      Each fall, the whole bunch, including all my male cousins on the Tremont side, would go up to Maine. They’d usually get deer and sometimes bear. They’d butcher and tan the hides at Grandpa’s. My cousins would tell me stories of waiting in deep, cold woods, playing cards and drinking beer. I felt it separated me from them; I’d never grow up to be a real man.

      And now, my coming down the hall, knocking on the door is playing army. My saying ‘Time to get up, let’s go’ does it. I don’t say ‘Drop your cocks and grab your socks’, but it’s the domestic equivalent. Dad comes plowing out in his pajamas with his slippers on, dragging his feet down the hall on his way to the bathroom.

      This foot-dragging is a new thing with him and I’m not sure if it mightn’t be related to minor stroking.

      On the other hand, it’s more likely he feels he’s getting old and old people drag their feet, so he’s dragging his. There’s something about sliding slippers along a rug in the morning which appeals to his sense of ‘rightness’.

      He comes out of the bathroom and starts toward the dining room.

      ‘Dad, why don’t you get dressed first? It’ll be a while yet before the eggs are ready.’

      He looks at me bare-eyed.

      ‘Where are your glasses, Dad?’

      ‘I couldn’t find them, Johnny.’

      I go back to the bedroom with him and they’re where he’d put them, on the bedside table, before he went to sleep. I should be glad he took them off, I guess. There’s a creamy haze on them, rim to rim. I take them to the bathroom and wash the lenses in warm water. I’m careless with glasses myself, but when things start to blur, I usually wipe the damned things off anyway.

      He stands beside the bed and fits them carefully several times over his ears. He’s always claimed glasses hurt his nose and ears, so he’s continually changing frames, from rimless to metal to plastic and back. He didn’t start wearing glasses until he was over fifty and has never adapted.

      The coffee’s getting cold. I know he’s waiting for me to find his clothes. I see yesterday’s clothes on the floor beside the bed where he dropped them. I pick these up and spread them on the bed.

      ‘Here, Dad. You can wear the clothes you wore yesterday. They’re not dirty.’

      He looks at me closely, tilts his head.

      ‘I never wear the same clothes two days in a row, Johnny. Your mother would kill me.’

      He’s not complaining, only stating a fact. To be honest, I’m not a clean-underwear-every-day man myself.

      I search around and find some underwear. Dad wears Dacron boxer shorts and the kind of undershirts they had before T-shirts were invented. These look like tops of old-fashioned bathing suits or jogger shirts; shoulder straps and big holes you stick your arms through. Pinned to the inside of his old undershirt is a scapular of The Sacred Heart. Dad slips on the new undershirt and feels around with his hand.

      ‘Where’s my scapular, John?’

      It’s as if he thinks he has a scapular built in on each undershirt. I unpin the old one and give it to him. He has one hell of a time pinning it on; you can tell he’s never done it before. He’s pinning it with concentration, bunching the underwear shirt into a ball, pinning, then smoothing out wrinkles. He pats the scapular three or four times and smiles. He’s proud he didn’t pin it to his skin, I guess. I give him a shirt and a pair of trousers from the closet; I put out clean socks.

      ‘Look, Dad, you have to learn where all these things are. Mother’s sick and can’t do this anymore.’

      He smiles a wide, eager smile.

      ‘You’re right there, Johnny. I’m going to learn all these things. You’ll see.’

      I go back to the kitchen and warm up the coffee. I cook some eggs. The pills are beside his plate. I wait and it takes forever for him to come out of the bedroom. What can be taking him so long?

       I lean close against Milly and wash her teats clean with warm water. The udder is heavy, the milk vein swollen. The fresh water streams from the turgid pink teats into the dim, new dawn light. I push the bucket in place, squat on the stool and start the singing rhythm of milk