The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 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. СКАЧАТЬ