The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ the doors, they’re coming through

      The windows.

      Close the windows, they’re coming through

      The doors.

      This is repeated over and over, with different voices, different intonation, different accents; without thought, sometimes rising, sometimes only the sound of whistling in. Dad walks through the side door into the hallway. He goes into the bathroom and takes another shower.

      Mother and I wait for him in the living room, not saying much. When he comes out, he’s quite debonaire in his ‘retired painter’s’ costume.

      ‘Look, John, why don’t you give me a driving lesson while you’re here? I’m sure I’ll pick up the knack of it fast.’

      Mother looks over at me.

      ‘Don’t you do it, Jacky! I’m not going to drive with him. He drove too fast before he turned in his license, I hate to think what he’d be like now.’

      Dad goes across to Mother.

      ‘Don’t you worry your little head, Bette; when old Jake Tremont gets behind that wheel, you’re safe as if you were in your own bed. We’ll only drive along slowly looking at scenery. John here showed me a way to the beach where we won’t have one red light the whole way. It’s like country driving and you come out right there at the beach with plenty of parking.’

      He gives her a kiss on the neck, then another on the lips.

      I’m only glad he didn’t mention the motorcycle.

      ‘Well, Mom, Dad’s right. You should go to the beach more often. When you and Dad get to feeling better, and I’m gone, you can call a cab, go down to the beach.’

      Dad’s lowering himself onto the floor in front of the TV. He stretches out on his stomach.

      ‘Jack, what on earth are you looking for?’

      ‘Jake, Bette. I only want to see if I can still do a pushup.’

      He tries pushing himself up with his frail arms but can’t budge. Then he bends at the waist to push his shoulder and head up from the floor till his arms are extended. He lets himself down again.

      ‘I’ll call these old-man pushups.’

      He pushes himself up and down a few times. Mother goes to the bathroom.

      ‘Johnny.’

      He grunts it out between pushups.

      ‘I don’t want to go in a cab; we’ll probably wind up in Santa Monica. That town’s an outside old-people’s home. Everybody’s moving along slowly, shopping for nothing, or waiting for the next meal. Every corner in that town’s a bank or a doctor’s office.

      ‘I want to drive to Venice where we were, or walk down to Washington Pier. To be honest, I’d like to do it on that motorcycle of yours but I’m too old, I’d be scared. I’d also like to get in some fishing off the pier. I used to like fishing. I can’t figure when it was I stopped doing the things I like.’

      He struggles himself up off the floor and falls back into his rocking chair; cocks his leg under him.

      ‘Mother and I should have some fun while we can. If we get feeling good enough, we should take a trip back to Philadelphia; visit all the old places, our family and friends. We had some good times there in Philly.’

      When Mother comes out of the bathroom, she’s made herself up but she’s weepy. She isn’t crying, but the hollows under her eyes are dampish. I talk them into taking a car ride with me.

      We tour slowly through Cheviot Hills where there are handsome, big houses and lovely gardens. This is something Mom loves. These houses represent her idea of what the good life should be and she likes to think she lives near it. She also enjoys making fun of any architectural idiosyncrasies. She constantly reiterates how glad she is to have just a little place in a quiet neighborhood, something she can take care of herself. It’s painful listening to her vacillate between self-righteousness and resentment. But I know she enjoys it.

      Dad’s sitting in front again, imitating my feet and hand movements. He’s pushing on his brake and steering an imaginary steering wheel. Mom giggles, snorts and tells him to stop it. But now he’s enjoying clowning for her. With automatic drive there’s nothing to driving this car. He probably could do it. And why the hell should he go through the business of a driving test? What’ll they do if they catch him, throw him in prison?

      I drive them home and suggest a nap. Mother’s upset. She whispers to me.

      ‘Tell him to stay in his own room, Jacky, tell him I need a rest.’

      How can I tell Dad that? I gently suggest that Mother’s tired, needs a good sleep.

      ‘I’m not going to nap, Johnny. I’m going to dig a hole in the backyard, sink a tin can in it and do some putting.

      ‘You know, John, I’ve always wanted to play golf. I’ve got an old putter in the garage and some golf balls. I’ll make my hole and put a flag in it; then I can tell people I’m puttering in my garden.’

      I think of his grave.

      He gaily snickers as he works his way down the steps to the patio, out the gate and into the garden. I hop in the car and drive back to Marty’s. It’s Saturday, she has the day off, so we can house-hunt.

      Marty’s beginning to show. She’s still looking for a doctor who will deliver her baby the Leboyer method; that’s the Birth Without Violence Frenchman. What would the world be like if people could all be born with a minimum of trauma; come into this world feeling wanted and holding on to some memory of the pre-birth state? Maybe people wouldn’t be so afraid of dying if they remembered what it was not to be born yet. I’m convinced a good part of the world’s troubles are built around death fears.

      We use my folks’ car; it’s more comfortable than Marty’s old Toyota. We roll down Wilshire to Santa Monica, then south toward Venice. We tour around looking for ‘FOR RENT’ signs. We’d like to avoid an agent if possible. Marty’s paying two hundred where she’s living and they can go up to two fifty or even three hundred for the right kind of place.

      After asking at a few houses where the renters are still living, then telephoning some other numbers which turn out to be agents, we’re beginning to get discouraged. Everything is either too small, has no yard or won’t take children.

      About three o’clock, I suggest we have a glass of wine and some cheese at Suzanne’s restaurant on the boardwalk; Marty’s never been there. Suzanne comes to our table. Suzanne remembers me from painting and sits with us. She won’t drink any wine but has a cup of herb tea. I tell her our problem. She’s all turned on about Marty being pregnant.

      Suzanne asks Pap, the transvestite dishwasher, if Gerry Lynn has rented her place yet. Pap doesn’t know but has the phone number. Suzanne says she’ll phone.

      Marty turns to me.

      ‘She’s so nice, Dad. Why is she being so nice when she doesn’t even know us?’

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