The Complete Collection. William Wharton
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Название: The Complete Collection
Автор: William Wharton
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9780007569885
isbn:
‘Look, Able, see these guys get on the bus away from here. Don’t let them go out in the street.’
He smiles, then walks through the door without looking back. Everybody working here is black, too. The one at the desk glances at us.
‘You stay right there. I’ll say when to get up. There’s a public service bus comes past.’
We sit and watch. In this heat they’re spotting, repairing and ironing clothes. I don’t know how they stand it. It’s some kind of Catholic charity. On the wall there’s one of those pictures of Jesus with his heart hanging out, brambles sticking into it and blood dripping.
Finally, this guy tells us to get ready. He goes out on the curb and flags down the bus. Shit, I wouldn’t even have recognized it; all the windows have wire grille over them. It looks like an armored truck, only long. He hustles us out and we jump in. The driver’s locked in a cage. We put fifty cents each through a small opening in the wiring; into a metal spinning counter meter. He pushes a button and we go through a turnstile into the bus. We’re the only pale faces; even though we’ve just come from California, we really look pale. Maybe we’re supposed to go to the back of the bus but the only empty seats are just inside the turnstile.
We have no idea where this bus is going. Dad says we’ll stay on so long as it heads south and we’ll get off when we see some faces that aren’t purplish brown, bluish brown or brownish black.
The bus goes into Central Philadelphia and leaves us off by the City Hall. Dad says he knows a train from here that’ll take us out to Bala-Cynwyd. He suggests we go get something to eat and celebrate.
It’s almost three o’clock. It’s taken more than four hours to deliver that car. It seems like three years on Devil’s Island. I know I’m feeling like an escaped criminal. For old time’s sake, we head toward the nearest pizza place. But this is a true Italian restaurant and these are genuine pizzas, not American dough with ketchup and American soap cheese melted over top; it tastes like Europe. When I close my eyes, I can almost taste France.
This whole day has definitely put the icing on the cake. I’m ready to go home. I’m ready for some old-world civilization; I’m not up to coping with the great American democratic experiment.
A commuter train leaves us off about three blocks from the Hills’. What a difference walking in these streets. There are large, spreading trees shading everything, touching each other over the streets like umbrellas. The roots are so huge they lift the pavements up into little hills. But these pavements aren’t cracked; they’re cemented in gentle curves over these hills. The houses are natural or cut stone, three stories with graceful porches. There’s the sound of power lawnmowers keeping grounds in order and the slamming of screen doors. Ladies, alone, in big station wagons, cruise around at about twenty miles an hour, out shopping.
It’s hard to believe we’re only five or six miles from the jungle. What’s going to happen when those people over there come charging into these places? I hate to think about it; I sure as hell don’t want to be here.
In the morning, I call the psychiatrist; his name is Delibro. Over the phone I try getting across something of the situation. He asks if I can come in and talk.
We make an appointment at two o’clock for Dad, but I’m to come right away. I don’t know whether he’s picked up on the urgency in my voice or just doesn’t have much business, but I appreciate getting straight in. He asks if I’ll call Perpetual and have Dad’s records forwarded. Perpetual says I can pick them up at noon.
Privately, I tell Dad I’ve made the appointment and I’m going in first to check it out.
I get to Delibro’s office on Santa Monica Boulevard before ten. The office is comfortable, easy-California-life style. The walls are done in what looks like shipping-crate wood with stenciled black signs, ‘FRAGILE HANDLE WITH CARE ↑ THIS SIDE UP’; somewhat bizarre for a psychiatrist’s waiting room.
Delibro himself is young, perhaps thirty-five, short, with bushy sideburns and a full-lip mustache. He looks like a French cop. He has a nice smile and perfectly neutral handshake.
In his consultation room there’s no couch. It could be an office for selling insurance. He doesn’t sit behind his desk but in a comfortable black leather chair at a forty-five-degree angle to the chair I sit in. We’re semi-facing each other so I’m looking at him off my left shoulder and he’s peering at me over his right. It’s comfortable enough. I get a strong feeling nothing here is accidental.
He leads me on and I go through it all the best I can. He’s asking cautious questions, but it’s clear he’s as interested in my anxiety as he is in Dad. Then he gets caught up in what I’m trying to tell him.
He asks why I’m so particularly concerned. It’s a question I’ve been asking myself. I tell him this might only be ordinary senile experience, not worth wasting his time with; but I’d like an expert opinion. I also tell him Dad asked me to arrange for help.
The rest of the hour goes well. He’s obviously listening, not pretending. He asks pertinent questions. I hope Dad won’t be put off by the vaguely ‘hippy’ atmosphere. I was half afraid Delibro’d be one of those displaced-priest or rabbi types with shiny gold-rimmed glasses and a permanent smile. Delibro seems like somebody Dad can relate to. He also doesn’t give off ‘boss man’ vibrations, doesn’t project any threatening signals. Dad will feel more as if he’s talking to one of his nephews or grandchildren.
I drive home. I tell Mom how Dad and I are going to go see a gerontologist that afternoon in Santa Monica. She thinks I said gynecologist and gets upset. I explain how a gerontologist is a doctor who specializes in problems of old age. I don’t call him a psychiatrist; no sense giving more ammunition for the ‘crazy’ theory.
I tell Dad what I feel about Delibro. He listens and nods his head.
‘Johnny, I’ve been doing some thinking on this. The way I see it, the biggest problem is keeping things apart. Sometimes I have to stop and make myself think about where I really am. I’ll be working out there in the greenhouse, but in my mind I’ll be back in Cape May. Working out there in the greenhouse is one place where I do most of my daytime visiting. It’s another world, cut off, I’m out there alone with my plants and my mind goes. But don’t you worry, John, I’m working on it. I’ll lick this thing yet.’
Just before two, we get to Santa Monica. It’s easy getting Dad to the office because there’s parking in the building and an elevator up from the garage. Inside, I give the secretary Dad’s records I picked up at Perpetual. Dad’s taking the place in.
‘Gosh, this guy must be awful poor for a psychiatrist; he’s paneled his walls with broken shipping crates. Maybe he’ll have an orange crate for a desk.’
Just then, Delibro comes out. He’s wearing a calming smile and concentrates on Dad. Dad’s looking straight back into his eyes and I’m hoping it’ll be all right. Dad’s trying to decide if this fellow СКАЧАТЬ