The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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      ‘Joey’s another one, a drummer in a jazz band. They finally had to put him in a crazy house, too.’

      Orin’s son, called Joey, had a serious motorcycle accident, causing a skull fracture, so he had to retrain his motor skills.

      Mother goes on and on. She’s apparently kept a careful list of all the Tremonts back three generations. She even brings in my grandfather’s first cousin, who, as a young man, climbing through a fence in Wisconsin with a shotgun, blew off his lower jaw so he could never eat properly. He lived his life out as a hermit in the woods.

      She doesn’t miss one variant. Everyone in my father’s family who has been in any way abnormal is on her list.

      I don’t argue with her, but my father’s family is, at least, normal. There is no suicide, no divorce, no crime. They generally work hard all their lives. There’s no real alcoholism. Uncle Pete might qualify but he worked till he was seventy, so he’s not exactly an alcoholic; he just drank a lot. All my first cousins on my father’s side, and there are almost thirty of them, work for a living. The state has made money in Social Security off this family.

      Now Mom starts her story about Dad. How he was always peculiar; how when she was about to marry him, Aunt Trudy, Dad’s oldest sister, warned her.

      I can imagine the warning. The Tremonts are a great bunch of kidders, and Mother has never understood teasing or kidding. Vron’s the same way. It isn’t worthwhile because they don’t play along; they get mad. Also, sometimes Mother will pick out something said in fun, treat it as serious, then use it to her advantage. I suspect Aunt Trudy calling her brother Jack ‘peculiar’ is in this category.

      And – oh, God! – Mom’s convinced Dad isn’t quite white. My granddad, Dad’s Dad, was half American Indian: Oneida, one of the Iroquois nations. But to my mother he wasn’t Indian, he was nigger. My father does have a darker-than-Irish skin and beautiful full lips, shovel-shaped teeth. He also has a prominent eye-socket ridge, and high cheekbones. As he’s gotten older, he looks more and more like the Indian on an old nickel.

      Also, Mother has a friend named Fanny Hogan. This might be one of the most vulgar women in the world. They’ve been friends since they were twelve. Fanny has a loud, deep, fruity voice. She divorced her husband after driving him into a loony bin, then kicked her only daughter out of the house at sixteen. She’s lived alone since. As a child I hated and feared this woman.

      For years, Fanny ran Mother’s life, told her what clothes to wear, picked her boyfriends. Mother likes having somebody tell her what to do, so she can complain. That’s probably not too original a pattern. When Mom met Dad, Fanny Hogan was jealous.

      Fanny told Mom Dad was most likely a good part nigger and she’d have little black pickaninny kids. Somebody’d snuck into the woodshed was the way she put it. She insisted Mother could make sure by looking down Dad’s backbone; it would be a deep yellow or brown at the bottom. Mother’s dragging Dad to the shore when they’re dating so she can get a look, but they wear one-piece suits, all one piece top and bottom.

      The night they’re married, and finally in bed, Mom keeps turning on the light, looking down Dad’s back to see if she’s married a nigger.

      Mother’s always nourished the idea she’s married a man with a genetic deficiency. And now, finally, it’s beginning to show.

      I don’t want to get angry. I know Mother is only trying to protect herself. She has such a terrible insecurity about her own value, about her own continuity, about everything she is, she strikes out in every direction; and the more frightened she is, the worse she gets.

      I wish I’d understood this better when I was a child. So long as everything goes well, Mother is generous and kind. But if she feels threatened, she turns into a holy terror. If she feels jealous, or unloved, or ignored, it’s impossible.

      I sit for an hour and listen. I hold back; this is something Mom needs to do. She’s preparing to have Dad die. If she can make him seem unimportant, she’ll be able to bear it. At least that’s my rationale as to what her rationale is. Who knows what’s really going on?

      Joan comes back from the hospital. Mom’s finally asleep and I go out to the living room. Joan’s crying.

      ‘It’s awful, Jack. What can be the matter with him?’

      I tell her what the doctor told me.

      ‘No, Johnny, it’s more than that. There’s something seriously wrong. He’s scared to death; I’ve never seen anybody so scared.’

      Joan calls me Johnny on stress occasions; the last time was when she miscarried at five months visiting us in France. I was Johnny when we were kids.

      Joan gradually calms down. I go over everything I can think of to reassure her. She needs comforting so badly, she’s willing to believe almost anything.

      Finally, we decide it’s best if she go home. I’ll take care of Mom. In the morning I’ll visit Dad and let her know right away how he is.

      Later, I call Marty and give her some idea of what’s happening to Dad. She starts crying, so Gary comes to the phone. I tell them to stay out of all this. Their job is having the baby. This is my job now.

      ‘Mom and I aren’t going to be having any more babies and the best favor you two can do us is having yours.’

      They try to argue but I insist. I tell them I’ll yell for help if I need it. I promise on a stack of Bibles. This whole business is between Joan and me.

       9

      In the morning, we have ham and eggs at the Pizza Hut. While Dad’s paying, I roll the car down to a gas station. They have eight-tracks for sale on a revolving rack. I make the big move and buy a Dylan tape.

      I check the water, oil and battery. There’s enough motor to power a locomotive there. The battery’s big as a box of apples; the dipstick’s so long I could break my neck holding one end looking for oil on the other. Then, the damned machine drinks twenty-two gallons of gas.

      We’ve beaten most of the trucks out and start winding through beautiful country. I pull my tape out, fool with the dials and slip it in. I balance the speakers and we’re wrapped in sound. I look over to see how Dad’s taking it, but he’s hunched hard-eyed over the wheel, as usual.

      I lower the reclining seat, and watch the scenery float past. The sky gets bluer as we get higher and the air is sharp clear. The trees are more pine, less deciduous. The sound system is so great it’s almost like earphones. I’m drifting along.

      We go through the tape a couple times. The breaks aren’t bad. Trouble with eight-track is each part’s exactly twenty minutes; breaks can come anywhere.

      We’re into the second song again when Dad asks if we could turn it off for a while. OK. I don’t want to make a scene, but I can’t keep my mouth shut.

      ‘What’s wrong with Bob Dylan, Dad?’

      He looks up quickly and smiles, one of his yoga-meditation guru smiles.

      ‘Nothing much, Bill; only two hours solid СКАЧАТЬ