The Complete Collection. William Wharton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ I take the beer out of his hand and fit half a sandwich into it. Then I bend his arm again, moving it up to his mouth, but he won’t open his lips. His jaws are locked tight.

      So I cut the sandwich into small squares and have more luck. He opens his mouth to take the squares, chews and swallows. This way, I get half a sandwich down. He’s tasting and it’s something he likes. I try the beer again. It’s easier this time but he hasn’t worked out the difference between eating and drinking; he chews the beer. He almost bites off the edge of the glass. Next time I’ll use a mug.

      City Hospital comes on TV. This is one of my parents’ favorites but I’m not up to watching it right then. Dad doesn’t seem to notice what’s on; he’s only staring at the movements and colors. I flip around until I find the Dinah Shore show. Dad is watching TV the way you’d look in a kaleidoscope. He’s watching the movement, hearing the sounds; it calms him, holds him in one place but that’s about all.

      I chatter on, about the TV, about anything, but he doesn’t pay attention. I’m getting restless; patience is not my strong suit, especially when there’s no feedback. I talk about Joan, her kids, about Vron, our kids, about Mother; about what I remember from the work he did at G.E. and then at Douglas. Nothing.

      The television is fine in the daytime, but when evening comes, things get difficult. There’s something about colored TV light flickering on the rug.

      My parents have the weirdest damned pattern in their living-room rug. Mother bought this rug because she said it wouldn’t show the dirt. It’s different colors: red, green, brown, orange, yellow in tiny dots, like a mad pointillist painting but with no image.

      The flickering of TV colors on that rug drives Dad crazy. He keeps sliding off his rocker to the floor; feeling the surface, or trying to pick up the lights and shadows or smoothing them out.

      I kneel with him. I run my hand over the rug saying it’s nothing and trying to calm him. I help him back up on the rocker several times but then inevitably he slides down again.

      Finally I let him do it; he isn’t hurting himself and it’s something to do, better than sitting in the rocker like a vegetable. He crawls along on his hands and knees, touching and wiping the rug. It’s night by now and eerie. He doesn’t make any sound, nothing but the rubbing of his hand on the rug. It reminds me of when he taught Joan and me to shine pennies.

      It’s painful seeing him reduced to walking on all fours; but I don’t know what else to do. Nobody’d ever prepared me for anything like this. I’m totally spooked sitting there in the dark while he crawls along the floor in the quiet house. I know I should be starting dinner but I can’t get myself to move.

      Whenever there’s a sudden sound or a change in light coming from the TV, he springs back and cowers, pushing himself into a sitting position. This is primitive man, man before he’s gotten up on two legs. He’s frightened by any change and doesn’t understand what’s going on around him. It’s as if he’s come from some other planet, another star; this world is totally unfamiliar to him. Here he is a grown creature with a certain motor skill and no idea what to do with it. Whatever he is, whatever his intellect might be, he’s unrelated. His worldwise, rational capacity is gone. He’s back there in the furthest part of his mind.

      I squat and stare at the new light. I think of everybody still sleeping up at the house, still safe in that other place inside themselves. Meadowlarks start from the grass, they fly just over the reed tops. Twisting, turning, catching early insects. Almost like barn swallows.

      I begin to feel maybe some kind of serious cerebral accident has happened, that he’s stroked and a big part of his brain is permanently lost to him.

      I’m thinking if he can only regain control of his bladder and bowels it’ll be a big step. Every hour, I lead him to the bathroom. This works, sometimes, at least for peeing. I take his penis out and aim but he wants to hold it himself. He mostly makes the toilet but sprays the wall when he loses concentration. I’d rather wipe up than take away this one pleasure. The urine is a fairly normal color, not bloody, but it stinks to high heaven.

      We don’t eat much for dinner, French fries and hamburger. I feed him French fries one at a time and chop the hamburger into small pieces. He eats about half.

      At ten o’clock, I lead him into the bedroom. I’ve arranged the room to make it safe for him to sleep. Normally, everything in that room is symmetric. The bed’s in the center of the wall with night tables on each side. The dresser is on my mother’s side, the closet on my father’s. The cedar chest is at the foot of the bed, with a desk under the window. It’s been this basic arrangement in our house as long as I can remember.

      But I’ve changed it around. I’ve put both night tables on one side of the bed. Then I shoved the bed against the wall. I’ve lined up three dining-room chairs to block him from falling off the open side. He’ll be safe this way, I hope. In the hospital he’s had a high-sided bed.

      I get Dad undressed and into his pajamas. He doesn’t fight me, he’s nervous and twitching, but he lets me lift his arms or legs. He’s very sensitive or maybe I’m rougher than I think, because, several times, in my shifting around, getting trousers off, or an arm in a sleeve, he moans or grunts as if I’ve hurt him.

      I pull back two chairs and ease him onto the bed. It’s hard getting him to relax and lie back. I slowly lower his head till he’s resting on the pillow. He stares at the pink ceiling, his eyes wide open, hardly blinking, as if he’s watching something.

      I begin to think lying down is a major event for him; maybe he’s lost his ability to compensate movements in space. Maybe, lying down, he’s seeing everything sideways. What used to be on top is straight ahead, and he can’t adjust. It’s as if a motion picture camera were tilted up. I try to think that way, get inside him somehow.

      His eyes have begun drifting over the light-and-shadow patterns on the ceiling as if it’s a whole new world, at least as interesting as the sidewise world. He’s seeing the way an infant sees. If it weren’t my own father and I weren’t so emotionally involved, this could be fascinating. It’s amazing to see how he’s participating in this world with such intensity. He’s probably seeing forms, shadows, colors and movements in an original, personal sense, the way an artist tries to see and never can.

      So I tuck him in, folding his hands across his chest. I pull the covers up. To protect the bed, I’ve put a plastic tablecloth under the sheet; but I’m not sure about an electric blanket. If he urinates in the night, can he electrocute himself?

      I take off the electric blanket and throw on a couple regular blankets from the cedar chest. Before I leave, I get some water, tilt his head with my hand and give him his regular medicines plus five milligrams of Mom’s Valium. I say good night and hope for the best.

      In the side bedroom, I change into my sleeping suit. Then I go out into the living room. I’m looking for something to read; the only thing around is that lousy Hearst paper the Herald-Examiner. I make a snack, and sit in the rocker letting myself be worked through several articles about murders, rapes and Communist plots to destroy the moral fabric of America. Half an hour later, I go back to see how Dad is. I peek through the door carefully, trying not to make a sound. He’s gone!

      I can’t believe it. I push the door open all the way and turn on the lights. The bed’s empty! The room’s empty! I dash back down the hall and look in the bathroom. Nobody! I look in the middle room but he isn’t there either. He’s vanished! I stop for a minute and try to breathe. I look in the kitchen, then back in the living room.

      I don’t know what СКАЧАТЬ