The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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      Soon as I arrive, Mom’s giving me frantic signals. This time she’s really trying to get my attention without Dad seeing it. This must be serious.

      Dad is vaguely preoccupied, distressed; I’m wondering what could’ve happened. Mom ushers me into her back bedroom and closes the door. Dad’s wandering around, aimless, restless, in the garden.

      ‘Jacky, he’s crazy!’

      She starts crying. I take her in my arms.

      ‘What happened, Mom?’

      She can’t talk for several minutes, just holds me tightly. Then she lets go and settles onto the bed. Her legs are so short they don’t touch the floor. She still has on her nightgown, bathrobe and slippers. Her hair’s up in curlers and her face is cold-creamed. It must be serious for Mother to let anybody see her this way.

      ‘Jacky, he’s talking about people I don’t know or people I’m sure are dead. He insists we go to Cape May, New Jersey, to see how things are. Can you imagine?’

      She’s crying again.

      ‘And he’s back to calling me Bess!’

      She peeks out the window. Dad’s weeding along the patio wall.

      ‘Jacky, he wanders around the house, opening and closing doors, looking into closets, into the cupboards, all the time shaking his head. It’s as if he’s looking for something he’s lost.’

      She pushes the back of her hand into her mouth.

      ‘I think he’s lost his marbles, Jacky. He can stare at me as if he doesn’t quite know who I am. It scares me. He’ll be sweet and kind; then he looks at me with those crazy eyes and I almost expect him to ask, “Who the hell are you?”’

      Through the window, I’m watching Dad in the garden. He’s pacing like a tiger or a lion in a cage he knows too well but, like a caged animal, still looking for some little chink, some opening or corner he’s never found.

      ‘He’s strong, Jacky. I know him. I’m afraid when he comes into my room nights. He comes so silently, sneaking, as if we aren’t married, as if he feels guilty about coming in. Then he talks to me while we’re making love and calls me Bess. He even talks about the things he’s doing. He was never like that, Jacky; he never said anything about things like that. I tell you, he scares me!’

      It’s getting awfully thick. I need to talk with Dad. It could be nothing, only Mother’s love of dramatizing, or there might be something wrong. Maybe he’s starting to slip back again and these are the first signs.

      Dad’s in the greenhouse. He’s working his cuttings and plants into shape again. Maybe there’s nothing to talking with plants but I’m sure they know when somebody cares. There’s some kind of telepathy going on. Just because they can’t speak doesn’t mean there isn’t communication.

      In the greenhouse, Dad turns to me immediately; he looks in my eyes. Mother’s right; it’s almost as if he’s somebody else, as if he’s trying to decide if he knows me, can trust me.

      ‘What did she say, John?’

      I lean over and pretend to inspect a green plant with thick cactus leaves and a small yellow flower growing on top of the leaf.

      ‘She says she’s scared, Dad. She thinks maybe you’re crazy.’

      He looks down at his feet, then picks up an empty bag for one of his flowers.

      ‘Take me for a ride, John. I need to talk in private and I don’t want any interruptions.’

      I follow him out of the greenhouse. When I’m out, he reaches back and sets the timer for his automatic mist-waterer; a thin fog of water sprays with a hissing sound. I wonder if he invented this watering system himself or it’s standard for greenhouses. You never know with Dad; he’s always developing some little gimmick to fit his convenience and might just not ever mention it. Until the past few weeks, I never truly realized what an extremely private man he’s been.

      I warm up the car. Dad gets a sweater and his hat. I don’t know what he tells Mother. I have a feeling again things are getting out of control. Dad gets in the car.

      ‘Could we drive to Venice, John? It’s a sunny day, I’d like to see the ocean.’

      I’ve just turned onto Beethoven Street when he blasts me with it. He isn’t looking at me; he’s staring out the front windshield.

      ‘Johnny, what chance is there I have a wife and four kids in Cape May, New Jersey?’

      My first response is he is crazy, Mother’s been right all the time. My second is fear, closely followed by confusion. I concentrate on driving. I want to get parked before we go into this.

      ‘I don’t think there’s much chance, Dad.’

      I try keeping my voice neutral, concerned; I’m fighting down panic.

      ‘So far as I know, you’ve been living here in California more than thirty years after living in Philadelphia almost twenty-five years. You held a regular job at Douglas for twenty years, and have been sleeping in Mom’s bed every night except when you were sick in the hospital.’

      I’m trying to be reasonable; play the psychologist; stay on top of things.

      ‘Of course, I’ve personally been away most of these last years, so I’m not really the one to ask; maybe Joan or Mom.’

      I want to act as if this is a logical question. I’ve no idea what I’m dealing with. I have a bad habit of being flip when I’m scared.

      But my insides have started to jiggle. It’s a sure sign I’m shocked, even when my head doesn’t know it yet. Right now, the worst part for me about getting older is I’m losing my nerve, my ability to keep on thinking, solving, planning when I’m upset, tired, worried.

      Dad’s crying. At first it’s only tears, deep sighs; no sobbing. I don’t know what to do. I head for a parking area where we can have some privacy. I pull in facing the ocean with a view over wide beach to the breakers. A group of surfers are slipping on wet suits and unloading boards about seventy yards to the right but they’re the only people around. Dad turns to me.

      ‘You mean there’s no chance I have a house in Cape May next to Bill Sullivan and Ira Taylor, across from brother Ed and Gene Michaels; that I don’t have a truck garden there and I don’t have four kids, you, Joan, Hank and little Lizbet?’

      There’s such anguish on his face, such hope that I’ve made a mistake.

      ‘Look, Dad. I don’t really know. I know I’m here and I’m fifty-two years old. Joan’s forty-nine. I don’t know about Hank or Lizbet. But if you want, we can take a plane and fly to Cape May. We can visit this place.’

      I’m not sure if I’m being cruel or not. He’s taking it in, shaking his head; he stares in my eyes.

      ‘But, Johnny, it’s the best part of my life; how can it not be true?’

      He searches my eyes some more, then looks down.

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