The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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СКАЧАТЬ Plowing for sod corn, new-cut ground turned close, one row onto the other, small tufts of grass and reeds marking the depth of furrows. Jimmy pulls, slowly, easily; and I lean, just strong enough to turn over topsoil; corduroying the earth.

      The next day when I go to do the bathroom, the tub’s been scrubbed. This is too much. If there’s anything a heart patient shouldn’t do, scrubbing a tub must be high on the list. Mother’s in the patio sunning with Dad. I go out.

      ‘Mother! Did you scrub the tub?’

      ‘Jacky, it was such a mess, rings of dirt and water splashes all over everything, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I’m sure you two step straight out of a tub and never look back; you leave curly hairs over everything and an inch thick of scum. I may be sick but I don’t have to live in a pigpen.’

      ‘Come on, it wasn’t that bad. I just went in to scrub it out. You only had to wait another ten minutes. For ten minutes with a few hairs in a bathtub you put your whole life on the line.’

      I’m working up a stupid mad.

      ‘Dad and I are doing our best while you spend your time making things difficult. Mother, I’m telling you right now, if you don’t lie back, take it easy and do as the doctor says, I fly home tomorrow. If what we do isn’t good enough, hire a professional nurse. Do whatever it is you have to do but I’m not taking any more nonsense.’

      Mother looks at me, then starts crying.

      ‘If I can’t even do a little work around my own house, what’s the use of living. You know he can’t do anything.’

      She flings her arm in Dad’s direction.

      ‘Joan never comes and you’re only waiting so you can go back to Europe with all the foreigners.’

      I turn and walk into the house while she’s raving. Dad comes in after me. I’m getting lunch ready. He’s upset; we all are.

      ‘It’s not her fault, Johnny; don’t be so hard; it’s not easy for her to relax, you know how she is.’

      ‘Sure, Dad. But remember: this isn’t only the usual spoiling, letting her have her own way; she can very easily die. I don’t intend to watch her kill herself out of pride, and a frustrated need to dominate.

      ‘And you’ve got to stand up to her, too, Dad; for her good and yours. It’s something we can’t put off. If she’s going to wash out bathtubs, there’s no chance she’ll live; I’m not kidding.’

      I can’t tell if he understands. He’s so scared he’s into his nodding routine, looking serious and doing his worker-boss thing.

      ‘You’re right, Johnny. You’re absolutely right. I’ll talk to her. She’s crying out there alone; she doesn’t cry much; crying can’t be good for her heart, either.’

      ‘It’s better than scrubbing tubs, Dad.’

      God, will we have to watch her all the time? I go back out with sandwiches, beer and some Coke for Mom. She’s still red-eyed, wiping away tears. She won’t look at me.

      ‘Listen, Mom. You’ve got Dad worried to death with your bullheadedness but I’m not going to say another word. If you want to climb up on that roof right now and start tap dancing, I’ll sit here and applaud. If you get a scrub brush and start scrubbing the lawn, that’s OK with me.

      ‘Then, when you have your next heart attack, I’ll try to help, I’ll try getting you to the hospital on time again and maybe they can save you. If they can’t, I’ll make arrangements for the funeral and help set Dad up. But that’s it. I refuse to treat you like a baby! You’re a grown woman, you’re not senile and it’s your life. If you want to kill yourself, that’s up to you.’

      I pause to let it sink in. She’s looking at me now.

      ‘Do you understand, Mom? There won’t be another word from me. It’s up to you; you take hold of your own life. I think you have more sense than you’ve shown so far. I think you really want to live but you enjoy pestering the life out of Dad and me. Eat your lunch.’

      After this it’s better. Now she has to prove she isn’t stupid. But her idea of what she can do without hurting herself is bizarre. I feel sorry for Dad because the whole guard duty falls on him. I shake my head in disbelief when she makes a bed or washes out undies, but I say nothing.

      Marty calls most evenings and says she’ll come over to spell me if I want. I tell her it’s OK; I know how much Mom bugs her and almost everything about Marty annoys Mom. Mostly that she’s young and has her own life.

      After two weeks, it’s time to take Mother back for a checkup. I call the doctor ahead of time and ask him to throw the fear of God into her because she’s too active.

      He does a great scene but I can see Mother sitting inside herself resisting. He shows her the X-rays but she scarcely looks. He gets out the cardiograms, explains her blood chemistry, pulls out charts to show which part of her heart is affected. It’s not registering; she doesn’t want to know. Afterward, when I’m pushing Mom out to the parking lot in a wheelchair, she turns and looks back at me.

      ‘Jacky, I don’t think he’s a real doctor. I’m sure he’s not a heart specialist. Did you see that belt he was wearing and those tight pants? He’s another hippy. They let anybody get through medical school these days. He’s probably only a student anyhow, he can’t be thirty years old.’

      I disappoint her and keep my mouth shut. All the way home she stays on the same themes, knocking Dr Coe and the Perpetual Hospital. Then she starts on the ‘nigger nurses’. She’s pulling out all stops.

      I keep smiling, nodding like an imbecile and concentrate on the driving. Mother’s putting on the brake and clutching all the way. I swear next time I’ll slip a sack over her head and put her in the back seat.

      At home, she begins telling Dad how she’s had a very light heart attack, so light in fact it’s doubtful she had one at all. She isn’t saying anything of what the doctor told us, only what she wanted to hear. I’ll give Dad a straight story later; I don’t want to start her crying again. Dad’s right, crying can’t be the best thing for a heart patient.

      After lunch she’s at full steam.

      ‘Look how the paint on this house is peeling. The garden is going to pot, nobody’s weeding. The windows are filthy. We haven’t had any really balanced meals since I’ve been home. Dad isn’t taking his pills regularly, he doesn’t look well and he’s running around so much he’s going to have another stroke.’

      Far as I know, he hasn’t had a first one.

      I try to reassure her Dad’s doing fine and he’s getting good food. But nothing will do. Things are slipping away from her, and she’s in a minor panic; her very reason for living is being pulled out from under her.

      The truth is Dad is getting away, gaining independence. He’ll go back, and in his new breezy way ask how she’s doing and what he can do. This bugs Mom, the roles have been reversed, so quickly, easily. He’s bringing her glasses of water, fixing her medicine, straightening her bed, regulating the electric blanket, giving her massages and trying, generally, to help her relax. Everything he does makes it worse. She’s caught in an unplanned СКАЧАТЬ