Dad. William Wharton

2

      It was just after New Year’s Day and we were down at the moulin for Christmas vacation.

      The moulin is an old water mill we bought ten years ago and fixed up. It’s in an area of France called the Morvan. We spend most summers and other school holidays there.

      We were having unusually warm weather for winter in that part of the country, so I’m out painting. I’m wearing three pairs of socks and gloves but it’s good painting light. There’s something special about painting landscape in the cold when it isn’t snowing. The colors are toned down, muted, and the forms are much more visible.

      I’m on the road out to the woods where Billy built his cabin. There are beautiful views from there toward our village, with rolling hills behind. There’s a pair of tall poplars closing the left side and a spreading linden leaning over a road twisting under on the right. I’m doing a horizontal composition on a size 25 Figure, about two feet by three feet.

      The weather’s warm enough so the paint doesn’t thicken but I’ve turned cold, so I’m packing my way in for some vin chaud. I have the box on my back with the canvas strapped to it. I’m lazing along, pretending I’m walking into my own painting, when I see Jacky, our youngest, running up the road toward me. He has a blue paper in his hand.

      I recognize it, even at a distance, as a French telegram. They write them in longhand so they’re almost impossible to understand. I’m old-fashioned enough so a telegram starts my adrenaline going, especially in this deep country. I’m feeling open, vulnerable, there’s nothing to prepare me.

      I put down my box. Jacky’s wearing boots and a jacket with a hood. He ran out without buttoning his jacket.

      ‘Daddy! Mommy said, “Give this to Daddy.”’

      He hands me the telegram. I hug him and button his jacket. I really don’t want to open the damned thing.

      Jacky doesn’t ask to look at the painting. None of our kids are interested in my work. It’s as if I work for IBM. It’s what Daddy does. He puts a wooden box on his back, goes out and paints pictures for money.

      I pick up my box and we begin moving toward home. The ground’s hard but there’s no ice. I open up the telegram; it’s from my sister.

      MOTHER HAD A SERIOUS HEART ATTACK

      STOP CAN YOU COME STOP LOVE JOAN

      Well, that shakes me. In her special way, my mother has always seemed so indestructible.

      When we get back to the mill, I show the telegram to Vron. I sit down but I’m not hungry. It’s obvious I must go back. Joan is not a panic type. If she says it’s serious, it is.

      With Vron’s help, I start packing. She’s so calm, so reassuring; definitely the cool head in our menage. I’m still not believing what I’m doing. I’m going to be leaving all this quiet beauty. Within a day I’ll be in Los Angeles, in Palms, on the dead-end street where my parents live. I try to be calm, try not to frighten Jacky. I tell him his grandmother’s sick and I must go see her. It’s hard for an eight-year-old to comprehend what it means. He has no idea how long I’ll be gone; neither do I, for that matter.

      Vron drives me to the train for Paris and I catch an Air France flight direct to L.A. Eight hundred and fifty dollars for a twenty-one-to-forty-five-day excursion ticket. Excursion, hell! But it’s significantly cheaper than a regular ticket.

      I’ve telegraphed from Paris, giving my flight number, so when I step out of the plane, Joan and her husband, Mario, are there.

      We pile my things into their VW camper. Joan and Mario always drive either a camper or a station wagon; they have five kids. We’re pulling up onto Sepulveda when Joan starts telling me what’s happened.

      She came over to see Dad and Mom but they weren’t home. She took the opportunity to vacuum and wash some windows. Then she began to worry. They’re probably shopping, they don’t go much of anywhere these days; but it shouldn’t be taking so long.

      She drives over and finds them in the shopping mall. Mother is sitting on a bench next to the Lucky Market, white-faced. Dad, not knowing what to do, not believing what’s happening, is packing and unpacking groceries in the trunk of the car.

      Joan’s frightened by the way Mom looks. She drives them home in their car, leaving hers in the parking lot. At the house, she tells Dad to put the groceries away and rushes Mom off to the Perpetual Hospital. Mother doesn’t want to go. She’s a hypochondriac who likes doctors but doesn’t like hospitals.

      At the hospital they spot immediately she’s having a coronary crisis. They rush her into an intensive care unit and plug her onto monitoring systems, IV, oxygen; give her tranquilizers, blood thinners.

      On that first night in the hospital, she’d had the big coronary. If you must have a coronary, an intensive care unit is a good place for it. They tell Joan it was massive and if she’d had it outside the hospital, she’d never have survived. The final tests aren’t all in, but they’re sure she’s lost a significant part of her lower left ventricle.

      Well, she isn’t dead, but it doesn’t sound good.

      We go directly to my parents’ house. One reason Joan wants me here is to look after Dad. She seems more worried about him than Mom. I’m the same. I don’t know why we both have this feeling Mom can always take care of herself, but we do; it doesn’t make sense. It’s probably only a defense.

      Dad’s standing at the screen door waiting. I’m sure he’s been getting up and looking, every time a car’s come near. We shake hands; men don’t hug in our family. He isn’t crying but his eyes are filled with tears and his face is yellow. He’s nervous and his hands are shaking.

      He sits down in his platform rocker just inside the door while I carry my bag into the middle room down the hall. He seems much frailer than the last time I saw him. It’s been almost two years. He doesn’t look particularly older, or even thinner, only less vital.

      On the way, Joan said I should make as little of Mom’s attack as possible because Dad’s scared out of his wits. So we have a glass of that crummy muscatel my folks drink for wine. They buy it in gallon jugs, then pour it into a fake crystal bottle. It’s part of Mother’s effort toward elegance. It’s not bad if you’re munching on a toasted cheese sandwich, but God, it’s sweet as candy. If you don’t like wine it’s fine, somewhere between cream soda and a Manhattan.

      We sit there. Dad still hasn’t been to the hospital; Joan told him there were no visitors allowed. So when I leave, I sneak out the side door and ease my parents’ car out of the patio. It’s a 1966 Rambler, and has all of twenty-five thousand miles on it. Here’s an eleven-year-old automobile in showroom condition. They keep it covered with plastic; even the seat covers are plasticized. It has air conditioning, a radio, power brakes, power steering, the works. It’s like stepping into the past when you drive this car. It drives smooth as hell with automatic drive and is heavily horsepowered for a small car. Dad bought it, when he was still interested in cars, as his final, retirement automobile. He made a gamble on this one, and it’s been a real winner, simple classic lines, square back.

      At the hospital, in the lobby, a nice woman tells me how to find intensive care.

      Most likely, nobody ever gets used to hospitals, or is comfortable in them, except perhaps doctors or nurses. The vibes are all trouble: pain and death.

      But this hospital is somehow different, modern. There’s carpeting, and Muzak playing everywhere. There’s no hospital-white-tile-and-shiny-waxed-floor feeling. It doesn’t even smell like a hospital; more like a Holiday Inn. Even the elevator: little ding when you get in, self-operated; Muzak. Muzak on every floor, same soothing music playing all the time everywhere.

      Following signs, I work my way to the intensive care unit. At the desk I identify myself, ask if I can see my mother. They tell me she’s very sick and can’t