The Complete Collection. William Wharton

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 gives me the idea, finally, to look under the bed but that’s where he is. He isn’t asleep, he’s quietly moaning to himself under there. I should’ve heard this when I was looking but I was looking so hard I wasn’t listening. He’s moaning and trying to turn onto his stomach. He’s up on his side pushing his shoulder against the springs of the bed. The bed’s too low and he can’t turn over.

      I try to get hold of his feet but he kicks my hands away. I can’t pull him onto his back because he’s wedged. I try pulling on his arm but he moans louder. I’m getting wedged under there myself, and feeling claustrophobic. I wriggle out for a fresh start.

      I’m afraid to slide the bed for fear I’ll crush him. I try lifting one corner and holding it up, hoping he’ll roll onto his stomach. But when I lower the bed carefully, it’s worse. He’s rolled up on his side in a fetal position and is jammed tight by the springs. He moans louder and grunts in pain. I quickly lift the bed again.

      ‘Turn over, Dad, turn over!’ I yell, and let the bed down again. He’s moaning and screaming now; I’m crushing him! I lift the bed. I have a sacroiliac condition and I don’t know how long I can hold up.

      I stretch out a foot and hook one of the chairs. I edge the chair toward me and muscle the bed up at the same time until the bed-spring rests on the chair. I’m shaking and sweating like a hog. I sit on the floor to get my breath.

      I look under; he’s still curled up but the bed isn’t on his shoulder. I can’t tell if he’s asleep, but at least he isn’t moaning. I consider pulling the covers off the bed and wrapping them around him under there. If he’s asleep, I certainly don’t want to wake him. This room is warm and the carpet is thick, especially under the bed where nobody’s ever walked.

      But then he starts moaning again. I slip off my dripping sweat-suit top. I check to make sure the bed is secure on the chair. I wedge another chair against the bed just in case. It’d be a scene if we both got trapped there; nobody could ever explain a thing like that. I slide under with him.

      I squeeze close and fit myself tight against his back. I put my arms around his waist and start pulling backwards. I inch myself back, pulling on him, watching out for the chairs. He doesn’t resist except to moan and curl deeper into his fetal position. I’m afraid I’ll pull too hard; he seems so fragile I might break him. His coordination is shot; he could easily get an arm or leg twisted without my knowing it. After ten minutes’ struggling, we’re out from under. He’s still curled up on himself. His eyes are shut, squeezed shut.

      We’re both covered with streaks of dirt and dust. Mother might be one of the world’s greatest housekeepers, but nobody dusts the springs under a bed, not at seventy anyway.

      I take off Dad’s pajamas, twisting and pulling to get them loose from his clamped-down arms and legs. I pull the chairs from under the bed and lower it to the floor again. I lift Dad in my arms; he starts to uncurl. I maneuver him to the bathroom.

      I sponge him, wipe the dirt off his head, hands and a few other places. I guide him back to the bedroom, prop him on the side of the bed. Now his eyes are full open, pinpoint pupils, watching me carefully. I get new pajamas and wrestle him into them. It’s exactly like dressing a giant ten-month-old.

      Then, slowly, I straighten him onto the bed again, lower his head to the pillow. When I get him down, I sit and watch. He’s so incredibly nervous; his lips, his whole mouth is twitching; his fingers and hands are shaking and rubbing on the edge of the sheet where I’ve pulled it to his neck. He’s in a total state of negative anticipation.

      I run fast into the bathroom, fill a glass of water and come back. He’s still there, he hasn’t moved. I tilt his head with one hand again and slip a Valium between his teeth; another use for that space beside long-distance spitting. I slip it through there because his jaws are locked tight. He chews and swallows it like candy. I pour water gently between his teeth and he swallows that, too. I hope I’m not killing him with Valium. What the hell would I say at an inquest? These aren’t even his Valium pills; they’re Mother’s. I gently settle his head on the pillow, put out the overhead light and sit.

      I fall asleep, half naked, dirty. I wake up with my head in my arm on the bed. He’s asleep. It’s so good to see him relaxed, his face smooth, absolutely quiet, in a dead sleep; but he’s breathing. It gives me some hope. I didn’t see him asleep like this even once in the hospital. I quietly sneak away. I wash myself in the bathroom and spread my sweaty sweat suit over the shower-curtain rod to dry. I put on jockey shorts and a T-shirt, then climb into bed. It’s past one-thirty.

      I don’t know what wakes me, but it’s almost five o’clock. I decide to check how he’s doing. I tiptoe down the hall and try pushing his bedroom door open quietly. It won’t open! I push till it’s open enough for me to stick my head in. He’s on the floor against the door at my feet, curled up naked, covered with shit! His face, hands, feet and legs, everything smeared with it! The smell almost knocks me down.

      There’s a moment then when I’m not sure I can go on. There’s a strong animal impulse to just close the door and run. I want to run as fast and far as possible, get on a plane and go home. I want to call Joan, call the hospital, call anybody and ask for help.

      I push the door open carefully. Dad’s chattering, muttering and shaking. He’s ice cold. He isn’t asleep. When I lean over him he looks at me with locked eyes, as if somebody’d turned on a light, but no recognition. I take off my T-shirt and lift him in my arms. As I said, I have a bad back; I’m amazed at what I’m doing. Dad’s not a heavy man but he still weighs over a hundred and forty pounds.

      I ease him into the bathtub and turn on the water. God, he’s a mess. It’s in his hair, in his pubic hairs, all over. I fill the tub and scrub as best I can. The smell fills the bathroom. Mother’d have two fits. I drain the brown water when I’ve got most of it off and fill the tub again. I rinse him, try to wipe off what I’ve gotten on my chest and arms while carrying him.

      Dad only watches me. I drain this tubload and dry him in the tub. I dash into the bedroom to grab his last pair of pajamas. One pair is covered in bed dust, the other with shit. Then I lift him from the tub and sit him on the toilet, just in case. I want to get out anything left; it can’t be much, but I’m taking no chances.

      We’re into flannel pajamas now, the ones Joan bought for his birthday.

      I stagger with him back to the bedroom. The bed’s clean, thank God. He must’ve fallen or gotten out first.