The Complete Collection. William Wharton

a beard is the same as wearing jogging shoes or sweat shirts, a cheap shot at staying young.

      I look at Mary. She couldn’t’ve been more than sixteen or seventeen when she had Jesus. Now, let’s say the archangel Gabriel really did come down and tell her about God being the father and the baby being God, too, and telling her what to name it; would she still be believing that seven, eight months later?

      And Joseph, if he’d really had nothing to do with her, what’s he thinking?

      And what happened to Joseph? You never hear about him after Jesus is twelve. Even if he isn’t Jesus’s father, they could at least say he died or ran away or got run over by a rampaging donkey; something.

      And what a lousy day they chose to celebrate Saint Joseph’s birthday, two days after Saint Patrick’s. They don’t actually know when either of them was born, so they could’ve picked any day. Joseph is limited to holding off donkeys and cows while Jesus is being born; then to giving a few carpentry lessons.

      Next, there’s the marriage feast of Cana. Mary’s all of forty-six, forty-seven; nice age for a woman, fully mature and no real decrepitude set in yet. So Mary pushes Jesus into his career before he’s ready; wants to show her friends what a hotshot son she’s got. I wonder if he did a few parlor tricks at home first, to practice.

      Or maybe Mary was tired of having a thirty-year-old galoot of a son still hanging around the house.

      I’m looking at these two pictures and spinning. I’m for fantasy but this was supposed to be real. This whole mystique invades the psyche and changes you. I’m wondering how much of it’s left in me; I’m sure there’s a lot. I lie out there in bed having these sacrilegious thoughts, wondering what it’s all about.

      The next morning we get a call from Ethridge. Mother takes it; she’s holding the receiver against her chest, making exaggerated whispering mouth movements. ‘He wants you, Jacky.’ I pick up the living-room phone. She can stay on her line and listen.

      Ethridge comes on in cool, masterful tones. This call must have been fairly high on his list; it’s only quarter past nine.

      He goes through the basics of Dad’s condition, spreading the old medical jargon. I listen. Finally he comes to the crux of the matter.

      ‘I’m scheduling your father for release today, Mr Tremont. You can pick him up after twelve o’clock.’

      I’m stunned. I can’t believe it.

      ‘You mean he’s recovered, Doctor?’

      ‘Well, no, but he’s in a stable condition.’

      ‘Then how can you release him? As he is, he can’t live outside a hospital.’

      ‘Well, Mr Tremont, your father’s condition is stable, medically; there’s not much we can do for him. He’s basically custodial.’

      ‘What does that mean, Dr Ethridge? What does custodial mean in this case?’

      ‘Mr Tremont, we just cannot hold hospital beds for patients who can’t profit from medical care.’

      I’m still having a hard time believing it.

      ‘But, Dr Ethridge, we tried having him home. I slept with him, fed, bathed him, spent all my time with him and still couldn’t keep him alive. He does need hospital care.’

      There’s a slight pause. Ethridge is gathering his limited patience.

      ‘Mr Tremont, your father should probably be in a convalescent home. I’ll give him an extra day so you can have time to find a place. The social-services personnel here should be able to help you.’

      He hangs up.

      I sit there not knowing what to do. I hear Mother shuffling up the hall. She’s in a state; shaking her fist.

      ‘I always knew that Ethridge was an SOB! Daddy liked him just because he came from Wisconsin. I know he made a mistake on that gall-bladder operation!’

      I lead her to a chair.

      ‘Take it easy, Mom. Having another heart attack won’t help anything.’

      ‘Who’s been paying money for over twenty years so they could build their big new hospital? We pay and pay; now when we need them they throw us out. A bunch of kikes and niggers, that’s all they are.’

      She’s crying.

      ‘Jacky, I don’t want Daddy going to any old people’s home. Think of it. All the years we’ve worked and saved, taking care of you kids, and now he winds up like this.’

      ‘It’s a convalescent home just like the one down the street here, Mother, not an old people’s home.’

      ‘Don’t tell me; I know. It’s only a fancy name for the same thing. Daddy and I would look in at those poor souls down the street and we’d feel sorry for them. We were so glad we had our own place and now it’s happening to him.’

      She’s crying now. I wait. I want to phone Joan but things here need settling first. What choices do we really have? I don’t know how I can force the hospital to keep Dad. I know there’s no way I can sustain him, especially with Mother here. He has to go into a home, that’s all there is to it. Finally I calm Mom down; and phone Joan.

      I explain the situation, tell her how upset Mom is. Joan asks me to put her on the phone. I sit back.

      After about five minutes nodding and saying yes, bringing up complaints but backing off, Mother passes the phone to me.

      ‘I think Mom understands, Jack. It’s psychological more than anything else. There’s the whole Irish business about the poorhouse. She’ll be all right. You go to Perpetual and talk to the social-service people.’

      It gets resolved just like that. I make breakfast for Mother and myself. She’s still vacillating between acceptance and resistance. Billy comes in from the back and I tell him what’s happened. He’s set to go burn down the hospital. He starts Mom up again. Behind her back, I desperately give him the signal to cool it. Lord, it’s hard enough.

      After being shuttled around the Horn three times, I find social services in the hospital basement. The woman who’s assigned to me is a nice person; a listener. She phones and verifies, calls for Dad’s records. She’s not rushing or pressing in any way. She explains the nature of Perpetual-run homes for members. She shows me the names of other places accredited by Perpetual.

      I’m shocked by the prices. Mother’d be wiped out in short order. I ask how Dad can qualify for one of the Perpetual-run convalescent extensions. These are covered by the insurance plan. I’m feeling like a cheapskate copping a plea.

      She smiles, speaks with a little Scottish brogue or something, is about my age, maybe younger; graying-black hair, light blue eyes.

      ‘Well, Mr Tremont, if he needs medical as opposed to custodial care, he could qualify.’ She goes carefully through Dad’s records, looks up, smiles.

      ‘It shows here your father has an indwelling catheter; that would definitely be classified as medical. If he’s dismissed with that catheter, you should have no trouble.’

      She’s happy for me, for Dad. My stomach sinks. Am I willing to keep a catheter on for maybe thirty dollars a day? Is it my decision to make?

      I thank her and say I’ll be right back. I slink upstairs and hang around the urology clinic till I catch Sam at an off minute. He remembers me immediately.

      ‘It sure is too bad about your dad, Mr Tremont. I’ve never seen anybody take such a bad turn so fast.’

      I ask about the indwelling catheter. He says Santana has scheduled it to be removed this afternoon. I ask if it can be left in. He looks at me. I explain the situation. He shakes his head.

      ‘You’ll have to check with Dr Santana. He’ll be right out; talk to him.’

      When Santana comes, I step up. He