The Complete Collection. William Wharton

& Knight, Jack; you’ll need it.’

      The Knight & Knight offices are in a dark brown glass professional building on Wilshire and it’s a huge suite. I’m ushered past a row of secretaries, through ankle-deep rugs, past solid mahogany walls covered with first-class decorative paintings.

      In the inner office, the pair of them look like an ad for yachting clothes tucked behind those enormous black leather-topped desks.

      We shake hands and I give them the résumé. She sits and he stands to read over her shoulder. These are California beautiful people. I’d hate like hell to have them on the other side. They look lethal, smooth and invulnerable.

      She finishes first, looks at me through her tan, through sea-crushed eyes.

      ‘What is it you actually want, Mr Tremont?’

      This seems like the dumbest question in the world. Then I realize it is the question and I haven’t thought it through; I’ve been too mad to think. I’m slow responding.

      ‘Well. First I want my father to stay in the hospital where he can get the kind of care he needs.’

      She stares at me, calm as a hunter. Her husband looks up now. They glance at each other. Now he speaks.

      ‘There’s a suit here but it would be a long and hard one. We’ve entered into litigation with Perpetual eight times so far and won each time; the first three, in court; the last five, settlements. They’d probably settle out of court with this, mostly on our track record.’

      His wife looks up; they thin-smile at each other, bridge partners with all the trumps. She takes over again. It’s like one of those mind-reading acts where the wiggle of a fingernail or an eyelash tells your Social Security number and how much money you have in your left pants pocket.

      ‘We can assure you, you will get good care for your father; you’ll be able to request and receive any treatment necessary. Is that what you want?’

      I quickly write off a half-million-dollar settlement; it could pollute my mother, me and our descendants for generations. I couldn’t live with it either; Perpetual’s wrong but not that wrong. I hear myself say it out loud.

      ‘That’s all I want.’

      She reaches into a small space hidden behind the pen-holder. She pulls out a card with her tanned hand, well-veined, slightly liverspotted and garnished by a silver-set emerald worthy of Paulette Goddard. She signs it. He takes the pen from her hand, somehow a subtle act of intimacy. He signs too. She hands the card across to me.

      ‘Take this to Dr Benson, the administrative director of Perpetual. Tell him you have engaged us concerning a potential malpractice suit; show him this document you’ve written, just as it is. Tell him we’ve seen it. Also, write out any and all treatment or consultation you want for your father and mail it by registered letter to his physician in care of the hospital.’

      During this speech, her husband has strolled silently from behind the desk and around beside me. I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes off him; I know he isn’t going to pull out a silencer-extended Luger and fit it cross-armed in the crook of his elbow but I think of it. He’s only anxious to make a quick trip in the Maserati to the courts; tennis, that is. He snaps a brief stiff bow.

      ‘We’re certain this card is all you will need, Mr Tremont.’

      I take the card. She stands. This is it; I’m dismissed all right.

      ‘Thank you very much for your time and consideration. What do I owe you for your services?’

      She’s pulling a hand-knit Irish sweater over her shoulders.

      ‘The secretary will bill you. Please let us know if you wish to pursue this matter further. And would you have the secretary nearest the door make two Xerox copies of this statement for our files?’

      ‘Goodbye, Mr Tremont. I don’t think you will need us anymore.’

      They usher me to the door, smile as they pass by: empty-handed, no sails, no rackets, no golf club, no Luger.

      The secretary makes the copies and tells me I’ll be billed at the end of the month. It turns out to be a hundred dollars for that little card, a hundred dollars well spent for an ace of spades I can stick in my sleeve, a card I can shove up Ethridge’s ass.

      I go home and try explaining things to Mother. Now she’s afraid Perpetual is going to throw them out of the plan.

      ‘You know, Jacky, they don’t have to keep us on. The union pays most of the insurance, we only pay twenty-three dollars a month.’

      I try convincing her they can’t throw them out just because we insist on proper care. And actually it doesn’t matter. With Medicare they’re mostly covered anyway. I listen to her hammer away. I’ll think she’s stopped but she’ll start up on it again.

      Another thing about the poverty mind is there’s so much shadow-boxing, threatening, but when it comes to standing up to some ‘boss’ figure, the poverty person usually collapses completely. They’ve been so brutalized, dominated by life, they get deeply scared at the first sign of combat. The fear of losing what little security they have totally incapacitates them.

      I go feed Dad. I’m holding back with my card. Let Ethridge simmer some, and I’ll concentrate on Dad.

      I decide to paint him. That way I can get something done at the same time I’m sitting with him. I’ll do it out on the patio. I can’t see how Mrs Kessler or anybody can object to that. Also, I can prove to Alicia I really am a painter from Paris, France.

      Alicia’s already feeding him when I get there. The medical records and medicine have come.

      ‘Man, you really threw it through the roof, didn’t you? Gawd almighty, Missus Kessler was fit to be tied. Now look, Jack, your Daddy here’s a nice man; don’t you go and mess things up for him.’

      I take over the feeding. She has others to do and now she knows I can do it.

      Dad’s in much better shape. His attention still wanders but he’s not trying to get away. He half watches me, or at least my hands, as I put a bit of food on the spoon and tilt it into his mouth. I do it the way Alicia does, the way you do with a baby, mixing the bites: a bite of peas, then a bite of chocolate pudding, then one of meat; next a drink of milk. Constantly changing around seems to work better than feeding one thing at a time. I get it almost all down in less than an hour. I have my cuff and take his pressure: one ninety over a hundred, still high but better.

      When I’m finished, I put a light sweater on under his robe and move him into the wheelchair. I tie him in with the belt of his robe and wheel him outside. I’ve left my painting box beside the main door to the patio. I set up my box, keeping an eye on Dad. I’ll do a three-quarter view, just the head.

      I start the drawing and as I do it, I see how much he’s changed. It’s as if a whole layer of civilization, of superego, has been wiped off his face the way an actor wipes off makeup with cold cream. It’s his face, but much younger, much less used, not lived in. The face isn’t my father. I want to paint it true, true to what I think I’m seeing and true to what I’m feeling.

      I’m getting into the underpainting when Dad begins mumbling, then talking. I slide closer to hear. He turns to me and speaks quite clearly.

      ‘Ed, what do you think we’re going to do?’

      I’m Ed again.

      ‘I don’t know, what do you think we should do, Jack?’

      ‘Geez, I hate seeing us lose the old farm; I can’t even remember any other place. I don’t want to live in Manata and go to a town school. I know I won’t like that at all.’

      I wait.

      ‘Yeah, Jack, that’s right.’

      I look to see if anybody can hear us. Nobody’s near and nobody’s looking.

      ‘What happened,