The Complete Collection. William Wharton

him, he’s dry, silky smooth, almost parchmentlike with a feeling of graphite powder over his skin. Joan’s crying beside me, then she turns and comes into my arms. I hold her and she’s sobbing deeply. Her sobs trigger me and I can’t stop. I’m looking over her head and crying.

      The nurse comes in. She shoos us out and we go slowly past all the overhead lights and bottles surrounded by black faces in white uniforms. Joan’s still holding on to my hand.

      When we get to the lobby, she says she wants to use the ladies’ room. Instead of standing, waiting, I go into the men’s room. In the mirror, I look cut out, as if there’s a slight space all around the outside of my head and I vaguely don’t fit somehow, like a poorly done photo-montage. I stare and let warm water run over my hands. I’m still soaked with sweat.

      Mario drives us home. By this time, we have ourselves fairly well in control. Joan says she’ll tell Mom. I keep wanting to be with Dad, even though I know there’s nothing to do.

      At home, I sneak past, back to Mom’s room, snitch one of her ten-milligram Valium, go into the bathroom and swallow it. I’m a wreck all right. I hope Joan’s OK.

      I strip and fill the tub, hot as possible, until I’m practically floating. I dread getting out and going into the living room with Mom. I’m not ready.

      But by the time I’m out, the Valium’s hit, the hot water’s hit and a sedating shock has settled in. I’m calm when I join them in the living room. Mario’s in the platform rocker with his hands locked across his stomach, staying neutral, out of it. Joan’s biting her lips to keep from crying. Mom’s crying. I tell Joan and Mario they’d better get back home; I can take over now. Joan’s more than ready to go. She’ll be crying all the way over the San Diego and Ventura freeways. I’m glad Mario’s with her.

      Believe it or not, Mother’s convinced Dad’s dying because we canned Ethridge. I wonder if she brought this up with Joan or she’s saved it for me. The temptation is strong to walk out to the back bedroom in the garden, lock the door and just forget it all.

      Instead, I go over everything once more. I explain all the things they didn’t do, the fact that it was Ethridge who insisted Dad leave the hospital. I’m talking to a wall. She has something to blame it on and I’m a logical victim; she’s not going to let go.

      I tell her the neurological tests Max in Cincinnati told me should have been done and weren’t. I try to convince her concerning Max’s credentials as chief neurologist at a university hospital, but he’s only one of my hippy quack friends. There’s nothing to be done. I look at her there crying and striking out.

      Then I remember. When I was a child, my Aunt Helen died of peritonitis after an appendix operation. It was my mother – over the objections of Aunt Helen’s husband, Charley, and her father, my grandfather – who insisted Aunt Helen have the operation. At the funeral, my grandfather turned on Mom.

      ‘It’s your fault, Bess. If you hadn’t talked her into that God-damned operation, she’d be alive today.’

      This triggered Mother’s second nervous breakdown.

      I look at Mother and say quietly:

      ‘It’s your fault, Bess; if you hadn’t talked Helen into that God-damned operation, she’d be alive today!’

      I get up slowly and walk out of the house into the garden. I know I’m being a shit and a theatrical bastard but it feels so good. I halfway turn back to apologize but don’t; I go on into the garden bedroom and lock myself in.

      I stretch out on that big pillow of a bed and submerge myself in the smell of Billy’s dirty feet. How the hell did he get the smell of his feet into the pillow under my head? Maybe he sleeps with his head at the foot of the bed and his feet on the pillow. Maybe he’s trying to get some blood up to his brain. Maybe my father isn’t dying.

      No matter what, Dad’s going to have every one of those neurological examinations he should have had. He’s going to have all the medical backup he needs. I get to sleep at last. The final thought I have as I’m going under is about Mom.

      I discover I wouldn’t be too heartbroken if I go in the next morning and find her dead on the living-room floor. That’s a rotten thought but I have it.

       13

      Soon’s we get out of Kansas, two things happen. One, we start getting into nice little hills, not mountains, not even hilly as the Morvan, but it isn’t just one great, checkered tablecloth anymore. The second thing is everything turns green and humid.

      When we stop for gas and I step out of the car, the air’s so thick, hot and heavy I can’t breathe. I climb right back into the joy of canned air. Out there looks just fine through cool air and tinted glass. This luxury tank makes sense now.

      We drive along across Missouri toward St Louis. I’m at the wheel. Dad pulls out a notebook and starts scribbling. I figure he’s toting up how much we’ve spent so far with gas, motels and eating. Boy, is he in for a surprise; it’d’ve been cheaper going first class in an airplane.

      We’ve gone maybe thirty miles when Dad clears his throat.

      ‘Listen to this, Bill; tell me what you think. It’s called “God’s Joke”:

      ‘Adam lived alone on the old ranch Eden

      Just playin’, thinkin’, sleepin’, and feedin’.

      He was pickin’ flowers in his garden one day’n’

      God came down to teach Adam about prayin’.

      Adam didn’t know God was making up sin

      And wasn’t quite sure just how to begin.

      “Pray hard,” God said, “Pray with your life,

      Pray for money, or power. Pray for a wife.”

      “What’s that, God?” says Adam, scratchin’ his head,

      “Some new kinda fruit, somethin’ soft for my bed?”

      “That’s right,” God said, smilin’ and grinnin’,

      ’Cause now he knew how to start Adam sinnin’.

      Adam woke next mornin’ with a stitch in his side

      And a cute little critter sayin’ she was his bride.

      This critter, named Eve, had two bumps and a hole

      And knew just how to steal a man’s soul.

      Adam fenced off the ranch and took up the hoe,

      Planted taters ’n’ cotton and corn in a row.

      Eve raised Cain, then Cain slayed Abel,

      And God laughed his ass off all the way to the stable.’

      We start laughing. He’s proud of this crazy song; he’s going over it, making corrections, improving it; laughing to himself. Maybe all that shit with Grandma and Granddad was too much. I might be delivering a basket case to Mom.

      We start seeing big advertisements for caves along the road. One’s called Meramec, the other Onondaga. Dad wants to visit one, only he isn’t sure which. It’s a good fifty miles out of the way, however we go.

      It seems, fifteen years ago, my parents drove cross-country and visited a cave. All these years, he’s carried in his mind the idea I was too young to appreciate it then but he’s convinced I’ll like it now.

      When he gets an idea like this, there’s no stopping him; it’s only a question of which cave; Bryce and Zion all over again. Somehow he decides it’s Onondaga. I’m sure it’ll be the wrong cave. But it doesn’t matter. We’re in for a cave.

      We drive through rolling green countryside; he’s manning the maps. We go along small