The Complete Collection. William Wharton

look great to me, Dad, but do you think they’ll fit next week?’

      ‘I don’t care; if they don’t, I’ll give them away. I think I’d feel fine in a pair of pants like this. I’d feel like somebody special, as if people could see me. All the rich people I’ve seen on television wear crazy clothes. They don’t have to please anybody except themselves and they don’t care what people think of them; they’re already rich. Now I don’t need anything from anybody either. I’ll buy them. I feel like I’m buying Baltic in Monopoly; it’s purple, cheap and how can I lose?’

      ‘OK. Dad; I think they look great. What do you suppose Mother’ll say?’

      ‘Well, she’ll laugh and call me crazy, but she’ll laugh. We haven’t had enough laughing around our place the last ten years.’

      During the next hour, Dad buys the most outlandish combinations of pants and shirts. I jump into the spirit of things and help him color-match. He’s laughing and having great fun making up wild costumes; nothing is too much.

      Against my advice, he buys a shot silk shirt for two dollars. I know how impossible it is to get a shirt like that clean without killing the shimmer effect. Dad says when it gets dirty he’ll throw it away. He’s facinated by the feel of the cloth and the way it changes color at different angles to the light.

      All together, we spend under twenty dollars. I don’t remember ever enjoying shopping so much. I even buy myself two rather insane outfits. I hate to think of Mother’s reaction when we show up with these clothes.

      On the way home we talk about which costumes we’ll wear first. Dad decides on a pair of ochre-golden ski pants with the shot silk. The silk is a golden thread interwoven with a deep blue. We also buy shoelaces for the Adidas running shoes.

      When we get home, Joan’s there. I don’t know whether Mother panicked and called her or Joan just stopped in. We smuggle our bags of clothes through the side door into the back bedroom. I go into the living room to tell Joan and Mother we’re giving them a fashion show. Mother’s punch-drunk and doesn’t know how to react anymore.

      We come out, me first in my almost pistachio-ice-cream shirt, Jack Nicklaus golf pants, Stan Smith green-and-white tennis shoes. Joan whistles between her fingers, a skill she mastered before she was five years old, one I’ve always envied.

      Dad comes out behind me, no cane. He walks to the center of the living room slowly, carefully, and turns around with his arms waggling loosely in the air. Joan and Mother crack up totally. I begin walking and turning around Dad. Joan breaks out with ‘A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody’ and Mother joins in. They start clapping to the song. We all get giggling and Dad turns back to the bedroom. I bow.

      ‘Keep your seats, ladies. The show has just begun. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.’

      I disappear down the hall before they can say anything.

      Dad’s laughing and giggling. His hands are shaking so I help him with the buttons. This time, he puts on the Picasso pants and a dark blue, almost navy, flared blouse with three-quarter sleeves. All he needs is a beret to go out and paint in Montmartre. He looks at himself in the mirror, turns his head each way.

      ‘This is my retired-artist’s costume.’

      He takes the brush off the dresser and brushes his beard into a point, turns up the ends of his mustache. He looks more like an artist than I ever will.

      I slip on a pair of striped Italian no-belt pants with a brown, long-sleeved, three-button-at-the-cuff shirt. It even has a lion as a monogram on the pocket. I look somewhat like the Prince after the Princess got drunk and ran off with the butler. Dad stares at me.

      ‘Boy, if you ain’t the cat’s meow.’

      He whistles between his teeth, another skill I’ve never managed.

      ‘Johnny, you should dress that way all the time. You look like a man who’s never done a day’s work in his life.’

      We take a last peek at ourselves in the mirror. This combo just might be too much. I go out and peer around the doorjamb.

      ‘Ladies, our next showing is what they were wearing in Paris fifteen years ago. Time and tide wait for no one.’

      I step forward and Dad follows; Mother bursts out.

      ‘Oh, no! Joan! Oh, no!! They’re both simple. Oh Lord!’

      She’s between crying and laughing. I stand in the center this time with my hands over my head and Dad walks around me lifting his thin arms up and down so the sleeves slide past his elbows each time. Joan starts clapping and Mother picks it up. They’re belting out ‘A Pretty Girl’ again as we troop back to the bedroom.

      I’m out of costumes, but Dad has two more. I don’t fit into either his shirts or pants. I help him get undressed and dressed again. This time he has flared denim striped pants in a rather subtle range of tans and browns; he wears a sailor shirt with brown-and-white horizontal stripes and a small white collar. He looks slim and trim like a faggy old cabin boy. I quickly slip into Mr Lazio’s black burial suit, a white shirt and tie. I go out very serious; Joan and Mother roar. I wait till they stop laughing. While I’m waiting, I bow slowly, smiling falsely at each of them in turn. Dad’s pushing behind me.

      ‘What is it, John? What’s going on?’

      With one hand I signal Dad to stay back and I step out.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the house now presents the star of the show, the late sick man and almost corpus delicti, just back from a successful tour of the Caribbean, Gorgeous Jack.’

      I hold out my arm and Dad comes shuffling past me, all smiles, no hand over his mouth. This time Mother screams when she laughs. She can’t control herself.

      ‘Stop them, Joan. I’m dying. They’re trying to kill me! Stop them; I’ll pee my pants!’

      Joan’s rocking back and forth, laughing, on the couch.

      ‘I never heard of anybody dying laughing, Mother, but wouldn’t it be nice?’

      Dad walks, over, leans down and kisses Mother. Her cheeks are wet from crying and laughing.

      ‘Are you all right, Bess? We’re just having a little fun.’

      ‘You two are crazy and where in heaven’s name did you get those clothes? They must’ve cost a fortune, Jacky. And who in their right mind would sell them to two old kooks in beards anyhow?’

      She leans back, still laughing, to look at us again.

      ‘With those costumes and those beards, people would cross the street just to escape! Somebody’s going to lock you two up for sure.’

      Then she starts laughing again. Dad straightens, puts his hand on his chest.

      ‘This is my costume for bicycling in Venice along the beach or maybe roller-skating.’

      He says this biting the smile off his lips; at the same time, trying out the idea. Mother turns to Joan.

      ‘I wouldn’t put it past him; neither one of them. The way he’s been acting since he came out of that hospital, he’s liable to do anything.’

      Dad insists on dressing by himself for his last costume. I’m to join the audience. I can’t remember just what’s left. We looked at so many crazy combinations I’ve lost track. In about five minutes, he sticks his head around the doorjamb.

      ‘This here’s my baseball-watching outfit. Mostly I’ll only wear it around the house, watching Dodger or Angel games, but I’m also going to actually go see a few games, but not in my costume.’

      He comes out, and somehow – maybe it’s because he’s by himself and having such a good time – we get laughing so hard none of us can breathe. I’m on the floor with my knees bent up, rolling on my back, trying to get air. Joan’s prostrate on the couch and Mother’s rocking uncontrolled in her chair. Sometimes she leans forward