The Complete Collection. William Wharton

but never found anything she really liked. Daddy never wanted to spend any money on furniture. She sits down again, spreads her hands on each side, strokes the nap.

      ‘Isn’t it beautiful, Jacky?’

      I agree. It really is beautiful, a beautiful couch and beautiful to see her smiling. I sit beside her. She leans over impulsively and kisses me on the cheek.

      ‘You’re such a good boy, Jacky. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’

      That’s the way Mom is. All the fear, the dissatisfaction, the anxiety is forgotten. I even think she’s almost forgotten about her heart in the joy of getting this new thing. I’m happy it worked out. I’m half afraid that in loading the couch, I’ll find something seriously wrong, like sprung springs, a broken frame or missing legs. I start checking surreptitiously, but nothing seems amiss. I go over and write the check. I make arrangements to drive the car up close. I tell Mother to go with Dad while I get this done.

      We push the couch onto the roof and tie it down. It’s a real brute. I shove five cushions in the trunk and pile three in the back seat. This is one hell of a couch; it overhangs both front and rear a couple of feet. I’ll stay on back streets. If some cop stops us, I’ll tell him Mother’s a heart patient and we carry the couch along in case she has to lie down.

      It’s half an hour later when I go back to the clothing section. I can hear them laughing from the door. Mother’s letting loose with what I’ve always called her vulgar laugh. It’s deep, hearty, juicy and sounds like a laugh you’d expect to hear coming from the window of a brothel in New Orleans. It’s the laugh you want to hear when you tell a dirty joke.

      I go back. They’ve got the most outlandish clothes spread all over the counters. They’re setting up ‘his and her’ costumes. Mother’s moderating Dad’s more bizarre impulses, but not much. They really do have confession-going costumes. If they ever wear them, they’ll look as if they’re going to a public execution. Dad has a Gothic flair, Gothic in the Hawthorne or Poe tradition. They’ve also selected some light, Eastery pastel getups. Mother’s entered into the spirit of things and is master-minding the his-and-her bowling costumes. She gives me one of her stage whispers.

      ‘After all, Jacky, we’re not spending more than twenty-five dollars all together. The cloth in these clothes in worth that, and he’s having such a good time I hate to spoil it.’

      But she’s having a good time, too. Together we work on our having-tea-with-the-queen costume for the three of us. We’ll invite Joan over and pretend she’s the queen. We keep adding new touches to these costumes, sometimes including hats and shoes. We laugh ourselves sick imagining how Joan will react.

      I’m beginning to feel it’s going to be all right; that Mom will learn to enjoy her new ‘crazy’ husband.

      The next day, Joan calls and says she’s coming in the afternoon. We set out the best dishes and silver. We cover the dining-room table with a white tablecloth – the works. I make a crown from gold paper I find in the Christmas decoration box. The new couch is in and it’s beautiful. I’ve even maneuvered the old sectional jobs back to the garden bedroom.

      That new couch gives a golden light to the living room, a glow. We’re all pleased as pussy cats about it. Dad and I talk Mother out of pinning her little crocheted antimacassars on the back and arms.

      ‘What the hell, Bette, if it gets dirty, we’ll buy a new one.’

      This is Dad, exercising his newfound largesse and expanded vocabulary.

      We get dressed in our costumes, laughing and kidding around. If it could always be like this, I’d move back to America. Dad’s wearing a fitted, light blue velvet waistcoat with silver buttons and gray flannel trousers. The shirt is a pale blue with a silver thread running through it. He’s wrapped a deep blue foulard under the collar and Mom ties it lightly in a soft knot. With his dark beard, he looks like one of the three Musketeers.

      Mom has on a pale yellow silk pajama suit. She’s wearing a golden necklace and pendant. On her head she has a chestnut-blonde wig with side curls. It fits her perfectly. We get all her hair tucked in and the wig nicely combed out. Dad’s helping comb out the wig; it reminds me of when he used to cut our hair in the cellar when we were kids. He walks around in front of Mom.

      ‘My goodness, Bette, you’re beautiful!’

      Mother’s sitting in front of the dresser mirror, smiling at herself, directing the combing. The problem is her eyebrows are black, actually black streaked with gray. Mom solves this by rubbing in foundation cream, turning them brown.

      I’m wearing a bright red blazer jacket I got for three dollars, along with red-and-white striped pants. We make quite an ensemble. I go buy some ice cream at the Lucky Market. Mother’s scandalized because I wear my tea-with-the-queen costume to the market.

      ‘You’ll get arrested for sure, Jacky!’

      Nobody notices me. After all, this is California, land of the kook. I get the ice cream, some pretzels and sugar cones. I’m on the watch for a dormouse and a Mad Hatter so I can invite them home with me.

      Finally, after we’ve waited impatiently, checking every car within earshot, Joan arrives. We meet her at the door, bowing and scraping. We circle around her, curtseying. Joan laughs hysterically and is very unqueenlike, but finally settles into her role and is properly haughty as we escort her to her throne at the head of the table and crown her. Then she spots the new couch and is satisfyingly enthusiastic, sitting on it, spreading her hands while we hover over her. She graciously admires our costumes, smothering giggles, and bows or smiles sweetly to all our ‘Your Highness’s. It’s as if we’ve made a tea party with mud cakes and invited our parents.

      I decide things are going well enough so I can leave Dad and Mom alone. I want to spend some time with Marty.

      Marty lives near the Los Angeles County Museum, so we go there. It’s wonderful seeing paintings again; it’s so easy to forget the big life when one gets bogged down with the up-front part of things. I find myself spaced out in the Impressionist room.

      When Gary comes home, we go to a Korean restaurant and talk about names for the baby. At that point it’s Will for a boy, Nicole for a girl. I give them a quick blow-by-blow of what’s been happening with Dad and Mom. They’re anxious to find a new place to live. Their apartment specifies no children or pets. It’s a very quiet, old-people’s neighborhood.

      I tell about Venice; how great it would be for a baby near the beach. They get enthusiastic. They’re tired of the heavy smog where they’re living and there’s practically no smog near the ocean. We agree Marty and I will spend the next afternoon looking down there. I phone home and everything’s OK. I tell them I’m staying over with Marty and Gary. I sleep on a couch in the living room, hoping everything’s all right.

      In the morning I take a quick buzz over to see Mom and Dad. It’s almost like visiting another house. Dad comes out, gives me a weak hug and pushes his beard against mine. Mom puckers up for a kiss. She’s still scared-looking but there’s excitement in her eyes; she whispers she wants to talk with me. Dad goes out to water and work in his greenhouse; Mom and I go into the main back bedroom: her bedroom now, while Dad still has those bedsores. She sits on the bed.

      ‘Jacky, you’ve got to do something. Somebody sensible like Dr Ethridge needs to talk with him. He’s crazy. I tell you, he’s crazy. He’s worse than you are. Do you know what he was doing this morning when I woke up?’

      She waits, almost as if she wants me to guess.

      ‘You know, he gets up at seven every morning now, humming and singing his crazy songs. This used to be the best time of day, but now I stay in bed.

      ‘He sneaks his own clothes from the closet and drawers, then goes into the bathroom and takes a shower. Can you imagine, a seventy-three-year-old man taking a shower every morning at seven o’clock? He’ll slip and kill himself.’

      Her face is so extremely mobile, going from complaint, to curiosity, to desire, to an escaped