active person, even in her sleep; she’s nervous and moves quickly. The nurse tells me it’s the fourth time she’s torn off the monitor. This time they do everything but nail it to her arm; gluing and taping from elbow to wrist. The IV tube is another whole problem.
When I leave, I’m surprised I don’t feel any tendency to cry. Mostly, I feel discouraged and peculiarly restless. Seeing her down that way is like looking at an old, familiar tree that’s been struck by lightning and is stretched across the path.
I go back determined to put on the brightest face possible. In our family my role is the joker, the comedian, the clown.
I know what’s expected; you get a feeling for a role like this. I park Dad’s car up the street, then walk to the house. Usually we park this car on the driveway or in the patio. Dad meets me at the door.
‘Where’s the car, Johnny?’
‘Well, Dad, I visited the hospital. When I got there, Mother was all packed, ready to go. The doctor said she ought to take a vacation and rest up, so she’s on her way to Palm Springs. I gave her the car and took a bus back.’
Now, this is cruel. Dad’s believing me. He’s glad Mother’s well, but he’s crushed she’s going to Palm Springs without him. Joan pushes past me and looks down the street.
‘Jack, you’re impossible! The car’s right down there, Dad. You have a real screwball for a son.’
It gets us past the hard point anyway. I have some time to pull myself together.
The TV’s on and I settle onto the gold chair, Mom’s chair. They’re watching a game between the Angels and Oakland. Oakland’s winning, of course. Dad realizes I’ve been to the hospital and he’s trying not to make a big thing of it.
‘How’s she look to you, Johnny? Does she seem all right?’
Then, with hardly a pause.
‘When’s she coming home?’
‘She’s fine, Dad, but she’ll be in the hospital for a while. She said to say hello and sends you a big kiss.’
He doesn’t ask what’s the matter with her. I don’t think he wants to know. I look over at Joan on the couch and she puts her finger to her lips.
We watch silently. Oakland’s ahead by five.
Joan stands quietly, points to the first back bedroom and leaves. I think it’s called a back bedroom because it’s behind the living room, kitchen and bath; she means the side bedroom.
There’s another bedroom further back; the real back bedroom. This house is built in an L, the bottom part facing the street. This is the living-and-dining room. The long part of the L extends on the left toward the rear, with a patio on the right. Along this are the kitchen and bathroom, back to back; the middle, or first ‘back’ bedroom, then the real back bedroom at the end of the hall. Actually, there’s another bedroom in the garden; this is sometimes called the back bedroom, too. My folks’ house has three back bedrooms, no other kind.
Joan’s waiting for me. With men on first and third, one out for the Angels, I leave as if I’m going to the bathroom; Dad and Mario don’t look up. I go in and close the bedroom door quietly. Joan’s stretched out on the bed, I sit on the floor.
As children, Joan and I developed our own world, fighting what I now call the poverty mind. This poverty mind constantly suspects anything out of the ordinary, anything not known or accepted; also if it isn’t practical, it isn’t good.
Now Joan has five children. She’s a natural mother, one of the incredible women who truly play with their children. And I don’t mean only when they’re babies; she plays with them all the time. She has a twenty-four-year-old son, Yale graduate cum laude, and she still plays with him. You might find them out in the yard playing marbles or shooting a BB gun.
Mother calls Joan the ‘simp’ when she does this. ‘Look at the simp playing on the floor with her grown kids.’
‘Simp’ in Mom’s lexicon is short for simpleton, I think. I’ve never asked her. Whenever anyone does anything she doesn’t agree with, they’re automatically classified as ‘simp’. She snorts through her nose when she says it. Joan is a ‘simp’ (snort) because she plays with her children; ‘They’ll never have any respect for her. Honest to God, they think she’s only another kid.’
Joan and I still play together. Here I’m fifty-two and she’s in her late forties, but when we get together, it’s playtime. Our play is based on deep confidence. What’s hide-and-seek if you peek? Can you relax and have fun on a seesaw with someone you don’t trust?
‘How’d Mom look to you, Jack?’
She laughs when I tell her Mother’s first line. I admit she didn’t look so hot.
‘The doctor says we just have to wait and see what damage was done.’
She pauses.
‘I’m worried about Dad. I could move him out to our place but he’s better off here where he can putter around his garden and greenhouse.’
I nod.
‘How long can you stay?’
‘The ticket’s for twenty-one to forty-five days.’
‘That should be enough, I hope.’
She rolls onto her side, slips off her shoes.
‘Don’t worry, Joan. I’ll stay with Dad. It’ll work out. At home, I’m a newfangled house husband.’
She shoots me one of her ‘straight on’ looks.
‘Are you sure? You know he’s practically a baby.’
‘Don’t worry. He’s my father too, you know.’
‘That’d be great.’
Joan gives me a rundown on a typical day here. She says the main thing is keeping everything on an even keel. She explains how Mother has a schedule and their whole life is essentially one long routine.
‘First, Mom gets up early and does her exercises. For her, it’s the best time of day; she has the whole house to herself. At about ten she takes a cup of coffee in to Dad, gives him his blood-pressure pills, vitamin pills and any other pills she’s into. The morning coffee is real coffee, not decaffeinated.
‘You know, Jack, Dad has somehow managed over the past eight years to keep alive the feeling he’s on an extended vacation; that sooner or later he must go back to work. He lives each day as if it might be his last.’
She tells me the pills Dad takes. I recognize some and he’s heavily medicated. I think maybe I’ll try getting him into meditation or even yoga. I hold my own pressure down that way. I’ve brought my cuff with me, so I’ll check him when I do myself. That reserpine he’s on is deadly stuff; it’s basically poison.
Joan reels off the rest of this daily routine, including mandatory soap operas. I tell her I’ll try sticking it out; but my mind is spinning, figuring ways to sharpen life up. I can’t leave other people’s
