not even looking; just tensed up, expecting the worst.
With a power tool like this, you can lean back and let the damned thing drive itself. The great drivers all say you should relax, get a feel for the road. It’s criminal running a supercharged motor at these speeds.
Before we get in again, I ask once more.
‘I’m sorry, Bill.’
‘Why not? I’ve got my license.’
‘Don’t, Bill. We can’t afford to take those kinds of risks; it’s not worth it.’
So we start rolling. I look out the side window at the scenery going by. If I watch his driving, I’ll go crazy. He has fast reactions, and they’re not too fast, but there’s something about it makes me nervous. He’s so dead serious; if you get involved with his driving, you tense up yourself. It’s no fun.
My dad’s good at the small things. People usually think artists are easygoing, loose people. Well, that’s not him. He’s tight as a witch’s cunt. Like getting Bryce and Zion confused. He was so convinced. We went past a great spot I knew was the place he wanted all the time, but he had his mind set and there’s nothing to do; he has some kind of tunnel vision.
Maybe he’s getting senile. That seems to be what getting old is; you aim yourself more.
Both Mom and Dad act old lately.
Mom’s so quiet and doesn’t want anything exciting or new. Even if I fart or burp at the table she makes a whole scene. They don’t roll with the punch, adapt to the new life.
And, Christ, it was grim saying goodbye to Gramps. Dad was his usual self then, too; bearing down, eating it. And Grandma’s such a pain. I don’t think she’s ever done anything for anybody without expecting something back. Life’s one king-size Monopoly game to her.
Dad’s got the radio on again. All we get is cowboy music and static. There’s nothing good between towns and we’re mostly in the middle of nowhere. We should stop and buy a cassette of real music, the Stones or Dylan or the Doors, something reasonable.
I’ve still got a hundred and fifty bucks on the money belt, but I’d hate spending any on a stupid cassette. I’ll need every cent and I don’t want to beg for money. He still hasn’t said anything. He knows I’m not going back to school but he hasn’t mentioned it, yet.
Oh, God! Now we’re going to pass a truck. This is the wildest, watching him pass a truck. He won’t budge till the view’s clear to the horizon. Hell, there’s nothing behind us for at least a mile.
He’s checking the side mirror for the tenth time. Here we go! We’re out there, cruising slowly along the side of a big semi. This guy’s totally freaked, looking down at us as we go past two miles an hour faster than he’s going. He must think we only have three cylinders firing. If Dad’d floor this thing, we’d be around clear in three seconds. No, we’re taking the leisure trip, maybe saving on gas. I’ve got to relax.
Next morning I wake at eight-thirty, feeling more with it. That nine-hour time difference knocks me for a loop.
I make breakfast. At home we’re not coffee drinkers but my folks are. Thank God they’re not serious coffee drinkers; they don’t grind or perk or filter, just instant.
It’s an electric stove, flat coils; I’m not sure if the hottest is 1 or 6. I try 6. I look in the cabinet drawer near the dining room and there’s the card with Dad’s medication written out, just as Joan said. I sort pills and work from lists, how much in the morning, at lunch and before bed. I’ll go along for now but Dad’s got to take over this part himself.
I’m prepared, after breakfast, to talk about Mother’s condition. Joan and I agree he’ll take it best from me.
Now, this is weird, but Dad’s convinced I’m working for the government in some kind of secret intelligence. He’s had this idea for more than ten years. He won’t refer to it directly. He’ll look at me slyly, bashfully, and say, ‘How’s the job going, John?’
He apparently could never accept that a grown man would paint pictures for a living; it isn’t within his parameter of sensible behavior.
Mother has no trouble; she has me pegged for an old hippy. I have a beard, I live in Paris and I’m mostly likely a drug addict. She dismisses my life as a total waste. But Dad needs some excuse and he’s come up with this one.
Joan thinks it’s the world’s greatest joke. One Christmas she mailed me a man-sized Zorro costume she’d sewed up herself. With it was a toy detective kit for taking fingerprints and a magnifying glass.
At first, I tried disclaiming my spook status but then decide to go along. What the hell; he’s doing it for me. Now I only say, ‘Things are fine, Dad.’ That’s usually enough; we never go further.
I gather the pills, pour coffee in his cup and knock on the bedroom door. I’m determined not to give him coffee in bed. I call through the door.
‘Time to get up, Dad; coffee’s ready.’
‘OK, Johnny, OK, I’ll be right out.’
I realize, as I’m standing there, we’re playing another game.
Dad was born in 1904. For men born in that year, World War I ended when they were fourteen and World War II started, at least for the U.S., when they were thirty-seven. Dad missed war.
This is lodged somehow in the back of his mind. I’m sure he knows he’s lucky to have escaped, but he never lived that phony ‘man’s man’ life in the field. It bothers him.
Dad stayed at home until he was married, and then Mom took over. He’s always lived in a woman-dominated environment; never lived as a single man or with other men.
All his brothers have had brief bachelorhoods; one was in W.W.I. They’re also much involved with hunting. For years, Dad wanted to take me hunting with his father and brothers, but Mom wouldn’t have it.
‘Oh, no! If you two go, you wash all your own clothes and stinking underwear. And I won’t have any of those smelly deerskin gloves or wild-Indian moccasins around this house either. I’ll tell you that!’
Each fall, the whole bunch, including all my male cousins on the Tremont side, would go up to Maine. They’d usually get deer and sometimes bear. They’d butcher and tan the hides at Grandpa’s. My cousins would tell me stories of waiting in deep, cold woods, playing cards and drinking beer. I felt it separated me from them; I’d never grow up to be a real man.
And now, my coming down the hall, knocking on the door is playing army. My saying ‘Time to get up, let’s go’ does it. I don’t say ‘Drop your cocks and grab your socks’, but it’s the domestic equivalent. Dad comes plowing out in his pajamas with his slippers on, dragging his feet down the hall on his way to the bathroom.
This foot-dragging is a new thing with him and I’m not sure if it mightn’t be related to minor stroking.
On the other hand, it’s more likely
