‘OK, Dad, while we wait, let’s go have a beer in that bar across the street.’
He looks at me.
‘What?’
‘There’s a little bar there, let’s go chug one down while we’re waiting.’
‘Do you think that’ll be all right?’
‘Sure, come on, we’re both over twenty-one; there’s no law against having an afternoon beer in a bar. That’s what they’re for.’
It’s an ordinary bar; dim, mildly air-conditioned, an old window blower humming away. There’s something I like about going into a bar daytimes, especially here in California. After a while, that high, bluish sky and the strange blankness of everything bears me down. It’s a relief ducking into the dark, thick air of a bar.
We sit in a booth. This is a classic place; a few regulars are standing or sitting at the bar and there’s at least one hustler working up after-lunch customers.
‘What’ll you have, Dad?’
‘Well, a beer would be fine, but we’ve got plenty of cold beer in the refrigerator just around the corner.’
I order two beers and ask Dad if he’d rather sit at the bar.
‘Do you think that’d be OK?’
‘Sure, come on.’
We climb up on stools; the bartender shoves a bowl of peanuts down to us.
‘Do the peanuts cost extra, John?’
‘Not usually, Dad, unless inflation’s really hit hard here.’
I take a handful and Dad carefully picks out one.
Dad tells me he hasn’t been in a bar by himself for over fifty years, not since before he got married. He’s looking at the people, using the mirror behind the bar. He’s peeking at the women; one of them gives him a nice smile. He looks away fast and stares into his beer.
‘Do you come into bars like this often, John?’
‘In Paris, it’s not so much bars, Dad; we have cafés. You can sit, drink a coffee or a beer, but it isn’t like this; some of them you sit outside. Its different. Not many days go by when I don’t stop in one of my favourite cafés.’
Dad looks as if he isn’t sure this mightn’t be wicked. I glance at my watch; we still have almost half an hour. I try encouraging Dad to talk about what it was like before he was married, when he was working at Hog Island carpentering with his father and brothers. I don’t get anywhere. It’s difficult to know if he doesn’t remember or just doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t even remember when Uncle Harry lived with us at home in Philly. That’s an important part of my personal life and it’s hard for me to accept he doesn’t remember at all.
I know Vron has strong memories of things we did together, things I don’t remember, and it’s the same with me. In a terrible way, we’re all alone.
We pick up the battery, drive home and mount it on the bike. I turn the key, kick it and the motor turns right over. It’s a terrific feeling getting a motor moving again, bringing something back to life.
I buzz the bike up and down the street a few times. It’s been sitting so long it blows off black smoke and backfires but then smoothes out. I roll in and park on the driveway. It idles, ticking over.
It’s coming on to dinnertime and I consider a restaurant but decide the business with the bar was enough excitement for one day. Dad’s already missed his ‘soaps’ and is wandering around looking at the clock, turning the TV on and off. A big part of his life didn’t happen today. He’s gotten to a point where that TV world is real life, and I’m responsible for a missing day.
I decide to compensate by whipping up a tasty dinner. I scrounge the freezer and find a pair of reasonable-looking Spencer steaks. I’ll put together one of my quickie specials. I defrost, then fry up the steaks in a sauce made from mushroom soup. Then I pour a touch of wine over this, simmering it slowly for an hour on the back burner, set low with a cover. It comes out a savory dish somewhere between steak and stew. Using one of those toaster-oven affairs with the glass front, I unfreeze some packaged French fries, and open up a can of peas. I’m enjoying myself. Dad’s out in the garden watering, then he goes into the greenhouse. I keep looking to see if he’s all right but in there he’s invisible to me.
Fixing a spade in the potting shed, locking its shaft in my vise; smooth hickory, shined by calluses, like time.
I set the table and call Dad. He’s surprised again that I’ve pulled food from the kitchen; that it’s hot, and on plates.
He asks if there are any onions in the meat and I assure him there aren’t. I suggest we have beer with the dinner.
‘We’re going to get drunk drinking beer all the time, John.’
‘A couple bottles of beer never hurt anybody I know of, Dad. Come on, it’ll help us both relax.’
So we have beer with the meal and coffee after. I make a reasonably strong cup; it’s instant, and only a matter of how many spoonfuls you put in boiling water, not such a big deal.
Dad pours in his usual single level spoonful of sugar, stirs it intently for almost a minute then dinks off the last drops from his spoon on the inside edge of his cup. He lifts the cup carefully, his lips sticking out the way a horse or mule goes into a bucket of water. He blows gently before he sips. My father’s lips are notorously sensitive to hot drinks.
He pulls his head back and looks into the cup, puts in two more spoonfuls of sugar, goes through the stirring and dinking routine again. This time he sips his way through the rest of the coffee as if he’s drinking calvados or a good marc de Bourgogne.
‘Boy, John, that’s some coffee. Was that decaffeinated? Your mother and I only drink real coffee in the morning.’
I assure him it’s decaffeinated.
‘Well, it certainly is strong. Is that the way they make coffee in the army?’
‘No, that’s French style, Dad. They drink tiny cups of very strong coffee, usually without cream or milk.’
‘I sure hope I sleep tonight.’
After dishes, we head off to the hospital. This time Dad can point out a few street names. It’s coming back. I explain how in an emergency he might need to drive Mother to the hospital.
‘But I don’t have a driver’s license, John.’
‘It’d be an emergency, Dad. If it’s a question of life and death, they’re not going to arrest you.’
I ought to have him drive me around the block a few times, for practice.
Mother’s complaining. They won’t let her watch TV. There’s a TV hanging on the other side of the room but the nurses won’t allow her a control panel. She wants to know if there isn’t some way I can make them take off the monitors.
‘It’s driving me crazy, Jacky; those dumb green lines wiggle up and down and that red dot’s blinking all the time making different numbers. It’d drive anybody insane.’
I explain about the pulse and the electrocardiograph; how the nurses watch all the time.
‘See, they’re only using me as a guinea pig! I knew it! How’s all that going to help me get better? They’re experimenting on me. We pay good money and they don’t care if I live or die.’
Dad shakes his head.
‘Now, Bette, you just do what the doctors say. They know their business. You’ve got to trust them.’
As we’re about to go, he comes out with it again. I was hoping I’d get him away in time.
‘When