‘Well, the guy in Huez who hires for beet-picking said he’d take me on. I can make four thousand francs in two months. Along with Deb’s money, we’d have enough to live on.’
I should leave it there.
‘But I could sure use the money you sent me when I was at Santa Cruz. Hell, I’ll be working to improve myself; writing’s a respected profession.’
He looks up and stares me in the eyes.
‘Bill, it’s probably not good sitting back knowing for sure money’s coming in. We have friends who’ve lived off money from parents all their lives. It ruined them. They have a child-like dependence combined with an arrogant ignorance. They’re never members of the real world.’
So we leave it there. I don’t need to be insulted.
It’s almost six when the garage closes down. We eat dinner at outrageous prices, then head up to our room. The only thing going is cars whizzing past on the turnpike. We watch a movie called something like It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Amsterdam. It’s about traveling in Europe. Dad and I get to laughing. We need something after all the heavy stuff.
It’s past eleven when the movie’s over, and we crash. I’m pooped from all the Sturm und Drang. The lights are off and his voice comes out of nowhere.
‘Look, Bill. I hope you don’t feel bad about the money business.’
He pauses. I don’t say anything. Let him think I’m asleep. I don’t want to talk about it.
‘It worries me, Bill, you might take the easy way. There are so many pressures to “take it easy”, “cool it”, “be groovy”. I’d hate to have you be a twentieth-century dilettante. To me, that’s the enemy. I can cope with mere Communists – Russian, Chinese or Cuban – the Nazis, the Calvinists, the Baptists, the Catholics or the KKK, any ordinary group of dogmatists, but the real enemy, for me, the dangerous ones, are the leisured, advantaged dilettantes who have dominated and clogged the machinery of creativity and invention for centuries.’
I wonder if he expects me to say something. No, I’d better keep my mouth shut.
‘I’ll tell you what, Bill. The mill needs a new roof. If you and Debby take off all the old slate, repair the slats and rafters where they’re rotted, then turn the slates over and put them back, I’ll give you five hundred bucks plus materials. If you both work hard, it shouldn’t take much time, and that kind of work could be a break from writing. Inner searching can be more tiring than you think; climbing over a roof will seem like a picnic. That way you’d get through the winter and have something to start sending around to publishers.’
So this is what he’s been working up to. He knows I’m scared of heights. I’ll probably fall through that rotted, slanted roof and break my neck. I keep quiet but he still isn’t finished.
‘Another thing, Bill. I’d appreciate it if you don’t push it into everybody’s face down there how you and Debby are living together; don’t violate their idea of what’s right. OK?’
Of course I say OK. So now he knows I wasn’t asleep.
I think I’m home free, but just when I’m on the edge, he’s back at it.
‘Bill?’
I don’t answer.
‘Bill, this thing with my dad and mom has been tough. I only now realize I’ve been in a kind of shock for the last three or four months.’
I wait.
‘It’s been a long haul and it’s the sort of thing I’m not good at. If I’ve been too critical, don’t think much about it.’
I wait and hope he’s finished.
‘I feel terrible leaving Mom and Dad. But I can’t justify staying away from Mother and Jacky any longer. It’s been hard for them, too. I had to leave.’
Shit, I don’t know what to say. I keep pretending I’m asleep. I lie there quietly and listen to him lying there in the dark. He’s not sleeping; I can tell by his breathing. I lie still and listen. I think about what it is to be alive.
Next day, Dad really does dress up in his different costumes. He watches the Dinah Shore show in his dancing costume. He wears the bicycling-roller-skating costume to putter around in his greenhouse. More important, he hangs these clothes back in the closet after each change. He’s in the bedroom often and I’m sure he’s checking his wardrobe.
Two days later, he wants us all to visit the Salvation Army again.
He’s been making notes on his clipboard cards. Just before we leave, while Mother’s in the bathroom, he shows them to me.
Each card has a different title, printed in capital letters with the ‘I’s dotted. These are his ideas for new costumes. One is his ‘Confession-Going Costume’; another is his ‘Having Tea with the Queen Costume’; then there’s his ‘Jogging Costume’. He also has one titled ‘Singing and General Fooling Around’. He’s written below what each costume should be like. The ‘Confession Costume’ is a black shirt, black pants and a cape. There’s a note, ‘sort of Dracula-like’. It’s hard to know how serious he is.
‘I wouldn’t show these cards to Mom, Dad.’
‘Oh, sure, John. But you know, Bess used to like fun as much as anybody. It’s been too serious around here lately. Our trouble is we keep thinking of ourselves as retired people. Life has gotten boring and we didn’t even notice.’
He looks at me, streams of waving light passing through his eyes; he’s staring at me, serious on the edge of his new perpetual smile.
‘I think you’re right, Dad. But remember Mother’s not well. She’s had some terrible heart attacks and we’ve got to go slow.’
He nods his head and looks down.
‘You’re right there, John. We’ll go slow.’
He pauses; Mother is coming along the hall.
‘But, I’ll tell you, we’ll go somewheres.’
He pushes himself up with his cane and we head for the car. It’s already on the driveway warmed up. Dad helps Mom in back. He can’t actually help much, he has a hard time standing up himself; but he puts his hand under her arm and helps get her feet straight on the floor. This bugs Mother; the worst thing for her is feeling like an invalid. I stay out of it and slide into the driver’s seat. Dad climbs in front with me.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Bess, but I want to sit here and see if I can pick up the knack of driving again. When I’m back on my feet, I’d like to take that driving test. It’d sure be fun if I could drive; maybe visit the bowling alley.’
He pulls out his clipboard.
‘By golly, that’s one I forgot. I want a bowling costume, something in black-and-white stripes for a shirt, then black pants like an official at a basketball game.’
He writes on his clipboard. I glimpse in the rear mirror, backing out, and see Mom’s face. She’s not putting on; nobody’s watching her, but her face is set tight. She’s worried, scared, critical. She doesn’t know what to say, what to do.
Dad turns around, lifting his knee onto the seat as he does it. It’s hard putting together some of his moves with his age, his physical condition.
‘You know, Bess, you ought to get yourself a few costumes, too. I don’t mean just more ordinary clothes but real costumes. Maybe a wig; they’ve got some fine wigs there at