She’s definitely smiling, fighting it all the way. She puts her hand over mine on the bed.
‘Honest, Jacky; I’m scared to death. Maybe next he’ll scalp me.
‘I didn’t know whether to call you or not. Instead, I opened the door and ask as nicely as possible, “What’re you doing out there, Jack?” He smiles with sweat running down his face and he’s puffing. “Jake, remember, Bette? Jake.” He swings his arms over his head. “Just doing a little jogging, getting in shape; thought I’d do it in here so I wouldn’t disturb the neighborhood. Tomorrow I’ll do it back on the grass; this hard cement isn’t good for the knees.”
‘Jacky, you’ve got to admit, that’s ridiculous; and he never stops while he’s talking, just keeps shuffling round and round. He’s hardly lifting his feet but he’s convinced he’s jogging. And this is after his shower. Now, you know, Jacky; nobody in his right mind jogs after they shower.’
I’m trying not to smile. I promise I’ll talk to Dr Chad.
‘And, Jacky.’
Mother looks around to check if we’re being observed by the CIA or the KGB.
‘He keeps coming into my bed at night. He won’t leave me alone! He pesters me all night long. Your father has always been a highly sexed man but this is insane! He wants to make love all the time, even yesterday, in the afternoon, right out there on the patio – me with two heart attacks!’
At this she ripples into a giggle.
‘Nobody’d believe he’s a seventy-three-year-old man who almost died a few weeks ago. Maybe his hormones got all mixed up, Jacky. You’ve got to talk with somebody. It’s going to kill me!’
We hear Dad singing as he comes across the patio.
‘Oh, it ain’t a-gonna rain no more, no more,
It ain’t a-gonna rain no more!
How in the heck can I wash my neck
If it ain’t a-gonna rain no more?’
That’s one of his favorites. Another song that’s driving poor Mom absolutely up the wall goes:
Close the doors, they’re coming through
The windows.
Close the windows, they’re coming through
The doors.
This is repeated over and over, with different voices, different intonation, different accents; without thought, sometimes rising, sometimes only the sound of whistling in. Dad walks through the side door into the hallway. He goes into the bathroom and takes another shower.
Mother and I wait for him in the living room, not saying much. When he comes out, he’s quite debonaire in his ‘retired painter’s’ costume.
‘Look, John, why don’t you give me a driving lesson while you’re here? I’m sure I’ll pick up the knack of it fast.’
Mother looks over at me.
‘Don’t you do it, Jacky! I’m not going to drive with him. He drove too fast before he turned in his license, I hate to think what he’d be like now.’
Dad goes across to Mother.
‘Don’t you worry your little head, Bette; when old Jake Tremont gets behind that wheel, you’re safe as if you were in your own bed. We’ll only drive along slowly looking at scenery. John here showed me a way to the beach where we won’t have one red light the whole way. It’s like country driving and you come out right there at the beach with plenty of parking.’
He gives her a kiss on the neck, then another on the lips.
I’m only glad he didn’t mention the motorcycle.
‘Well, Mom, Dad’s right. You should go to the beach more often. When you and Dad get to feeling better, and I’m gone, you can call a cab, go down to the beach.’
Dad’s lowering himself onto the floor in front of the TV. He stretches out on his stomach.
‘Jack, what on earth are you looking for?’
‘Jake, Bette. I only want to see if I can still do a pushup.’
He tries pushing himself up with his frail arms but can’t budge. Then he bends at the waist to push his shoulder and head up from the floor till his arms are extended. He lets himself down again.
‘I’ll call these old-man pushups.’
He pushes himself up and down a few times. Mother goes to the bathroom.
‘Johnny.’
He grunts it out between pushups.
‘I don’t want to go in a cab; we’ll probably wind up in Santa Monica. That town’s an outside old-people’s home. Everybody’s moving along slowly, shopping for nothing, or waiting for the next meal. Every corner in that town’s a bank or a doctor’s office.
‘I want to drive to Venice where we were, or walk down to Washington Pier. To be honest, I’d like to do it on that motorcycle of yours but I’m too old, I’d be scared. I’d also like to get in some fishing off the pier. I used to like fishing. I can’t figure when it was I stopped doing the things I like.’
He struggles himself up off the floor and falls back into his rocking chair; cocks his leg under him.
‘Mother and I should have some fun while we can. If we get feeling good enough, we should take a trip back to Philadelphia; visit all the old places, our family and friends. We had some good times there in Philly.’
When Mother comes out of the bathroom, she’s made herself up but she’s weepy. She isn’t crying, but the hollows under her eyes are dampish. I talk them into taking a car ride with me.
We tour slowly through Cheviot Hills where there are handsome, big houses and lovely gardens. This is something Mom loves. These houses represent her idea of what the good life should be and she likes to think she lives near it. She also enjoys making fun of any architectural idiosyncrasies. She constantly reiterates how glad she is to have just a little place in a quiet neighborhood, something she can take care of herself. It’s painful listening to her vacillate between self-righteousness and resentment. But I know she enjoys it.
Dad’s sitting in front again, imitating my feet and hand movements. He’s pushing on his brake and steering an imaginary steering wheel. Mom giggles, snorts and tells him to stop it. But now he’s enjoying clowning for her. With automatic drive there’s nothing to driving this car. He probably could do it. And why the hell should he go through the business of a driving test? What’ll they do if they catch him, throw him in prison?
I drive them home and suggest a nap. Mother’s upset. She whispers to me.
‘Tell him to stay in his own room, Jacky, tell him I need a rest.’
How can I tell Dad that? I gently suggest that Mother’s tired, needs a good sleep.
‘I’m not going to nap, Johnny. I’m going to dig a hole in the backyard, sink a tin can in it and do some putting.
‘You know, John, I’ve always wanted to play golf. I’ve got an old putter in the garage and some golf balls. I’ll make my hole and put a flag in it; then I can tell people I’m puttering in my garden.’
I think of his grave.
He gaily snickers as he works his way down the steps to the patio, out the gate and into the