‘I know this sounds like one more middle-aged man complaining about his mother, but it’s what I feel. To put it succinctly, Mother is hard to live with: intelligent, sensitive, demanding, insatiable and ruthless.’
So it’s out. He brings his two thumbnails up and sticks them between his front teeth. Maybe he’s feeling left out because his teeth aren’t separated. I wait. It’s quiet enough so I can hear the clock tick. Jesus, we’ve been consulting for over three hours; we’ll have to sell the house just to pay the psychiatrist bills.
‘Dr Delibro, another thing. My parents aren’t rich, neither am I. I’m not sure how much psychiatric help they can afford. I hate to be mercenary about this, but what are your estimates in time and money to do some good? If we get Mom involved in this, you’ve got your life’s work cut out.’
He leans his chair back, pushes his palms down on the arms, fingers point out, slightly up. He looks at one set of fingers then the other, he reminds me of a pianist before he attacks the keyboard.
‘Both your parents will be covered by Medicare, I’m sure. Perhaps we can get the rest from Perpetual or MediCal. Don’t worry about it. If they can’t come up with the twenty percent, we’ll make it some way. I don’t agree with the Freudian idea you need to make it expensive so the treatment will be appreciated. That’s only a bit of Viennese sadomasochistic nonsense. Don’t worry about the money; I’m not going to sop up their life savings. To be honest, it’s one of the reasons I chose gerontology as a specialty. With Medicare I can choose my patients on a need basis, not just on ability to pay. Eighty percent of my fees keeps me fine.’
We both smile. He couldn’t be franker than that. Dad and Mom are going to get the full upper-middle-class treatment. Coming to see Delibro will be the high point of the week for years; it’ll upstage the ‘soaps’. I’m beginning to think I might actually get home.
He looks at the clock and stands up. Maybe there are other patients. I stand and we walk out to the waiting room. Dad isn’t there! I almost panic; then I see him in the little alcove with the secretary. He’s sitting at the typewriter. She’s leaning over him. He has his hands on the keys. He looks up when we come over and smiles sheepishly.
‘You know, Johnny, I’ve always wanted to learn typing. This girl’s being wasted as a secretary; she should be a teacher. Look, I can already type “he is it” without looking.’
To demonstrate, he stares up at the ceiling and laboriously taps slowly at the keys. He has his fingers awkwardly hovering over the home keys. He looks down.
‘See that, I did it again!’
We both lean forward and look. Spread over a page of f’s, d’s, g’s, j’s, k’s and l’s are three copies of his magic sentence. Dad stands up, holding his hands over the keys till he’s standing. The girl helps and gives him his hat. They shake hands; Dad puts his hand over hers.
‘Thank you so much, Junko; someday I’ll type out a book and put you in it.’
He comes around the counter. Delibro and I make two appointments for next week: one on Wednesday, the other Friday. If I can get Mother to come on any pretext, I will; if not, Dad’ll take both.
So we drive home. I park and go into the house. Dad goes back to his greenhouse; I think he’s staying away from Mom. He doesn’t want to talk about what’s happening. Maybe he goes back there and trips to Cape May.
I try telling Mother what the doctor said. I tell about the dreams of Cape May, about how Dad still calls her Bess there and that’s why he makes mistakes now. I try giving her some picture of it all, how they’re younger, have two other children; how Dad raises tomatoes and corn to sell in Philadelphia. As I go on, I can see it’s not coming off.
Mom has both hands over her mouth again. She shakes her head slowly back and forth in disbelief. There are tears on the bottom rims of her eyes. Maybe it’s too much, but I can’t think of another way. I should have asked Delibro.
‘I knew all the time he was crazy, Jacky. I told you. You can’t tell me somebody who thinks he lives in Cape May when he hasn’t ever even visited the place isn’t crazy! How can I live alone with somebody who thinks things like that?’
Then, after the first shock, she seems to relax. Having a professional work on the case appeals to her idea of the way it should be; she doesn’t feel quite so helpless. The movie and TV stars have psychiatrists; she’s a part of the big world now; her husband’s going to a psychiatrist. I review everything again, emphasizing how it’s all only a dream and will go away. I feel more relaxed, too. I’m glad I told her.
Billy comes back from a visit up the coast to some of his friends at Santa Cruz. He drove all the way up and back on my motorcycle.
I ask Billy if he’ll stay around some so I can get down to Venice and paint. I’m feeling a need to let my own id spread around some, bolster up my sagging ego.
While I’m painting, Gerry, the girl in Marty’s new house, comes by a couple of times. She has her little ones with her.
We sit on the beach and I play with her kids. I roll and play bear with them in the sand. Something in me still isn’t ready to be cut out from the parenting role. Maybe I’m only aching to be a grandfather. I’m caught up, beached, between two tides, the old one of fathering-husbanding and the new one of aging-dying.
My whole being is lifted by having those kids rolling, laughing, jumping on me. It could also be a contrast to the sadness and end-of-the-road feeling with my folks. It could be because of Gerry.
She flirts with me in the nicest way, somewhere between a grown girl teasing her father and a woman treating me as an available male. I enjoy responding. My life has been such that this no-holds-barred, minimum-expectation relationship with a woman is tremendously appealing. I feel I don’t have to bring an orchid, take her to the senior prom; I don’t have to buy her an engagement ring, find a cedar chest for the trousseau, hunt living-room furniture, demonstrate I have a job, a car, money in the bank; don’t need a bunch of professional fools from state and church standing around, testifying to our seriousness. It’s only the two of us, on a beach, casually enjoying each other. It makes the head of an older man spin.
But I’m not psychologically ready. I’m turned on, but I’m scared. Also, there’s no room in my life. Still we have some good conversation. The father thing comes up. Maybe it’s part of all her conversations with males but probably it’s my age.
Gerry has a successful father; in her view, very authoritarian. She feels her relationship with men has always been in his shadow, a strike at him or a searching for him. She’s been part of several therapy groups and knows all the jargon. I listen, play with her children and feel sorry for her father. He’s been cornered into thinking he’s done the right thing. He’s tried to give her the illusion he’s effectively, easily, coped with the world; that he isn’t scared, worried, suffering daily fear and doubt like the rest of us.
It’s an easy mistake, faking this illusion of invulnerability. Some people never penetrate the façade; never see their parents as ordinary people; all other humans seem second class, including themselves. I listen to her and wonder how well Vron and I have handled this part of our lives.
I finish two paintings in Suzanne’s restaurant. One’s from out front through the restaurant and into the kitchen. The other I’m in the kitchen, stove and pots in the foreground, tables in the middle ground and the ocean out the front window.
Suzanne serves only breakfast and dinner, so there’s a four-to-five-hour period in midday when I can work. She lives over the restaurant and invites me up a few times. There’s usually six or seven people smoking.
I take a few drags one afternoon when I’m finished. I don’t know why but grass doesn’t lift me; it makes everything very clear and far away. It’s not an unpleasant sensation, only it gets in the way of whatever it is keeps me painting.
Wednesday I take Dad back to