by Bill Albert
“Yes . . . Thank you,” she said finally, turning away so he wouldn’t see her face. “Sorry. Sorry to have troubled you. Excuse me.”
She took a step.
“Oh shit!” she yelled, as a sharp pain burned through her ankle.
The pain blotted out everything else. She was glad for that.
He was Earl’s father, Big Earl. He ran the riding stables. He smelled strongly of sweat and faintly of horses. They drove back in his pickup to her house.
“You don’t want to be worrying yourself too much about the boy,” he said, trying to comfort her. “Might be he went with Little Earl after all.”
That didn’t dispel her worries. Harold wasn’t exactly a missing person yet, but how long did she have to wait before he was? And then what?
She leaned heavily on him as he helped her into the house. One breast pressed hard against his arm. She sensed that he felt it. He looked down at her and she could feel his eyes on her body. Men often stared at her. Sometimes she enjoyed it, mostly she didn’t. At that moment she didn’t.
“You wear them clothes,” said Charlene, “with those big ol’ tits hanging out like that, wadda you expect. You’re just asking for it, honey.”
“I don’t know,” said Enid, “You want to have to walk around in this weather all covered up like some nun or something?”
“I guess not,” replied Charlene, “but there’s clothes and then there’s clothes, if you know what I mean.”
“Maybe so, but I dress for me, not for them, damn it!”
“You kidding, Enid honey? Shit! You think they care about that? Hell no they don’t. Pigs to the trough!”
“You got something to wrap that with?” he asked after she lowered herself into a chair.
“I think there’s an Ace bandage in the medicine cabinet. But, don’t . . .”
“It’s all right, ma’am, you shouldn’t put any weight on that ankle. Down this way is it?”
She didn’t want him in her bathroom, but he was already moving toward the hall. A few moments later he emerged, a small cardboard box in his hand.
“Here we are. How does it feel?”
“It’ll be alright, thanks.”
She wished he would go so she could be alone with the pain and out from under his disconcertingly direct gaze.
“Mind if I have a look?” he said, kneeling down next to her.
She did, but before she could reply he had cradled her ankle expertly in his hands. He turned it slightly, first one way then the other. She winced.
“That hurt?”
“A little, yeah.”
“Don’t look too bad, though. Not much swelling. Probably just twisted a tendon, is all.”
“How come you know so much about it?”
“Watching the vet working on the horses.”
“Thanks a whole lot!” she laughed.
“Oh, no offense meant, ma’am,” he said, embarrassed.
“Enid.”
He stood up, took off his hat. An inch of white skin ran across the top of his forehead. He seemed to be at a loss what to do next.
“Sure thing, Enid . . . Well, I gotta be getting back. You be alright?”
“Fine,” she said, “and thanks for bringing me home.”
“You want me to wrap that for you?”
“No. Thank you very much. I’ll take care of it.”
He stood staring down at her for a minute or so. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but it never came. Then, nodding and hat in hand, he began backing slowly out of the room.
She heard him call to her from the kitchen.
“Good-bye now. You take care.”
The screen door banged shut.
Goodnight Irene, Goodnight
She found him lying on his back by the side of the pool behind the palm tree. His arms were splayed out. He was waxen-faced and very still.
Oh my God, she thought, he’s dead!
Suspended for a moment, she stood over him staring down. Then as if she were watching from the patio door she saw herself standing over him staring down. The displaced double vision faded, and she heard flies buzzing and the chu-chu-chu sound of a rainbird sprinkler from next door.
I can’t believe it, Enid said to herself. The old bastard’s died on me! She didn’t want him to die by her swimming pool. If he did he would always be there. Back with the family. Every time she went for a swim she would see him. It wasn’t fair. Immediately she felt guilty. He was her father.
Fighting to ignore the overpowering stench of sun-ripe body odor and urine, she got down on her knees and lifted his head. He groaned. His eyes fluttered open. Not dead. Not yet. She sighed with relief. That feeling lasted for the three seconds it took the next thought to form.
Dying? God almighty! Even worse than dead! Days or weeks he could linger. He would only have to last for two days. It wouldn’t matter after that, Archie would be there. What could she possibly say to him?
“Archie I’m sorry but my father, who I’m sure you can smell. Yes? Well he’s just in the process of dying in my dressing room there across the hall. Hear that? No, it’s only his cough. Oh yes, and I forgot to mention, you know that enormous redheaded kid watching television and playing loud music in the living room? My nephew, Harold. That’s right, he’s sleeping on the couch. Won’t bother us at all.”
Another wave of guilt rolled in He was her father. Maybe her dying father. And her sister’s son, her dead sister’s son, her dead sister’s missing son.
She pushed her hair out of her eyes and looked at the man she was holding. He didn’t seem to have any weight. If she let go of him he might be blown away like an empty paper bag, end over end until he caught up against a fence or went into the swimming pool.
“What happened!?” she asked, urgently.
“Happened?” he replied. “Who . . . Oh, it’s you.”
He opened his mouth to speak. It was as if a sewer had burst. She jerked her head away from the smell.
With her face averted, she propped him up against the palm tree. He was perspiring and cold to the touch. There was dried blood on his shirt. A coffee cup lay broken on the edge of the pool.
“Just rest there,” she said. “I’ll call a doctor.”
“Don’t need a doctor!” he said, with surprising passion. “Don’t . . . be alright . . . in a minute. Just give me a minute.”
He tried to stand up, but could only get as far as his knees. He held onto the palm tree, mouth agape, breathing hard.
“Just . . . another . . . minute,” he said, punctuating each word with a gasp.
“What happened?” she insisted. “What’s the matter?”
He sat down again heavily, legs straight out in front of him. His eyes were glazed. He swallowed with difficulty and then began to talk, all the time staring fixedly at the swimming pool, his hands clawing weakly at different parts of his body—arms, leg, chest.
“You know how old he was when he died?” Abe asked weakly. “Huh? Do you? No? Forty-seven. That’s all. Forty-seven years old he was. Had years left in him. Years and years.”
“What are . . .” Enid began.
He ignored her, continuing to talk and scratch.
“A man of old he was. A knight in shining armor. The sword of truth. God and country. Great American patriot. Wouldn’t let them hide anywhere. Huh? No he would not. Nowhere to hide from old Joe. It didn’t . . .”
He started to cough from deep in the chest. His body shook as he fought to suck in enough air. It took him a few minutes to recover.
“You don’t have a smoke, do you?”
“Listen,” Enid admonished, “you’re . . .”
He wasn’t listening.
“And, she . . . the wife . . . only thirty-one . . . thirty-one. Catholics. It didn’t matter,” he said, his voice
trailing off. “Nothing matters now.”
Clearing his throat, he brought up a lump of phlegm, arched his neck and tried to spit it into the pool. He didn’t have the strength. It landed on his pants leg. They both watched transfixed as the yellow glob changed shape, flowed downward to form a heavy tadpole-like head and then, detaching itself, fell to the ground between his legs.
Enid felt sick to her stomach. He’s gone, she thought. Snapped. I’ve got to get him out of here. Into a hospital or something. But out of my house. Out before Archie arrives.
Abe Cohen smiled to himself and fell silent. He stared at his hands as if they belonged to someone else.
As she watched him, intermittent reflections from the pool shimmered across the old man’s thin face, giving him an air of dramatic nobility. A fallen warrior. A defeated chieftain dying by the water’s edge.
“Balls to that!” said Enid vehemently.
She stood up and limped back toward the house.
“It’s not that we won’t take him to the hospital, Miss Carlson, it’s just that I don’t think there is any point in doing so at this stage.”
The doctor wore canary-yellow pants and a shirt covered in large blue parrots. He was new to Palm Springs. He had just come from the golf course.
“Stage? Stage of what?”
He searched her face.
“You don’t know, do you?” he sighed.
“Know what?”
As she said it she knew but she didn’t want to know any more than that.
The doctor hesitated, tapping the end of his stethoscope against is hand. She wished old Plumstead wasn’t on vacation; she could talk to him. This one seemed so young, younger than her, probably just out of medical school. He wouldn’t understand that she wasn’t responsible. That she couldn’t be responsible.
“You said he was your father?”
“Yes, that’s right, but . . .”
“Has Dr. Plumstead treated him before?”
“No. No, he hasn’t, but listen to me, please. I know I said he’s my father, but he arrived only last night. He doesn’t live here, you see.”
“Yes. Ah, well then . . . Miss Carlson, would you like to sit down for a minute?”
She sat down. The doctor perched on the side of the dining room table. He looked up at the ceiling, reluctant to begin.
“Well?” she said.
“I’m afraid it’s bad news, Miss Carlson. Very bad news, in fact. You see, your father is suffering from extremely advanced uremia. That’s caused by renal—what you would know as kidney—failure. He also has a serious lung problem. Emphysema, if I’m not mistaken.”
He waited for a response. When none came he continued.
“Ordinarily, I would have to have some blood tests done in order to confirm the diagnosis on the kidneys, but in this case it really isn’t necessary.”
“Not necessary? Why not?” she asked indignantly. “If he went into the hospital you could do the tests there, couldn’t you? You could call an ambulance right now and . . .”
“I’m trying to explain that to you. Your father tells me that he recently discharged himself from Memorial Hospital in Los Angeles.”
“How could he discharge . . . I thought with emphysema . . .”
“That’s not the main difficulty here,” the doctor interrupted. “It’s the kidneys, I’m afraid. And there’s nothing whatsoever we can do about that. They’ve virtually stopped working. Once that happens it’s only a matter of time . . . I’m terribly sorry.”
Enid fumbled in her pockets for a cigarette. Her fingers were numb. She managed to put a cigarette in her mouth but didn’t light it.
“Time? How much time?”
“Hard to say. In cases like this it could be a day, two days. If he’s lucky maybe a week.”
Lucky, she thought. If he’s lucky!
“Isn’t there something . . . ?”
The doctor shook his head.
“Nothing. We simply don’t have a treatment. He’ll just sort of slip away. But, at least you can be thankful that there won’t be much pain. I can give you some pills and . . .”
“Wait! Wait just a minute, please,” Enid said, desperate to explain. “You don’t understand, I told you before, he doesn’t live here with me. He never has lived here. I haven’t seen him for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years! You can’t expect . . .”
Her voice trailed off. She didn’t want this to be happening. Didn’t believe it was happening. Only an hour ago everything was fine. She’d told him to go. He was on his way. One more cup of coffee and gone. She would be out from under. Now he was lying in her—that is in Harold’s room. Lying in there stinking to high heaven and dying. And he would linger, she knew the son of a bitch would linger. Stink and linger. Linger and stink. She stubbed out the unlit cigarette and took another one.
“I do understand. Miss Carlson how you feel, but . . .”
She leapt from the chair. Throwing her arms up in frustration and despair and ignoring her painful ankle, she advanced on the doctor.
“Miss Carlson, please,” he said, retreating toward the kitchen.
“Do you? Do you understand? You don’t understand anything! I can’t have him here! I won’t have him here! I . . .”
She stopped, suddenly distracted, turned away from the doctor and wandered over to the picture window. Something he said had just then clicked into place.
Wait a minute, she thought. Wait. He discharged himself from the hospital? Then he knew. He must have known he was dying. He never had any intention of leaving. He wants to die here with me. All that song and dance about laying over a few days was so much crap. The scheming bastard!
While her back was turned the doctor hastily wrote out a prescription and put it on the table. He closed his bag and started for the door.
“He should be alright for a while,” he called out. “I gave him something to make him sleep. I’ll come by tomorrow. In the meantime if you need anything else, or if there is a sudden change in his condition don’t hesitate to call.”
“You’re going?” she asked, snapping out of her daydream.
She limped over and latched on to his arm. The doctor squirmed, tried to free himself but couldn’t. Enid’s fingers dug into him. Her urgency pulled him off balance and he fought not to topple over.
“Please, Miss Carlson, I know you’re upset, but please . . .”
“You can’t go just like this! What am I supposed to do? I can’t take care of him. I don’t want him here. Don’t want him dying here in my house. You’ve got to take him with you, doctor. Got to! I’ve got someone coming. I’ve . . .”
“It’s not that simple, Miss Carlson. Ah, please my arm.”
Enid stared at him. He didn’t meet her eyes. Finally she relaxed her grip. He gently lifted his arm away from her still-clenched hand and stepped back toward the door.
“You must understand,” he said, adopting a more formal, doctorly tone. “We cannot admit people to the hospital simply because they are inconvenient. Can you imagine what that would mean? Besides, he doesn’t want to go into the hospital. He told me so himself.”
“He doesn’t want?” Enid shouted. “He doesn’t want? What about me? Huh? What about what I want? Isn’t that important?”
“Miss Carlson!” he said with as much disdainful authority as he could muster. “For pity sake, when all is said and done he is your father! Let the man at least die with some dignity in the bosom of his family.”
Enid slumped against the wall, defeated. She saw herself, heard her own voice and felt ashamed. She realized that she had been making a fool of herself. Another silly, hysterical woman. A selfish, heartless monster. Of course. She wanted to throw her dying father out into the street didn’t she? Of course, silly, hysterical. Of course, a heartless monster. If she could only explain it all to him. Tell him about h
er mother, about the terrible struggle they had, about herself having to grow up without a father, but how, she thought with a resigned smile, can you explain anything to a man who wears yellow pants and a shirt covered with blue parrots.
In any case he was right, wasn’t he? Abe Cohen was her father and he was dying. That was just the way it was.
“You shitting me, Harold?”
“No, I’m serious, Earl. Why not?”
“Well, hell, boy, that’s just nigger music, that’s all it is.”
“Yeah,” Garf chimed in, “nigger music.”
It made Harold uncomfortable when anyone said nigger. He heard it all the time at school. That and shvartze. “You can’t trust the shvartzes.” “You’re as lazy as a shvartze.” On and on. Harold didn’t understand why the kids at Fairfax seemed to dislike Negroes so much. Probably because they didn’t know any better, just like Earl and Garf.
“I just like it, that’s all,” Harold said, defensively, wanting to end the conversation.
He decided it would be a waste of time trying to explain to Earl and Garf about Alvin Harper, about why he liked rhythm and blues, why he collected records and why the detailed knowledge was so important to him. What could you explain to a couple of dumb-ass-ignorant Palm Springs cowboys? Anyway, he wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself.
He looked away into the desert. Lots of white sand and scraggy bushes. It all looked the same to him. His grandfather had been right. Empty and far away from anywhere.
They were driving through the Pass on their way back to Palm Springs. On the radio Jim Reeves was singing something about bright lights and moths. The pickup rolled and bucked in the strong cross wind. Wanting to appear at ease, Harold leaned his arm on the open window. He swallowed a shout of pain as the metal frame burned into his soft flesh and the furnace-hot wind seared his elbow. Quickly he pulled his arm inside, hoping the others wouldn’t notice. They didn’t.
“What about country music?” asked Earl. “Hank Williams? Bill Monroe? Earnest Tubb? Roy Acuff? Or Jim Reeves?”
He pointed to the radio.