“Mario and I will come to the hospital; you stay there. Don’t call Mother yet.”
I hang up but I don’t want to come out of the phone booth. The space of a phone booth is about all I can handle right then.
Finally, I go out and sit in the waiting room. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, except Joan. Before Joan arrives, the young doctor comes out again. He looks tired but not so grim. I swear he’s grown half a day’s beard while I was phoning. I wouldn’t be a doctor for anything. He doesn’t sit down, so I stand up.
“Well, Mr. Tremont, he’s out of danger for the moment. We’ll need to do more tests to find out what’s wrong. His BUN is up again and he’s dehydrated; that’s all I can tell you now. I’m putting him in intensive care. You might as well go home; there’s nothing more you can do.”
He looks at me carefully. I must look like hell; at least that’s the way his eyes register.
“You came in the ambulance, didn’t you? Do you want us to call a taxi?”
I shake my head.
“I’ve called my sister; she should be here any minute; she’ll take care of me.”
He stares a few more seconds.
“All right, you rest here and if you feel faint, let one of the nurses know. Don’t worry about your father, he’s comfortable now. Dr. Chad will call you in the morning.”
He turns away. That’s the first time I know for sure Chad’s taken the case.
About fifteen minutes later, Joan and Mario come in. She sits beside me; her eyes are red from crying. Mario is playing impassive male, but he’s breathing shallowly and has a bluish color under his half-day beard. I go over everything.
Joan wants to see Dad. I know why; she’s afraid he’ll die without her seeing him a last time. It’s amazing the way the living mind works about the dead. Joan persists with the nurse, who finally summons the doctor. He calls intensive care and explains the situation.
“The two direct relatives may go up for a few minutes; but he’s unconscious, so he won’t know you’re there.”
Christ, I think; you don’t know where it is, Doc; he wouldn’t know we were there if he were conscious.
We go up. For some reason, the Muzak isn’t playing. Maybe they give the machines a rest on weekends. Maybe they only play music during visiting hours. It’s the same, though, small rooms opening onto a large monitoring center.
There’s the smell, the repressed silence, the instrumentation. They’ve pulled the curtains on Dad’s room and we can just make him out in the dark. He does look peaceful; he almost looks dead, but he’s breathing naturally. The IV is still on, the catheter in place, the oxygen tube fitted into his nostrils. He looks like one of the men in a capsule in that 2001 film. He doesn’t look as if he’s in this world anymore. He’s lost so much weight his cheeks have sunken in. He’s like a mummy, yellowish, Nile-embalmed.
Joan goes over and kisses him on the forehead, runs her hand over his head. When I kiss him, caress him, he’s dry, silky smooth, almost parchmentlike with a feeling of graphite powder over his skin. Joan’s crying beside me, then she turns and comes into my arms. I hold her and she’s sobbing deeply. Her sobs trigger me and I can’t stop. I’m looking over her head and crying.
The nurse comes in. She shoos us out and we go slowly past all the overhead lights and bottles surrounded by black faces in white uniforms. Joan’s still holding on to my hand.
When we get to the lobby, she says she wants to use the ladies’ room. Instead of standing, waiting, I go into the men’s room. In the mirror, I look cut out, as if there’s a slight space all around the outside of my head and I vaguely don’t fit somehow, like a poorly done photomontage. I stare and let warm water run over my hands. I’m still soaked with sweat.
Mario drives us home. By this time, we have ourselves fairly well in control. Joan says she’ll tell Mom. I keep wanting to be with Dad, even though I know there’s nothing to do.
At home, I sneak past, back to Mom’s room, snitch one of her ten-milligram Valium, go into the bathroom and swallow it. I’m a wreck all right. I hope Joan’s OK.
I strip and fill the tub, hot as possible, until I’m practically floating. I dread getting out and going into the living room with Mom. I’m not ready.
But by the time I’m out, the Valium’s hit, the hot water’s hit and a sedating shock has settled in. I’m calm when I join them in the living room. Mario’s in the platform rocker with his hands locked across his stomach, staying neutral, out of it. Joan’s biting her lips to keep from crying. Mom’s crying. I tell Joan and Mario they’d better get back home; I can take over now. Joan’s more than ready to go. She’ll be crying all the way over the San Diego and Ventura freeways. I’m glad Mario’s with her.
Believe it or not, Mother’s convinced Dad’s dying because we canned Ethridge. I wonder if she brought this up with Joan or she’s saved it for me. The temptation is strong to walk out to the back bedroom in the garden, lock the door and just forget it all.
Instead, I go over everything once more. I explain all the things they didn’t do, the fact that it was Ethridge who insisted Dad leave the hospital. I’m talking to a wall. She has something to blame it on and I’m a logical victim; she’s not going to let go.
I tell her the neurological tests Max in Cincinnati told me should have been done and weren’t. I try to convince her concerning Max’s credentials as chief neurologist at a university hospital, but he’s only one of my hippy quack friends. There’s nothing to be done. I look at her there crying and striking out.
Then I remember. When I was a child, my Aunt Helen died of peritonitis after an appendix operation. It was my mother—over the objections of Aunt Helen’s husband, Charley, and her father, my grandfather—who insisted Aunt Helen have the operation. At the funeral, my grandfather turned on Mom.
“It’s your fault, Bess. If you hadn’t talked her into that Goddamned operation, she’d be alive today.”
This triggered Mother’s second nervous breakdown.
I look at Mother and say quietly:
“It’s your fault, Bess; if you hadn’t talked Helen into that Goddamned operation, she’d be alive today!”
I get up slowly and walk out of the house into the garden. I know I’m being a shit and a theatrical bastard but it feels so good. I halfway turn back to apologize but don’t; I go on into the garden bedroom and lock myself in.
I stretch out on that big pillow of a bed and submerge myself in the smell of Billy’s dirty feet. How the hell did he get the smell of his feet into the pillow under my head? Maybe he sleeps with his head at the foot of the bed and his feet on the pillow. Maybe he’s trying to get some blood up to his brain. Maybe my father isn’t dying.
No matter what, Dad’s going to have every one of those neurological examinations he should have had. He’s going to have all the medical backup he needs. I get to sleep at last. The final thought I have as I’m going under is about Mom.
I discover I wouldn’t be too heartbroken if I go in the next morning and find her dead on the living-room floor. That’s a rotten thought but I have it.
13
Soon’s we get out of Kansas, two things happen. One, we start getting into nice little hills, not mountains, not even hilly as the Morvan, but it isn’t just one great, checkered tablecloth anymore. The second thing is everything turns green and humid.
When we stop for gas and I step out of the car, the air’s so thick, hot and heavy I can’t breathe. I climb right back into the joy of canned air. Out there looks just fine through cool air and tinted glass. This luxury tank makes sense now.
We drive along across Missouri toward St. Louis. I’m at the wheel. Dad pulls out a notebook and starts scribbling. I figure he’s toting up how much we’ve spent so far with gas, motels and eating. Boy, is he in for a surprise; it’d’ve been cheaper going first class in an airplane.
We’ve gone maybe thirty miles when Dad clears his throat.
“Listen to this, Bill; tell me what you think. It�
�s called ‘God’s Joke’:
“Adam lived alone on the old ranch Eden
Just playin’, thinkin’, sleepin’, and feedin’.
He was pickin’ flowers in his garden one day’n’
God came down to teach Adam about prayin’.
Adam didn’t know God was making up sin
And wasn’t quite sure just how to begin.
‘Pray hard,’ God said, ‘Pray with your life,
Pray for money, or power. Pray for a wife.’
‘What’s that, God?’ says Adam, scratchin’ his head,
‘Some new kinda fruit, somethin’ soft for my bed?’
‘That’s right,’ God said, smilin’ and grinnin’,
’Cause now he knew how to start Adam sinnin’.
Adam woke next mornin’ with a stitch in his side
And a cute little critter sayin’ she was his bride.
This critter, named Eve, had two bumps and a hole
And knew just how to steal a man’s soul.
Adam fenced off the ranch and took up the hoe,
Planted taters ’n’ cotton and corn in a row.
Eve raised Cain, then Cain slayed Abel,
And God laughed his ass off all the way to the stable.”
We start laughing. He’s proud of this crazy song; he’s going over it, making corrections, improving it; laughing to himself. Maybe all that shit with Grandma and Granddad was too much. I might be delivering a basket case to Mom.
We start seeing big advertisements for caves along the road. One’s called Meramec, the other Onondaga. Dad wants to visit one, only he isn’t sure which. It’s a good fifty miles out of the way, however we go.
It seems, fifteen years ago, my parents drove cross-country and visited a cave. All these years, he’s carried in his mind the idea I was too young to appreciate it then but he’s convinced I’ll like it now.
When he gets an idea like this, there’s no stopping him; it’s only a question of which cave; Bryce and Zion all over again. Somehow he decides it’s Onondaga. I’m sure it’ll be the wrong cave. But it doesn’t matter. We’re in for a cave.
We drive through rolling green countryside; he’s manning the maps. We go along small roads, then come down on a place fixed up like one of the national parks.
They’ve got rocks squared off and cemented together, with rough-cut signs hanging on chains. These have burned-out letters like brandings. Everything very woodsy. All these signs have arrows pointing toward Onondaga Cave.
But it turns out this isn’t a national park at all. This is a bit of free enterprise. Somebody bought these caves and developed a tourist attraction. They figured people are going stark raving mad driving cross-country with only Stuckey’s peanut brittle to break the monotony, so they’ll come in to see anything.
There’s a gigantic parking lot three-quarters full and seething with Americana in Dacron colors, checkered shorts and kids in Keds.
We’ve hardly gotten the car stopped and the motor turned off when an old guy, in what looks like an ice-cream-salesman costume, comes over and collects fifty cents for parking. Before we can move, he’s whipped out a sticker with an Indian arrowhead on it and stuck this thing on the back window. I dash to scrape it off but it’s practically vulcanized by the heat. That Mafia stud in Philadelphia will want some reason for an arrowhead named Onondaga; imagine explaining to the mob. He’ll probably cover it with a decal of crossed American flags.
This place is notorious for two things. Jesse James and his band are supposed to have hidden gold somewhere in the cave. That’s got to be good for at least an extra thousand admissions per year. The other thing, Mark Twain is said to have used this cave as a model for the one where Tom Sawyer and Becky get lost.
Can you believe it, three bucks to walk into a hole? But Dad’s a follow-through type so he plunks out the money.
A six-foot-tall Boy Scout herds us into the cave, passing out gems like how to tell a stalagmite from a stalactite. Would you believe it? A stalagmite might reach the ceiling, a stalactite holds tight to the ceiling; so much for geology.
First there’s the James brothers’ hideout. This is competition for the Knott’s Berry Farm Award of the Year. Even Disneyland is better than this. There’s one part with gigantic “gold nuggets” sticking conveniently out of the ground. They also have a section with fluorescent rock and black light beamed on them, probably gathered those rocks from all over America.
But the cave is damned impressive in itself, as a cave. I see what Dad’s excited about. We’re down hundreds of feet in the ground. There are parts bigger than a whole wing of Versailles. It’s dripping with calcite in an enormous range of subtle colors. And it’s cool. It’s almost worth six dollars just to get cool. It’s a constant fifty-seven degrees, winter and summer; I can feel the cold sinking into me. I want my bones to get cold so I can hold on till we get back in the car.
But things are so hoked up. There are colored lights shining on every interesting rock so you can’t tell what color anything really is. Then, they have names for each geologic formation. One is called The Golden Horn. This is a stalagmite bathed in gold light to make it look like a huge golden horn sticking out of the ground. Everybody is shuffling past in the dark hanging on to ropes. There’s a hush over the crowd as if we’re going through Notre Dame.
Another place is called The Organ of the Giants. Some stalagmites and stalactites have run together so it looks a bit like a giant pipe organ. There are constantly changing colored lights playing on this. It’s something like old-time vaudeville or a funky light show. Come to think of it, what a great place this could be for a rock concert; call it the Underground Rock.
We finish in a huge natural amphitheater, bigger than any movie theater, with wooden seats all around. Our guide leads us in and we sit there till the place is about filled. Then they turn off all the lights.
A voice comes out of the dark from at least ten speakers; we’re surrounded by this voice. He talks about the primal dark and how it’s been dark in these caves for thousands of centuries. An organ begins playing and colored lights come up slowly on a beautiful display of arches, water-washed caves, stalagmites and stalactites. Well, that’s the way it’s been all along so I settle back.
But then comes the kicker. A projector behind us flashes the American flag onto the stalactites. They wiggle the projector so it looks as if the flag is blowing in a breeze. Worse yet, fat Kate Smith, one of Grandma’s all-time favorites, comes on singing “God Bless America”!
I stand up to leave. Everybody stands with me. They think it’s the national anthem. They’re standing, staring at that monster jiggling flag. I walk along the bench to the aisle, up and out.
Going outside into the wet heat again is miserable but it’s better than staying inside. I’m an American and all, but it doesn’t have anything to do with that kind of commercialized bullshit.
Dad comes out with the others. We don’t say anything as we work our way two hundred yards through air sludge to the car. He turns it over and the air conditioner starts pushing blessed cool air around. It’s just getting bearable when we pull past the last little stone pyramid with an arrowhead sign on it. Dad turns toward me.
“Well, Bill, I think we’re both about ready for Paris.”
We start laughing. We go over it all and we’re getting at least six dollars’ worth in laughs.
We’re laughing along when suddenly we get two coughs; that big boat of a car gives up. We barely get it to the side of the road. The gas gauge registers almost empty. We meant to buy gas at the station outside the caves but, in our hurry getting away, forgot.
Still, I can’t believe we’re actually out of gas. The needle definitely lifts when we turn on the ignition; that should mean something. But Dad’s convinced it’s gas. We latch up that gigantic hood and there are four of the biggest Stromberg carburetors I’ve ever seen in my life. Just pushing down on the accelerator is like flushing a toilet with gasoline.
Dad
digs the gas can out of the trunk and insists on walking back. He’s so sure we’re out of gas he doesn’t even want to check. I think we’re both afraid of fooling around with this monster.
It’s got to be two miles or more back to the caves but he says he’ll hitch. There’s a fair amount of traffic and with the gas can he shouldn’t have any trouble. I say I’ll go but he insists he needs the exercise. He crosses to the other side and starts slogging along. He’s going to be dripping wet with sweat before he gets there.
Just out of curiosity, I begin playing with the carburetors. There’s not much you can do with that kind of equipment when all you have is a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. At least, I can find out if fuel is getting to the carbs. It could be the fuel pump.
I pull off the gas lead lines and turn it over. Gas comes from somewhere; those lines pump gas like cut arteries. I look back for Dad but he’s gone; he must’ve gotten a lift right off.
I’m afraid to fool around with the jets so I hook everything up again.
Then, when I turn her over, she fires up like downtown; probably only a vapor lock from all the heat. I think of tearing off after Dad but I’m afraid we’ll miss each other. He’ll get a ride back from the gas station easy, Americans are great that way.
I figure now’s a chance to top up my suntan; I stretch out on the grass verge.
I must’ve fallen asleep; the next thing, Dad’s there. He has a can full of gas and looks fresh as a shrimp. He says he got a lift almost right away to the caves and a lady at the pump took him back. He’s pouring gas into the tank. He’s so pleased with himself, I don’t have the heart to tell him the car’s already working.
Also, at the gas station, he bought two pairs of sunglasses. We’ve been driving into the morning sun every day and our eyes are almost burnt out. We both have light blue eyes and can’t take glare. But these are some sunglasses he buys.
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