Finally, just as I’m ready to scoot, the lady comes back. She isn’t hurrying so much now, and in these dim pink lights the yellow dress is turned orange. She gives me a soft smile and counts out four one-hundred-dollar bills, snapping them with her fingers as she hands them to me, the way they do in a bank. I’m convinced they’re most likely counterfeit, they’re brand-new-looking, but how much use do hundred-dollar bills get anyway?
I’m not saying anything; I just want to get the hell out of there. I’m so confused I put out my hand to shake, French-style. She takes my hand and gives me a good shake back. I don’t think anything could surprise this lady. She goes over to the door and before she can open it, I come a bit to my senses.
“Do you want us to bring the keys in here or leave them in the car?”
She smiles.
“You’d better lock it up and bring the keys in; we still have to sign the delivery papers.”
I want Dad to see this place. He’d never believe it and I don’t blame him. I stick my head out the door and holler. He can’t hear me inside, so I motion him to come in. He opens the door and sticks his head up over the car.
“Lock it up and bring the keys, Dad. Bring the papers, too.”
Those kids and all the neighbors are lined up across the street. Nobody’s moving. Dad locks his door, then sprints across and up the steps. I stand back to let him in.
He stops dead in his tracks like he’s been sandbagged. He looks at me and looks at the lady. His head turns slowly to take it in. He looks back at the door. The lady puts out her hand for the key. She’s enjoying this almost as much as I am.
“Would you give me the key? I gave him the money.”
She points to me and I nod. Dad drops the keys in her hand. She tucks them in a little pocket at the hip of her dress. She reaches for the papers.
“What’re we supposed to sign?”
Dad gives her the papers. His hands are shaking. The lady leads us to the nearest bar where there’s more light. Dad’s in front of me and she’s leading the way. I let off two minor-note farts; I fart when I’m nervous.
We do the signing. She keeps her pages and Dad pockets his. Dad tries to pay back the change, about fifty dollars, but she waves it off.
“What are you two; brothers, or father and son, or what? It’s like seeing double.”
She couldn’t’ve said anything to make Dad happier; but personally I’m getting fed up with being seen as some kind of carbon copy thrown off by a biological time machine.
“Yeah, this is my son Bill.
“Wow, you sure have a beautiful place here; it’s the last thing you’d expect.”
“You like it, huh?”
She smiles that same smile, more in the eyes than in the mouth.
“It’s incredible.”
“And you’re curious about it, huh?”
She isn’t being nasty, just leading him on.
“Yeah, to be honest, I am. For instance, how are you going to use a car like that one out there? What do you do with a fancy place like this in a neighborhood like this one?”
“This is just what you think it is, Mr. Tremont, a fancy place.”
She smiles again.
That’s straight enough. She offers us both a drink, and when we nod yes, she pulls ice from an ice-maker, puts it in shot glasses and pours Ballantine Scotch over top. The whole thing’s so James Bond I can’t get myself around it. I’m still expecting a quiet hit over the head, either here or when we get outside. I’m tasting the drink for knockout drops.
“If you two’d like to stay on and have a good time, there’s not much going now; it’d cost just one of those soldiers you have in your pocket there.”
Fucking A, the old man handles this as if he’s been propositioned by beautiful whores in the afternoon all his life. He smiles and says we have friends waiting for us; he asks if there’s a bus or streetcar back to Bala-Cynwyd.
“Lord almighty, I don’t know anything about that. I never go outside. I don’t even live in Philadelphia; I live in Newark. Sorry, I can’t help you but I believe there’s a bar around the corner to the left. Maybe they can help.”
Since there’s no more business with us, she gently slips past, smiling, talking all the way, leading us to the door we came in. All the other doors have been blocked out and covered with mirrors or brocade. This door has heavy drapes over it so you’d hardly know it was there.
So suddenly we’re out in that blinding sunlight. There’s the heat, the humidity, the smells and all those black people standing on the other side of the street staring. The fire hydrant’s still spurting water. It’s ten times worse than coming out of a movie in midafternoon; my eyes start hurting as if I’d just eaten a pint of ice cream in three minutes. And there’s such a heavy feeling of hate, a chill would run up my spine if there were anything cool left in me. Now I’m dripping sweat inside my jean jacket.
We stroll, not run, down the street and around the corner. We find a place there you might call a bar. It has the word “BAR” written on what’s left of a broken plate-glass window and there are black, mean-looking bucks hanging around in front of it. There’s also one guy spread in the gutter, bleeding from his nose and mouth. Nobody’s paying much attention to him. There’s another sleek, thin type, with blood dripping down the front of his T-shirt, leaning in the doorway of what’s supposed to be the bar.
Nobody’s shouting or even looking excited. My crazy old man walks past the cat in the door to a fat guy behind the bar; there’s broken glass all over everything. I stay outside. All those eyes follow Dad in as if he’s Cleopatra stepping from her boat on the Nile. I almost expect them to twist shoulders and take the frontal position. Other groovy cats have started drifting onto the scene. I never really thought of myself as the kind of asshole who’d die a violent death in North Philadelphia.
One huge mother of a stud sidles up to me. He’s wearing a black, leather, brimmed hat and a thin, yellow silk, tailored shirt. Dad’s still in there talking with the fat bartender.
“Hey, man, what you doin’ here?”
“We just delivered a car from California to a house around the corner and we’re trying to find a bus out. That’s my dad in there.”
“Shit, man, you are in the wrong place. You got maybe five minutes to live if you stay around here. You all jes’ come with me and right now. Get your old man and stick your ass tight to me.”
This guy must be over six feet six and he’s at least three feet across the shoulders. He looks like a muscular gone-to-pot basketball player or a linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers. He talks in a reedy, high-pitched quiet voice.
Dad comes out and I tell him this fellow’s showing us where there’s a bus. I can tell from Dad’s face, things didn’t go so hot in the bar. I suspect nothing ever goes well in that bar. He falls in behind me and we tail this tall dude with the black leather hat and the yellow shirt. He could be leading us up some alley for a real mugging and we wouldn’t have a chance, even with the two of us, even if he were alone, which he wouldn’t be. But we don’t have that many choices. The giant keeps checking to see we don’t fall too far behind. It takes two of our steps for every one of his, he’s loping along like a Kodiak bear. There’s a troop following in our wake, sharking along.
About three blocks later, he takes us into a place with the words “SETON HALL” scrawled across the doorway. It’s another beat-up, run-down place from the outside, but on the inside it’s a miniature Salvation Army. There are blankets on tables, and clothes, old clothes, hanging on hangers. The big guy walks over to somebody sitting behind a table in front by the door. There are flies buzzing all around the room.
“Look, Able, see these guys get on the bus away from here. Don’t let them go out in the street.”
He smiles, then walks through the door without looking back. Everybody working here is black, too. The one at the desk glances at us.
“You stay right there. I’ll say when to get up. There’s a public service
bus comes past.”
We sit and watch. In this heat they’re spotting, repairing and ironing clothes. I don’t know how they stand it. It’s some kind of Catholic charity. On the wall there’s one of those pictures of Jesus with his heart hanging out, brambles sticking into it and blood dripping.
Finally, this guy tells us to get ready. He goes out on the curb and flags down the bus. Shit, I wouldn’t even have recognized it; all the windows have wire grille over them. It looks like an armored truck, only long. He hustles us out and we jump in. The driver’s locked in a cage. We put fifty cents each through a small opening in the wiring; into a metal spinning counter meter. He pushes a button and we go through a turnstile into the bus. We’re the only pale faces; even though we’ve just come from California, we really look pale. Maybe we’re supposed to go to the back of the bus but the only empty seats are just inside the turnstile.
We have no idea where this bus is going. Dad says we’ll stay on so long as it heads south and we’ll get off when we see some faces that aren’t purplish brown, bluish brown or brownish black.
The bus goes into Central Philadelphia and leaves us off by the City Hall. Dad says he knows a train from here that’ll take us out to Bala-Cynwyd. He suggests we go get something to eat and celebrate.
It’s almost three o’clock. It’s taken more than four hours to deliver that car. It seems like three years on Devil’s Island. I know I’m feeling like an escaped criminal. For old time’s sake, we head toward the nearest pizza place. But this is a true Italian restaurant and these are genuine pizzas, not American dough with catsup and American soap cheese melted over top; it tastes like Europe. When I close my eyes, I can almost taste France.
This whole day has definitely put the icing on the cake. I’m ready to go home. I’m ready for some old-world civilization; I’m not up to coping with the great American democratic experiment.
A commuter train leaves us off about three blocks from the Hills’. What a difference walking in these streets. There are large, spreading trees shading everything, touching each other over the streets like umbrellas. The roots are so huge they lift the pavements up into little hills. But these pavements aren’t cracked; they’re cemented in gentle curves over these hills. The houses are natural or cut stone, three stories with graceful porches. There’s the sound of power lawnmowers keeping grounds in order and the slamming of screen doors. Ladies, alone, in big station wagons, cruise around at about twenty miles an hour, out shopping.
It’s hard to believe we’re only five or six miles from the jungle. What’s going to happen when those people over there come charging into these places? I hate to think about it; I sure as hell don’t want to be here.
20
In the morning, I call the psychiatrist; his name is Delibro. Over the phone I try getting across something of the situation. He asks if I can come in and talk.
We make an appointment at two o’clock for Dad, but I’m to come right away. I don’t know whether he’s picked up on the urgency in my voice or just doesn’t have much business, but I appreciate getting straight in. He asks if I’ll call Perpetual and have Dad’s records forwarded. Perpetual says I can pick them up at noon.
Privately, I tell Dad I’ve made the appointment and I’m going in first to check it out.
I get to Delibro’s office on Santa Monica Boulevard before ten. The office is comfortable, easy-California-life style. The walls are done in what looks like shipping-crate wood with stenciled black signs, “FRAGILE HANDLE WITH CARE THIS SIDE UP”; somewhat bizarre for a psychiatrist’s waiting room.
Delibro himself is young, perhaps thirty-five, short, with bushy sideburns and a full-lip mustache. He looks like a French cop. He has a nice smile and perfectly neutral handshake.
In his consultation room there’s no couch. It could be an office for selling insurance. He doesn’t sit behind his desk but in a comfortable black leather chair at a forty-five-degree angle to the chair I sit in. We’re semi-facing each other so I’m looking at him off my left shoulder and he’s peering at me over his right. It’s comfortable enough. I get a strong feeling nothing here is accidental.
He leads me on and I go through it all the best I can. He’s asking cautious questions, but it’s clear he’s as interested in my anxiety as he is in Dad. Then he gets caught up in what I’m trying to tell him.
He asks why I’m so particularly concerned. It’s a question I’ve been asking myself. I tell him this might only be ordinary senile experience, not worth wasting his time with; but I’d like an expert opinion. I also tell him Dad asked me to arrange for help.
The rest of the hour goes well. He’s obviously listening, not pretending. He asks pertinent questions. I hope Dad won’t be put off by the vaguely “hippy” atmosphere. I was half afraid Delibro’d be one of those displaced-priest or rabbi types with shiny gold-rimmed glasses and a permanent smile. Delibro seems like somebody Dad can relate to. He also doesn’t give off “boss man” vibrations, doesn’t project any threatening signals. Dad will feel more as if he’s talking to one of his nephews or grandchildren.
I drive home. I tell Mom how Dad and I are going to go see a gerontologist that afternoon in Santa Monica. She thinks I said gynecologist and gets upset. I explain how a gerontologist is a doctor who specializes in problems of old age. I don’t call him a psychiatrist; no sense giving more ammunition for the “crazy” theory.
I tell Dad what I feel about Delibro. He listens and nods his head.
“Johnny, I’ve been doing some thinking on this. The way I see it, the biggest problem is keeping things apart. Sometimes I have to stop and make myself think about where I really am. I’ll be working out there in the greenhouse, but in my mind I’ll be back in Cape May. Working out there in the greenhouse is one place where I do most of my daytime visiting. It’s another world, cut off, I’m out there alone with my plants and my mind goes. But don’t you worry, John, I’m working on it. I’ll lick this thing yet.”
Just before two, we get to Santa Monica. It’s easy getting Dad to the office because there’s parking in the building and an elevator up from the garage. Inside, I give the secretary Dad’s records I picked up at Perpetual. Dad’s taking the place in.
“Gosh, this guy must be awful poor for a psychiatrist; he’s paneled his walls with broken shipping crates. Maybe he’ll have an orange crate for a desk.”
Just then, Delibro comes out. He’s wearing a calming smile and concentrates on Dad. Dad’s looking straight back into his eyes and I’m hoping it’ll be all right. Dad’s trying to decide if this fellow is a boss or not. He has an office, and he is a doctor, but he’s wearing a soft, dark blue turtleneck sweater.
We go into his consultation room together. Delibro told me in our meeting I could come in but he’d give a signal when I should leave. He’s arranged the room so there’s one chair relatively near the door; I figure that’s mine and sit there. Dad sits in the chair where I sat before.
Very gently, Delibro speaks with Dad while he goes over the medical records.
He asks Dad about Mother, her heart attacks; Dad’s operation. He’s full of sympathy and brings it off as real. He’s easing into the situation, establishing rapport, but in such a way it isn’t obnoxious. Dad’s nodding, smiling, listening. It’s not the “boss man” nod. This is different; he’s enjoying being the center of attention.
It seems like tremendously casual conversation at a hundred bucks an hour but he couldn’t bulldoze into it; Dad would be put off. Then, finally, Delibro comes on.
“Mr. Tremont, your son’s told me you feel you have another life. Could you tell me something about this?”
He smiles and waits. Dad looks at me.
“Sure, Dad. Tell Dr. Delibro. Tell him about Cape May; tell him what you told me.”
He starts off slowly but as he senses the intense, positive interest of the doctor, he warms up. He intersperses his tale with “I know this sounds crazy but…” or, “This might be hard to believe but…” But he’s b
ringing it out.
I’m hoping Delibro won’t shoo me. Dad’s telling things he hasn’t mentioned before. More than when he talked to me, Dad’s convinced he’s been in two places at the same time. This bothers his sense of rightness. It violates his perfectionist, logical, engineering instincts.
At first, Delibro starts out using the standard psychiatrist come-ons: “Yesss” … “That’s right” … “Go on” … “Hmmm,” and so forth; but after five minutes it’s coming without help. This is a whole world wanting to be born; no need for forceps. I’m torn between watching, listening to Dad; watching Delibro; and letting my own head spin. Delibro’s so fascinated his mouth is partly open.
It’s the completeness of details, the description of making shoes, the box he designed for fitting the last, the leather sewing; there’s the planting of potatoes, watching for the flowering and the harvesting; the tying of onions in a knot so they’ll develop good bulbs. It keeps coming on. It’s clear Dad wants to reveal all this. The combination of his pleasure in it and his guilt about it has been tearing him apart.
It’s as if a painter spent thirty years painting a masterpiece of a mural in an empty room but hasn’t been able to show it because he painted it with stolen paints on borrowed time in somebody else’s house without their permission.
And Dad can tell it even more fully to Delibro than he could to me. Just then, I catch Delibro give me a blink of his eye; it’s time for me to go. I try to slip out quietly but Dad picks it up.
“Where’re you going, Johnny? Is it time to leave?”
“I’m only going for a drink of water, Dad; I’ll be outside in the waiting room. You stay here and talk to the doctor some more.”
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