Two days later, Dad graduated to the “rehab.” This place offered a more active set of indignities, the daily ritual of inconvenience and humiliation spiced up with round-the-clock harassment. Maybe the idea was that the patient would be badgered into leaving the facility. Or if that didn’t work, die.
I’ve been sleeping in his house. Not because I wanted to but because the place is a ruined mess and Sis thought it would be efficient if I organized the clutter Dad has been accumulating. I had no idea know where to begin, so I resigned myself to wandering from room to room, picking up stacks of old magazines, hauling them a few steps, then placing them back down on a different dust-covered spot. I hadn’t cleaned a bathroom in twenty-five years but I scrubbed his to the best of my ability. I emptied and swabbed out the fridge. I swept the cellar stairs. I washed his car and raked his leaves. At the local Kmart, I picked up a portable vacuum and trimmed back as much of the dust as I could. I found clothing I had bought him decades ago. I inventoried his neckties, some with price tags still on them. I selected a couple and tossed them into my bag.
Dad had spent years collecting a houseful of garbage. It took a special talent. Pulp novels, each one bookmarked twenty or so pages in, then forgotten, lay on every horizontal service. Alarm clocks and egg timers stood ready in each room, often one clock displaying one time sitting upon another in contradiction. The stacks of magazines and newspapers already mentioned. Little bags of candy, opened, reclosed and carefully wrapped with rubber bands. Dried-out, half-eaten bologna sandwiches, mahogany-colored bananas, wadded Kleenex. Calendars were tacked up in each room, one to a wall. Compact plastic transistor radios, the kind you never see anymore, aimed their antennae toward the cobwebbed ceiling corners. Vast collections of empty plastic take-out containers.
Frayed terry cloth towels tanned with grime lay on the arms and backs of his couches and armchairs. Cloudlike balls of dust gathered beneath the furniture, a mixed affair dating back to his mother’s old place. Here and there were a few bizarre items he’d picked up at yard sales since Mom died (e.g.: a planter/table lamp constructed from a bronze replica of a 1939 Cord automobile, minus plant). Many framed photos of Mom. And of me.
I discovered a steel file box, unlocked. Inside were ancient insurance policies, rings of keys, defunct savings passbooks, black and white snapshots of the family at the beach. In one I’m standing alongside my father. We’re both wearing bathing suits, showing off our naked skinny chests. I’m six or seven.
Also in the box was a diary, one my father kept when he was a schoolboy during the Great Depression. I find an entry marked with a paper clip, “Today is my birthday. I am 13. All I got was fifty cents. Nothing else.” The date was June 29, 1935. I tried to imagine myself in his place, impoverished, frightened. I tried to hear his boy’s voice. I couldn’t do it. I placed everything into the box and stuck it back in the closet where I found it.
I found a bottle of twelve-year-old bourbon I had given him for his birthday a few years back. I plopped down on a dusty couch and commenced to drink.
While musing upon my own ineptitude, the phone rang. The doctor was looking for me. My good old friend! He informed me in his usual unctuous tone that the rehab was releasing Dad the next day. Also that they’d updated their diagnosis. They were now fairly certain Dad was suffering from Alzheimer’s. I hung up and refilled my glass. What else is new? Oprah was discussing it just that morning.
December 18, 1977
Blake read the book in two days. Said I should do more work on it before he sent it out. He made some suggestions, cuts, rewrites. I got off the phone, went to Zim’s and got wasted on Ballantine Ale and bad marijuana. Fuck Blake. What does he know?
When I got home, Katie was waiting by my front door. She said she was worried about me. I was too wasted to fuck, but she said she didn’t care and came in and we ended up talking for two hours. She listened and held me and in the end I kind of woke up and we fucked and it was amazing. She is so much on my side, believes in my work. I’m lucky.
December 20, 1977
I’ve begun the rewrites. I’m not going to do everything Blake says, but in a way, he is right. But only partially. Ultimately he doesn’t understand what I’m doing. I’m not on my schedule anymore. Instead I sleep until eleven or noon, then I write until about nine, go to Zim’s, we get fucked up, then we go out nightclubbing. We usually end up at Max’s Kansas City and when it closes, the after-hours clubs. It’s important to live, otherwise there’s nothing to write about. I told Zim what Blake said about my work. Zim said, “Fuck him, what does he know? What did he ever write?” But I know that when Zim says that, he’s not thinking about me and what’s good for my work. Zim doesn’t care about what happens to me. Artists are like jackals. We travel in packs, but in the end, each is only looking out for himself.
December 22, 1977
Had a monstrous, painful fight with Blake today. I went to his office and demanded to know when he was going to get off his ass and find me a writing job. He got all silent and pretended to be offended, which pissed me off even more. I ripped his phone out and threw it at the wall. When I blew past his assistant standing in the doorway, I could see that all the nearby offices had gone dead silent, no agents or assistants visible. Fuck them. I need money to keep going and Blake had said he was going to get me some work writing screenplays or magazine articles and that’s not happening. Later I apologized to him on the phone. Then I hung up on him. Now I’m not sure if he’s still my agent. It’s probably not a bad thing. Have to make my reputation somehow.
October 5, 2006
As awful as Dad’s house was without him, it was even worse when he came home. I’m amazed by the power of a patronizing, contemptuous old man. He’s gripped in the jaws of something he can’t control and so he takes it out on me.
When they delivered him back to me I made a decision to smother him with love and kindness. I couldn’t change the guy, so what else was there to do? Sis was on a tough work schedule so I was left there alone with him. I broiled a couple of tuna melts, his favorite. He sat at the table, brimming with mistrust, eyeing the food as if I had laced it with cyanide. I commanded him to eat and he began to take small, hostile mouthfuls.
I mentioned “home care,” i.e., bringing in someone who could come by and tidy up, cook a meal, be an object of his derision. His jaw stopped moving and his eyes narrowed. He placed his food back onto his plate. He wiped his mouth and launched into a tirade, listing my shortcomings as a son, as a caregiver, as a human being. Flecks of tuna spittle fired from his lips and the creases on his forehead etched black against his flushed skin.
Fortunately, I’d had a drink before the Ambu-care van delivered him to me, so I greeted this outburst with a placidity that only served to enrage him further. He swept the sandwiches onto the floor. I told him that the food could stay where he threw it, that I wasn’t his mother.
He rose from his chair and a scent of urine drifted toward me. He leaned on the table as if to catch his breath, staring at me with cold eyes, gathering his strength for another attack. Then he threw up.
I could have walked out the door. But that would be inhuman, right? He may have deserved it, but what if the guy died on the spot? My sister would never forgive me. I took a step toward him. Fortunately he couldn’t puke and scream at me at the same time. A string of drool hung from his lips. At his feet, the brightly colored meds freckled his tuna puke. They must have topped him off at the rehab before sending him my way.
I slipped an arm around his thin chest and led him toward the freshly scrubbed bathroom. He barfed in the doorway, on the floor, into the sink, everywhere but into the toilet. I nudged him to his knees and aimed his face toward the bowl. He was limp, defeated. He spasmed as I steadied him, his bony shoulder blades sharp under his yellowing T-shirt. Tears rolled down his gaunt cheeks.
He stank and he shook. All meek and vulnerable. What a con artist. What a selfish prick. He had me right where he wanted me, overwhelmed by his need
s, his wants. Using every molecule of guts I possessed, I resisted the urge to feel sorry for him. No. I would do what I had to do, but I was not going to give him that.
No need to continue this description. There are volumes on the subject. In fact, there’s too much on this subject. The point is, I didn’t murder him. No. I wiped him down, diapered him, wrangled him into his pajamas, then tucked his lank body into his bed. Nestled in his sheets and pillows, he cursed me softly as his eyelids drooped. His voice grew fainter, and fainter. He began to snore.
I made a phone call to the doctor and reviewed the situation. We discussed the meds. There wasn’t much else to say. The doc’s patronizing tone had been replaced by a clipped intonation giving me the impression that he couldn’t wait to get off the phone. It occurred to me then, that perhaps I should have taken a moment and thanked him for saving my life, but fuck him. He assumed that I wanted to know all this information about my father, about myself. But I never did.
October 8, 2006
Back in Connecticut I walked in the door of my house to find that Sis had left a long message on my voice mail informing me that Dad couldn’t stand the home care worker I’d hired. While the woman collects his laundry, or dusts or washes his dishes, Dad harangues her from his armchair. He’d told my sister that “the Jamaican”(that’s what he calls her) vacuums incessantly so that she doesn’t have to listen to his carping. I almost laughed out loud. The kicker is that Sis wanted me to go back up to Stoneham. I put that on the bottom of my agenda.
I called the number in Massachusetts Jack had given me for John. A woman answered, her voice mature, hoarse with age. When I said, “It’s Richard,” ’Gitte knew me immediately, which I hadn’t expected. In fact, I had prepared an introduction for myself. (“I used to come by when you lived in Brooklyn.”) She and I had never talked much “in the day,” so now the dialogue had an odd lilt to it, as if we were both playing parts and hadn’t fully memorized our lines.
I asked after John. ’Gitte said that John had not been well, that he was in the hospital. This news caught me unprepared. I had imagined he had simply shipped his Barcalounger to his new country home and was tilted back, smoking bowls of weed there. I inquired whether his illness was cardiac-related. ’Gitte said no, but didn’t elaborate. Did I detect a lack of affection in her voice?
’Gitte invited me up to “the woods” for a visit. A three-hour drive, but why not? If this was the ’Gitte of my dreams and yearnings with whom I was speaking, and if indeed, she did remember me, then how could I not see her? What else did I have to do with my dilapidated life than to go rummaging around in my own lost fantasies?
December 25, 1977
Staying in the city. Not going home. There’s too much work to do here. I can’t leave. Katie’s Christian, but she’s not going home either. We had a wonderful Christmas Day meal at a diner in Chelsea. I don’t know how to say this. I think I love her.
December 28, 1977
Cold these days.
Zim called. I told him I was working. He said, “Doing those rewrites for your agent? You’re such a pussy.” I decided I needed a break. Zim and I went up to the dollar movie at the Playboy movie theater on 57th this afternoon to see Towering Inferno. (It was either that or a John Holmes porno on 42nd Street.) Got seats in the balcony, smoked a joint and shared a pint of Old Mr. Boston Peach Brandy. Laughed our asses off. The film is packed with all these amazing stars like Steve McQueen and Paul Newman and Faye Dunaway and Fred Astaire. What would be the literary equivalent to Towering Inferno? That’s the book I want to write.
As we left, Zim laid three hits of white cross (amphetamine) on me. Said he bought it from the Hell’s Angels on 3rd Street. (These are the same Hells Angels who threw a hooker off their roof two years ago.) I chugged the speed with a can of Mountain Dew, and headed home. The chemicals hammered my brain stem just as I was unlocking my front door. It’s quite a feeling. Like being reborn. I sat down and started writing. Did not stop until about an hour ago when my thoughts got too tangled up. I washed the floor and I sorted my books. Talked to Katie on the phone for two hours. Now it’s about three a.m. and I’m crawling the walls. I have to go out.
December 29, 1977
The new year started early. Just woke up and it’s dark out already. I think I ended up in Chinatown last night, not sure. Fuck. The pages I wrote yesterday are almost worthless. Yesterday was a waste of time. I have to edit. Have to focus. Drinking coffee. This is painful, but this is good. This is how it’s done. Keep going, whatever it takes. And stay away from Zim.
LATER:
Katie came by. She’s been nursing me out of this hangover all night. Behind her back, I sniffed some heroin and we fell asleep in each other’s arms. She’s a good woman.
December 31, 1977
It’s snowing. Zim called with a list of parties we can crash but I told him I wasn’t feeling well. I copped some H and I’m going to watch the ball drop on TV, sniff drugs and smoke cigarettes. Katie’s in a bad mood because of her work and we argued, so I’m alone tonight. This isn’t fair. I should finish my book, dedicate it to Katie and kill myself.
January 1, 1978
Completely obsessed with the fact that Katie is angry at me. But I went for a long walk along the ruts of the snowy streets and figured out my situation. There is no such thing as unrequited love. If Katie doesn’t understand that she needs me in her life, then I don’t give a shit if she abandons me. It makes no difference. This is a woman who has tremendous difficulty with her own emotions. Obviously. But she is not the issue. I can’t do anything about her art. The only person I need to think about is me. I’m free. I have things to do. She’ll be sorry.
January 2, 1978
Worked all day today. Made the big mistake of calling Katie. It was a short cool phone call. I said, “I just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year.” She said, “Oh, okay” with this tone, like why in the world would you call me? I tried not to sound desperate, but her silences were damning. What crap. I’m so full of crap. One minute I’m making her come, the next minute she won’t speak to me.
October 13, 2006
I am in the northern Berkshires. The trees are bare. Everything up here is frozen. My footsteps crunch on the scatterings of icy snow. My nose and eyes itch. The skies are high and empty.
I arrived last night, checked in after ten, got settled. The motel bed was too soft but the food wasn’t bad. I was lucky to get a room at all because I guess it’s “bow season” or “turkey season” or something. A season for hunting and killing. Inside the inn, guys in camo outfits bustled around, anticipating the hunt. Very few women in evidence, the hunters like an invading army, only interested in force and functions thereof. They spend their time in the antler-festooned bar, watching vintage football on ESPN.
I called ’Gitte first thing this morning. She sounded cheery on the phone. They probably don’t get many visitors up here. I made small talk, as if I just happened to find myself in her neighborhood. She invited me over to their place for lunch.
Her directions were straightforward: Drive twenty minutes north on a two-lane out of the center of town, then turn right past an abandoned gas station, go six miles and locate a hand-painted sign nailed to a tree. I did all this. Once off the two-lane, I endured twenty minutes bouncing along on a rutted, unpaved passage through the thickening woods hoping not to break an axle. In a clearing stood a brown-shingled affair, probably constructed by local volunteer help (a pound of potent weed for a day’s work?). It looked like a typically suburban split-level transported to the bowels of a witch’s forest. I was surprised. I guess I’d expected a geodesic dome or a large teepee.
As I popped the car door, two yellow dogs trotted toward me, tails whipping. One sidled up and I patted his neck. He crouched and began to bark viciously. The second dog followed suit. They flanked me. I was midway between car and house. I’d have thought it was abandoned were it not for a ribbon of gray wood smoke trailing from the chimney.
On
e dog nipped at the other’s rear as they circled me in an ever-tightening orbit. The barking became ominous whining. I had no options. I was surrounded by thick, dark woods, home to wolverines and possums and other ravenous nocturnal animals that feed on the rotting deer corpses abandoned by careless hunters. My body would never be found. Saliva dripped from the dogs’ fangs. One was barking so hard, he had begun to go hoarse. John’s dogs. Probably bred to kill.
A form appeared in the front door and the dogs ceased their clamor instantly and trotted off like two spring lambs. The woman left the doorway and moved toward me. She took me in her arms and hugged me. She smelled of roses.
Throwing me a shy smile and taking me by the hand ’Gitte said, “Let me show you around!” She pulled me toward the back of the house, like a schoolgirl eager for flirtatious mischief. We turned the corner to discover cages and fenced-in areas beside a weed-choked subsistence garden. I learned that all of this was housing for a medium-sized menagerie. ’Gitte introduced me to her pony, her turkey, her rabbits, her six dogs, each by name. Dozens of cats, unlike the pony, turkey and rabbits, were semi-free and anonymous. ’Gitte proudly showed me the reeking manure heap banked up against an abandoned car. I wondered where the marijuana field was hidden, but did not ask.
We entered the house proper. The place smelled like a pet shop/ health food store combo, incense and dry herbs and wet fur. An oat-colored macrame weaving hung above a dusty bookshelf upon which stood a well-thumbed copy of The Road Less Traveled. ’Gitte doesn’t drink coffee, but she had picked some up just for my visit, recalling my fondness for caffeine. She peppered me with questions about my life and my work and before long I was babbling, providing much too much information. As I spoke, she fixed me with a loving gaze, as if she had been waiting for years to hear every word of it. A dog bounded in and ’Gitte stroked him, while keeping all her attention on me.
Perforated Heart Page 24