Dad. William Wharton
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tuck our helmets under our arms like a couple of beached knights. There are people coming in from the water; kids are sitting in the and playing bongos and a drunk is trying to dance with the music. It’s mellow and I hope Dad’s relaxing and not fighting it all too much.
We stop and listen to the music. There are a few guitars with the bongos. It’s like the tropics; hard to believe Lincoln Boulevard is only eight short blocks inland, crowded with cars, light industry and thousands of signs screaming for attention. Dad turns toward me.
‘You know, Johnny, I’ve missed my calling. I think I could be a hippy.’
We stroll along the boardwalk. It’s peculiar they call it a boardwalk, because it’s cement and isn’t up on piers. It’s only a street without cars next to the sand. It might’ve been boards once or it could be a cross-country carry-over from the boardwalks on the Atlantic shore. Or maybe I’m the only one who calls it a boardwalk.
We come on a place called The Fruits and Nuts. A young couple, Tony and Shelly, run it. They take all the time in the world with us. They’re interested in Mom and suggest herbs to strengthen her heart. They offer big glasses of carrot juice squeezed from fresh carrots. They make it with a blender and it’s sweet, not like Mother’s pot liquors. Dad’s peeking at me from the corner of his eye, drinking carrot juice and smiling away. Tony has a beard with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. This is a surefire hippy, the enemy.
He tells Dad how he has herbs to help with blood pressure. I want to buy these for myself; I’ll try anything! But Tony gives them to me. I’m feeling so guilty I buy some apples and bananas; Tony assures us they’re fresh and tasty. He quarters an apple with a penknife so the four of us can share around.
It’s hard to get away. We walk along munching our apple. Dad can make more noise crunching into an apple than anybody in the world; he makes an apple sound like the most delicious food ever invented.
‘Goodness, John, those people are nice; do you know them?’
‘Nope. I don’t know how they stay in business either; they give everything away.’
Dad takes a bite into another apple from the bag.
‘Maybe they’re rich. Maybe they only have this store for fun.’
‘Yeah, that could be it.’
‘But they don’t look rich.’
We put on our helmets, climb on the bike and roll slowly back to the house. The sunset is still redding the sky behind us. It’s one of those balmy evenings you get sometimes in California, when the coastal fog holds off till dark.
We’re just inside the house, and the phone rings. It’s Marty. She and Gary want to phone Vron and tell her the news. They want me with them. I say they should come over here, we’ve got an extension phone.
They arrive as we finish eating. Marty’s eyes are bright with excitement. We direct-dial and get straight through. Marty starts crying soon as she gets the words out of her mouth. I’m on the extension in the bedroom. It’s so good hearing Vron’s voice. She could be crying, too; I am. We spend ten dollars crying at each other over six thousand miles by satellite. When we hang up and I come back in the living room, Dad’s pulled off his glasses and is wiping his eyes. He looks up at me.
‘What’re we crying about, Johnny?’
That cracks us up and we’re practically dancing with excitement. We drink some wine together before they go home.
Dad turns on the TV. I’d asked Marty to bring me a book. I try reading it, but every time I start, Dad interrupts me. Reading’s a vice in this house. Mother’s a great one for burning all newspapers and magazines the day after they arrive. Paper, for her, is like falling leaves, a natural continual nuisance you have to fight. A book is only paper; after you read it, burn it. Keeping books is like not making the bed. Also, reading softens the brain, ruins the eyes and gives Protestant or Communist ideas.
Dad has something of the same reaction to reading but for different reasons. His father, my grandfather, insisted bookwork was only for girls. He educated his girls, sent them through high school, but the boys were pulled out soon as they were old enough to learn farming, carpentry and metalwork. He believed men do things; women remember and pass it on. This idea is deep in my father’s family.
At about ten-thirty I sneak back into the bedroom. I don’t know how long Dad stays up watching Johnny Carson.
Three days later Mother’s out of intensive care. Dr Coe tells me she’ll be in the hospital two more weeks. All the tests show she’s had a severe heart attack and it’s going to be a long uphill recuperation.
In the meanwhile, Dad’s been coming along fine. He’s practically self-sufficient. One Sunday we even go sailing with a friend of mine and neither of us gets sick. We only sail inside the marina an hour or two and it’s an exceptionally calm day.
It’s while we’re sailing I notice Dad needs a shave. I can’t ever remember my father having more than half a day’s whiskers. On the way home I ask if he has a skin rash; I think maybe he’s missed an item on his morning bathroom list. He looks at me as I’m turning onto Jefferson Boulevard.
‘No, Johnny, my skin’s fine.’
He runs his hands over his stubble. I wait a minute, not knowing how to approach it.
‘Well, Dad, I only asked because I think you missed shaving this morning.’
He smiles and runs his hand over his face, covering his smile.
‘You know, John, I’ve never seen my beard. I started shaving when I was fifteen, and I’ve been shaving every morning all my life. Even before I was married, when I went hunting with Dad and the rest, I shaved with cold water. Just once, I’d like to see what it looks like. I think that’d be all right, don’t you? Mother’s in the hospital and I’ll shave it off when she comes home.’
I’m surprised at my own reactions. I’m worrying what the neighbors will say. Maybe they’ll think I’m letting Dad go to seed.
Then it hits me. I start laughing. Dad’s laughing too; we’re still laughing when we pull into the driveway. Sure as hell the neighbors aren’t going to think we’re completely broken up over Mom’s heart attack.
We watch a Dodger ball game on TV. Afterwards, Dad starts up a conversation. He begins with how he’s always been an Angel fan because there are too many niggers on the Dodgers. My first impulse is to back off; I don’t want to ruin the good feelings we’re having. But he wants to talk; there’s something bothering him.
‘You know, John, when I was a kid and we first came from Wisconsin to the East Coast, we lived down there in southwest Philadelphia near a lot of Negroes. It wasn’t safe for us to walk through some parts of town and we’d kill any nigger who came west of Sixtieth Street or north of Woodlawn Avenue. It was like a war going on all the time.
‘It’s the main reason we moved to Upper Darby. I hated moving five miles from my family but we were afraid of those niggers. Saint Barnabas Church had the only school with no niggers in it and we were proud of that; even the priests used to talk about it in those days.’
He stops. I wonder what he wants me to say.
‘Now, Johnny, they tell us in church we have to forget all that. Our priest says it’s a mortal sin having those kinds of feelings. Honest, I don’t have anything personal against niggers, Johnny; it’s just a feeling I get down my spine, like a dog’s hair standing stiff when he’s mad or scared. And I’ll bet them niggers have the same feelings about me, too.
‘When Bette and I go to church at Saint Augustine’s, we always look around for some place away from any niggers or Mexicans. With this “kiss of peace” business, you’re supposed to smile and shake hands with the people near you, and we can’t get ourselves to do this with some Mexican or a nigger.
‘John, you can’t change people so fast. I tell the priest in confession and