tent and camp here? After all, it’s our own property; how could they stop us?’
‘Jack, don’t you dare mention that idea to any of the kids; you know they’ll do it.’
Then we start crying again.
When we’re recovered, we go back to the office. Our lady picks us up and leads us to our cubicle. It brings back the time Vron and I were buying our first new car at Central Chevrolet in Los Angeles. We made the deals in cubicles just like this. I’m almost expecting talk about a trade-in.
We tell the lady we want the one under the tree. She’s so enthusiastic you’d think she’s the one who’s going to be buried there. We tell her the plot is for two. She asks if we want a plaque. We decide to buy one at seventy-five dollars. We’re caught up in the spirit of things. We give Mom and Dad’s names. We’ll have Dad’s name first and both the year of birth and death cut. There’s something final about putting down the year of death like that when it’s only early April. We just put down the year of Mom’s birth.
The lady asks if we want a flower holder installed. This is twenty dollars more. It’s a metal holder set in the ground for flowers. I insist on having one; Joan thinks I’m crazy but goes along. All together, we drop about another seven hundred and fifty bucks at the cemetery. It looks as if the funeral’s going to cost somewhere around two thousand. It’s worth staying alive.
Outside in the car, Joan wants to know why I bought the flower holder.
‘Gosh, Jack, we could bring a trowel, dig a little hole and stick flowers in the ground if you want. Mom’s never going to go up there and visit; she’s never visited her mother’s or father’s or any of her sisters’ graves. She’s afraid of cemeteries.’
‘I know, Joan, but someday I might want to do a little putting.’
We go back home and explain to Mother what we’ve done. She doesn’t want to know too much.
‘When he’s dead he’s dead and that’s all there is to it. The only thing makes sense is buying mass cards and praying for him.’
I don’t think it’s truly hit yet. She knows he’s going to die but not that he’s going to be dead. The first is an event, the second is a fact of being. There’s a big difference. It’s only beginning to sink in to me. Dad isn’t going to be anymore. We’ve said the last things to each other. I’ve seen him move around the garden or fix things in his shop for the last time. He’ll never plant another flower or laugh again. He’ll be gone.
Billy is there during all this. Thank God he doesn’t say anything in front of Mother but out back he lets me know his feelings. I sit in the rocking chair and he flops on the bed.
‘Christ, Dad, it’s barbaric. Why don’t we rent a rowboat at the Santa Monica pier and dump him in the water? Who needs all this funeral crap?’
‘There are California laws, Bill. It took some doing just not having him embalmed.’
We still haven’t told Mother about not embalming. We told her there wouldn’t be any viewing of the body, but there was no reason going into the rest of it.
‘You mean you got out of embalming him?’
‘That’s right. Joan quoted some obscure rule about Jewish religious custom and he’s getting a Jewish non-embalmed funeral.’
Billy stands up and starts pacing.
‘That’s great, that’s really great! It’ll be almost like a real funeral. Remember how when Mme Mathilde died we packed ice around her in the bed till M Didier could get the coffin made? Then we lowered her into the box and walked her up hill to the church, then to the churchyard. The gravediggers were M Perrichot, M Boule, the mayor, and Maurice. There was an extra shovel, so I gave them a hand. We had that grave filled and tamped down in fifteen minutes. That’s my idea of a funeral.’
‘You’re right, Bill, but it’s not enough of a funeral for your grandmother. She’s being terrific about the whole thing, and we’ve got to give her credit.’
‘Dad, I don’t have a suit of any kind, let alone a black suit. What do you think?’
‘Look in Granddad’s closet, Bill; maybe one of his will fit you. I’m wearing one.’
‘You mean you’re going to the funeral in your dead father’s clothes?’
He sits down. I’m too tired to explain about Mr Lazio.
‘I don’t think I could do it, Dad. That’s too creepy. If he weren’t my own granddad, I could, maybe; but I couldn’t do that.’
He shakes his whole body and closes his eyes. Sometimes I forget how young he is. A young man like him looks so grown up, it’s easy to forget.
‘Then go to the Salvation Army, Bill; they’ll have something in a dark suit that’ll fit you. Here’s fifteen dollars. See if you can pick up a pair of shoes for a buck or so, too. You can wear them for the funeral, then toss them if you want. Your feet are too big for either Dad’s shoes or mine.’
Billy says first he’ll wait till Dad’s dead. I think again about our putting the year of death on that grave plaque. I hate to be superstitious but it’s there in all of us; from books, movies, TV, the games we play as children. I ask Billy to stay with Mom. I want to be with Dad as much as I can.
The nurses are definitely different. Somebody tipped them off about me as a troublemaker. But they’re polite. I feel like an accountant in a bank who’s come to examine the books. I don’t care; I’m not running a popularity contest with nurses.
Dad’s the same. When I go in the room, I kiss him on the forehead and speak to him but he only continues his deep sleep. I wonder how they can tell a coma from sleep; maybe it’s only a question of depth and length.
I’m just finished washing up when Lizbet comes wobbling into the kitchen. She has on her nightgown and her eyes are half open. I pull my suspenders over my shoulders and pick her up. She cuddles against me and I carry her to the maple rocking chair Gene made for Bess last Christmas. He sure has a knack with hardwoods. I sit and rock softly in the slowly lightening room. Lizbet tucks her toes into my crotch and sticks her middle two fingers in her mouth. Bess is afraid she’ll pull her teeth out of straight but I let her suck, a nice sound like a calf nuzzling a teat. I breathe the smells of hay and child through the red gold of her hair.
The nurses are in and out every fifteen minutes. Dad’s getting the royal treatment all right. I ask one what medication he’s being given. She shows me the chart. I pretend I can read the squiggles, lines and abbreviations; smile and give it back. I don’t see any narcotics listed and that’s what I’m looking for. I don’t see any hydrochlorothiazide or Zaroxolyn either, so I figure they’ve discontinued his diuretic for the blood pressure. While you’re in a coma, I don’t imagine high blood pressure is much of a problem.
I’m getting nothing but bad vibes all over the floor. I don’t know it then but the LVNs, kitchen help and all maintenance people are voting right that day to go on strike. In a little while these RNs will need to take over the whole hospital by themselves. I think they’re pissed at me but actually they’re pissed at the world in general and I’m only part of the world.
Dr Chad comes in twice a day, once at ten-thirty in the morning and again about four in the afternoon. Each time he sits beside Dad, takes his pulse, listens to his heart, takes his blood pressure, looks at the catheter bottle and, with his stethoscope, listens to Dad’s breathing. Each time he speaks softly, then more loudly, calling Dad’s name.
‘Mr Tremont? How are you, Mr Tremont?’
He pinches Dad’s shoulder and slaps his face lightly, then harder. Each time there’s no response. It’s like trying to wake a drunk.
On the afternoon of the third day, there’s a slight response when he slaps Dad; his eyes flicker open briefly, he turns his head, lifts his right arm slowly, then settles back. Dr Chad slaps