Part 7 (1/2)
He looked awful - bloodless, white and unshaven - but certainly alert. ”Here's your stuff . . . the hospital asked me to get it.”
”Thank you.”
Silence.
He asked, ”Did you have trouble finding anything?”
”No. Not at all. Your place is pretty orderly.”
”I try and run a tight s.h.i.+p.”
I s.h.i.+vered when I thought of his hot dusty lightless hallway, his mummified TV set, his kitchen cupboards laden with tins and packets and boxes of rationlike food, and his cheapskate lifestyle, in which not tipping some poor waitress is viewed more as a way of honoring G.o.d than of being a miser with one foot in the grave. I held out the bag. ”Here you go.”
”Put it on the window ledge.”
I did this. ”What did the doctor say?”
”Two cracked ribs and bruising like all get-out. Maybe some cardio trauma, which is why they're keeping me here.”
”You feel okay?”
”It hurts to breathe.”
Silence.
I said, ”Well, I ought to go, then.”
”No. Don't. Sit on the chair there.”
The guy in the other bed was snoring. I wondered what on earth to say after a decade of silence.
”It was a nice memorial. Barb sure gets excited.”
”Kent should never have married her.”
”Barb? Why not?”
”No respect. Not for her elders.”
”Meaning you.”
”Yes, meaning me.”
”You actually think you deserve respect after what you said to her?”
He rolled his eyes. ”From your perspective - from the way you look at the world, no.”
”What's that supposed to mean?”
”It means, relax. It means Kent ought to have married someone closer to his own heart.”
I huffed.
”Don't play dumb with me, Jason. It always looked bad on you. Kent needed a more devoted wife.”
I was floored. ”Devoted?”
”You're being obtuse. Barb could never fully surrender to Kent. And without surrender, she could never be a true wife.”
I fidgeted with his water decanter, which seemed to be made of pink pencil eraser material. Why does everything in a hospital have to be not just ugly, but evocative of quick, premature and painful death? I said, ”Barb has a personality.”
”I'm not saying she doesn't.”
”She's the mother of your two grandchildren.”
”I'm not an idiot, Jason.”
”How could you have gone and said something so insensitive last night - suggesting that one of the kids might not even have a soul. Are you really as mindlessly cruel as you seem?”
”The modern world creates complex moral issues.”
”Twins are not complex moral issues. Twins are twins.”
”I read the papers and watch the news, Jason. I see what's going on.”
I changed the subject. ”How long are you in here?”
”Maybe five days.” He coughed, and it evidently hurt. Good.
”Are you sleeping okay?”
”Last night like a baby.”
A mood swept over me, and as with any important question in life, the asking felt unreal, like it came from another person's mouth: ”How come you accused me of murder, Dad?”
Silence.
”Well?”
Still no reply.
I said, ”I didn't come in here planning to ask you this. But now that I have, I'm not leaving until you give me a reply.”
He coughed.
”Now don't you play the little old man with me. Answer me.”
My father turned his face away, so I walked to the head of the bed, squatted down and grabbed his head, forcing him to lock eyes with me. ”Hi, Dad. I asked you a question, and I think you owe me an answer. Whaddya say, huh?”