Other Plans (24 page)

The statistics were high, at any rate. And climbing fast. He wondered if his father was making it with some liberated woman, maybe some divorcée who couldn't do without a man, or, more likely, someone in his office. Not his secretary. He'd seen his father's secretary and it definitely wasn't her. Office romances, however, continued to flourish, if he could believe what he read in the papers. He'd read about a woman who went after her boss with a revolver because he'd rejected her for someone a lot younger. It turned out the woman was a lousy shot, however, so the guy wound up with only a little nick on the side of his head. But he suspected that the experience of being shot might make the guy think twice about fooling around with anyone else. It wasn't worth it, never knowing when that old bullet might come winging toward your head.

And, even though he fantasized about his mother going to a male strip joint when she was supposed to be out doing good works, he could never work up a really good fantasy about her having an extra marital affair.

A while back Keith had said, “My father keeps telling me how much we have in common. About the only thing I can see that we have in common is we both like girls.” That set him to thinking. Did
his
father like girls? As opposed to women, that is? He knew a kid whose parents were divorced, and when the kid spent the weekend with his father, the father tried to be a pal by telling the kid about the latest girl he'd slept with. And the funny part was that the father wanted the kid to tell about some girl that he, the son, had slept with. So the kid freaked out because he hadn't slept with anyone yet. It was bizarre. He figured sleeping with girls didn't necessarily bring father and son closer together. He didn't know what did, but that wasn't one of the ways.

He was pretty sure they loved him. Well, he was certain his mother did, anyway. She hollered plenty at him, and sometimes clouted him on his rear end when he did something bad. Every time she punished him or Leslie she used to say, as her hand came down on the old backside or a treat was withheld, “If I didn't love you, I wouldn't be doing this.” He could never see the logic in this, but he could tell from her face that she was telling the truth.

She baked muffins and cakes and pies, made casseroles concocted of strange and wondrous things: chicken wings and blue cheese, Chinese dumplings. Once, even, incredibly, brains. She believed in experimenting with food. In eating everything. He had friends, as did Leslie, who, when invited to their house for dinner, demanded to know what was on the menu before they'd agree to come.

His mother had a way of placing the food on the table and standing back to watch their faces carefully, watching as the fork and spoon carried the food to the mouth, watching as it was chewed. It could be unnerving. He remembered a friend he'd had in second grade who became his mother's favorite. The kid, whose name was Benny, had eaten everything his mother put in front of him, rolling his eyes, smacking his lips, exclaiming, “You're a wonderful cook, Mrs. Hollander,” after every meal. His mother loved Benny.

“Very tasty, Ceil,” his father always said, but in such an absentminded way you knew he wasn't really aware of what he was eating. When his father bit into food, if it didn't bite back, it was very tasty, by his lights. And, when he and Leslie were sick, his mother made them Junket and custards with a pool of maple syrup hidden in the bottom.

“Cooking is an act of love,” she told them. Especially if it was liver. She also made soup of chicken feet, which the butcher magnanimously handed over for nothing, wanting to be rid of them. Chicken feet, she said, gave soup an extra flavor. Once she stashed a bag full of chicken feet in the freezer, and he'd come upon them while foraging for ice cream, showing off for someone he'd brought home from school. The bag of chicken feet had popped unexpectedly out onto the floor. The friend, who had a notoriously weak stomach, had almost lost his lunch then and there. “It's only chicken feet,” John had said, feeling very worldly, making his friend look at them. They resembled little hands, the nails curved and yellow, looking as if they belonged on a tiny mandarin.…

Inevitably, the time came when he was again wakened by the familiar sounds of crying coming from their room. He had made up his mind that the next time it happened he would confront them, ask them what was going on. He had a right to know. He was old enough. He was sick of being treated like a child. He was not a child. He got out of bed and stamped his way down the hall, knocked on the door, softly at first, then, when no one called out to him, and the sound of weeping continued, he pounded with his fists.

“It's me, John,” he called out. “I want to come in.” A heavy silence followed. Then his father's voice said, “Come in, John.” He opened the door boldly, knowing he had a right to be here. His mother, wearing an old sweater over her nightgown, was sitting up in bed, tears falling down her cheeks. When she saw him, she sank low, pulling up the covers, until all he could see of her was her head and her fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.

His father stood in a corner, smoking a cigarette.

“I thought you gave those things up,” he said. His father went on taking big drags, letting out the smoke so the room looked cloudy, as if a fog were rolling in.

Nobody said anything.

“What's going on?” he said in a wavery voice. “I want to know. Every night I hear you and it's driving me nuts. If you're getting a divorce, I can handle it.”

He crossed his arms on his chest, a habit he'd developed in nursery school when he'd wanted to feel brave. His feet were cold.

His father put out his cigarette, taking a long time about it. “You're right, John,” he said at last. “You should know. Your mother and I should have told you before this. We might have known you'd hear us in here.” His father's face was pinched and waxy looking. He looked like a man who'd been shut up for a long time, a prisoner of war.

He waited, his hands gripping his upper arms in an effort to keep his cool. So what if they were splitting up? There were worse things. Lots worse.

“I have cancer.” His father was speaking to him, his pale, bloodless lips forming the words that made no sense. “I haven't long to live. The doctors say maybe three or four months. Six at the most.”

He heard his mother draw a deep breath and didn't dare, didn't have the heart, to look at her. He wasn't sure he'd heard right. He'd got himself ready, psyched up to hear they were getting a divorce. He didn't want to hear about a death, an imminent death. He wasn't prepared to accept this news. He shook his head. There must be some mistake.

He watched his father go over to the bed, sit down, and put his arm around his mother. All right, he told himself. You wanted to know. Now you know. What good does that do. What can you do to help, asshole. Standing there looking at them, asshole, doing nothing … they don't need you. Look at them. They don't even know you're here. Get lost, get back to your beddy-bye, asshole.

He went, shutting the door quietly, not wanting to disturb them. They wouldn't miss him. They had each other.

His room was very cold. He shut the window and put on the socks he'd discarded on the floor. He lay rigid under the covers, arms at his sides, staring up at the ceiling. When he closed his eyes, terrible pictures floated there, pictures of people dying. So he couldn't close his eyes. He'd have to keep them open all night.

I should do something, he thought. Something must be done. We mustn't take this lying down. I'm sorry I know. I wish I didn't know. I wish they hadn't told me. If I didn't know, everything would be all right. I don't know what to do. I want to help but I'm helpless.

Up until now, he'd never really known what helpless meant.

You're such a big shot, storming in there, demanding to be let in on the secret. Now that you know, big shot, what next?

He felt as if someone had a hand over his face, shutting off his supply of oxygen. He felt as if a big, hairy hand had clamped his throat, as if someone hugely fat were sitting on his stomach. He sat up, turned on the light. He was alone. There were no more noises coming from their room. Then he thought he heard someone pass his door and stop. He thought he saw the doorknob turn. Quickly, he turned off the light and flattened himself in bed. Closed his eyes and pulled the covers up over his head. Minutes passed. No one had tried to come in. There had been no person, no presence, no hand laid on his shoulder, no voice had said, “John.” Nothing. After a long time, he came out from under the blankets.

The docs might be wrong, he thought. Plenty of times he'd read or heard about doctors making mistakes. That was why they had to fork out such big bucks for malpractice suits, wasn't it. Why they had such heavy insurance policies against malpractice suits, wasn't it. Docs were only people. They made plenty of mistakes. How many times had he read about people who'd been told they had cancer and it turned out they didn't. That happened all the time. He needed someone to talk to. He'd call Leslie, except it was the middle of the night by now. Anyway, all that would accomplish would be to upset her and probably make her hop on the next bus or train and come home. Anyway, maybe they'd already told her. No. They wouldn't tell one of them and not the other. He could call Keith. Keith would have to listen, for once.

He opened his mouth to try out the words. “My father …” he said out loud, and could go no further. If he said the words out loud, all of them, then the enormity of it would sink in; it would prove to be true. If he refused to say them out loud, then what his father had told him wouldn't be true, would never happen.

Now he did hear someone coming. He flipped over on his stomach, facing toward the wall. The door opened. He stayed stiff as a board. He was a coward. Someone was there, waiting. He screwed his eyes and began to count, as if he were playing hide and seek and he was giving them all time to hide before he opened his eyes and began to look for them. The door closed.

So it was a dream. That was it. In the morning, when he woke, he'd realize it had all been a dream.

I will never sleep. Never again will I sleep without having terrible dreams.

And, when he slept at last, he dreamed not of death and dying, nor of his father's face. He dreamed of Emma.

21

They had become a family of pale people, stepping softly through pale rooms, eating pale food from pale plates. Even their voices were pale. Everyone spoke in whispers. His mother had given up her volunteer work, pleading fatigue. Then Mrs. Hobbs called to say she had to have some corns cut off and needed a ride to her foot doctor.

“Oh, Mrs. Hobbs,” his mother's voice rose despairingly, “I don't think I can.” Then she did anyway. Afterward, she told him: “I'll have to find someone to fill in for me, John. I lost my patience with Mrs. Hobbs twice and snapped at her. Poor thing. It isn't fair to her.”

The telephone seldom rang. When it did, it sounded pale, too, as if it were hidden under bales of old clothes waiting to be collected by the Salvation Army.

He felt like a good fight. He felt like screaming.

His father continued to go to his office, to straighten out his affairs, tie up loose ends, his mother explained. At the office, did they know?

His mother haunted the library, collecting books on cancer, its causes, its effects, its cures. She took notes frantically, as if she were overdue with a term paper. He found her when he came in from school, filling pages of yellow-lined paper with her small, precise handwriting, telling her everything she needed to know about cancer.

Les called. She spoke to him last and said, “What's with them, John? Mother sounds clutched, and Daddy sounds like a zombie. Do you have any idea what's going on?”

“Oh,” he answered blithely, “it's the weather. It snowed for two days straight. School was called off and I made thirty bucks shoveling driveways. I'm buying Dad a camouflage suit for his birthday with the dough.”

He played soccer like a madman. The coach took him aside, said he was getting downright vicious. “You got something against your fellow man, John?” the coach said, attempting to lay an arm around him. He ducked, dodged, wanting no man to touch him.

“What about Les?” he said to his mother that evening. “When are you going to tell her?”

“When he's ready he'll tell her, John.”

“How about Grandy?”

“Soon,” she said vaguely. “Soon.”

He caught himself staring at his father. Then, when his father turned toward him, he averted his eyes, not wanting him to see what was in them. Which was: Now I'll never get a chance to know my dad. Never find out what he's really like. What he's thinking. Find out why he never loved me. That was the crux of the matter. Why had his father never loved him. Had he done something? Did he, perhaps, look like someone who had, in his father's youth, caused him pain? Maybe his father had never wanted children. Maybe he only wanted girl children. But didn't most men want a son? He knew he'd never figure it out.

His dreams became mixed with real life. For instance: He dreamed that he and Woody and his father were in Elaine's, sitting at a table usually reserved for Warren Beatty. His father ordered champagne. The waiter, bowing and scraping, called his father “sir.” Woody was attired in a tattered nightshirt and sported a flashy cravat tied with a Windsor knot that fought with his Adam's apple. Autograph seekers, brandishing pencils and paper, besieged their table, asking him, John Hollander, for his autograph. His father kept saying “Woody who?”, which sent Woody into a snit. His nostrils flared and his cheeks quivered with indignation. No one knew who he was. Woody drew an old fedora from a secret pocket in his nightshirt and placed it low on his brow so his face was partially obscured.

“I want no limelight, no publicity, no paparazzi,” Woody said. A beautiful, slender brunette, not unlike Emma, wearing a one-shouldered, flame-colored culotte, perched herself on Woody's lap.