dad-phone-money

Back at my apartment I waited for him to call. He didn’t. My stomach knotted up and I began to feel sick. Hours went by like this. Then the phone rang. Aha! He was crawling. This was good.

“Hello.”

“I need help.” It was my mother.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your father’s sick.”

“What do you mean sick?”

“Can you come over?”

“I’ll be right there.”

So much for my love life.

My father had taken up residence in a cantaloupe color satin chair in the corner of my parents’ bedroom. He sat slightly hunched forward, arms resting on his knees, legs slightly apart, his light blue cotton Brooks Brothers bathrobe tied loosely but open above the knees. He always wore pale blue cotton boxer shorts, the roomy kind that came halfway down his thighs like shorts. But he was always very fastidious about keeping his robe closed when he sat down. As a kid, I only saw him in his boxers when he had on a T-shirt and was walking around his room getting dressed. Even that was rare. His T-shirts were always carefully ironed, as were his boxers.

Today I could see right up under his bathrobe to his testicles. I looked away quickly, but he just sat there.

His face looked blank. He just stared straight at the carpet. When I walked into the room he raised his eyelids slightly, saw me, then stared at the floor again.

My mother stood next to me.

“I’ve called Dr. Schaefer. He’s coming right over. Your father’s been like this since this morning. He got home very late last night.”

“What happened?”

“The market.”

Even I knew there had been a crash. It was 1970. The worst crash since ’29. People were jumping from ledges again.

***

“Has he said anything?”

“Nothing.”

The doorbell rang and she went to get it.

A few minutes later Dr. Schaefer was standing there trying to get my father to talk.

No dice. He just stared at the floor.

“He’s depressed.” Dr. Schaefer, a small man who was a natty dresser, had a truly inspired way of summing up the obvious. He smiled around the room at no one in particular as if we were an audience of two.

I left the room. My mother followed me.

“I’m going to call Dr. Sontag. I’m afraid I don’t trust this one.” She made a motion toward the bedroom with her thumb.

Later that day Dr. Sontag showed up. He nodded to both of us and to Dr. Schaefer who it seemed was in this thing for the long haul, and went into the bedroom. Ten minutes later he emerged.

“He needs some sleep,” he told us. “If you don’t mind, doctor, I’d like to take over his medication and see if we can’t get him some rest.”

“Oh no problem, doctor. I agree with that completely.”

It was certainly nice how doctor-doctor were getting along.

“Well, if you’re taking over here I’ll just let myself out. I think he’s better off under the care of only one doctor, doctor.”

My mother walked him to the door and thanked him for coming over and for all his help.

“I never trusted that man.” She said it as soon as she heard the elevator door in the hallway shut.

“I think he needs to get away from the city.” Dr. Sontag was writing a prescription.

“I can take him up to Connecticut.”

“Yes, that would be good. I’m going around to the corner drug store and getting this filled. I want him to take one right now. And I want you to make sure he takes them exactly as prescribed. He’s going to be doing nothing but sleeping for about two weeks now. Can you handle that?”

My mother nodded. She’s always good in a crisis. The worse the crisis the better she performs. It’s the down times when nothing is wrong when she falls apart. She began bustling around, calling the garage to get their car ready, packing their personal stuff for the trip out of the city, getting some clothes for my father to wear, packing up all the spoilable food in the refrigerator. Hell could be boiling over right under her feet but she would never let a damned head of lettuce spoil in the city while she was away in the country. No, those pesky leftovers would have to be used. It was the fiscally responsible thing to do. Forget that my father had just lost $50 mil. That just made it all the more logical to save every string bean from certain death at the bottom of the refrigerator drawer.

***

I went in and sat down with my father, who was still staring straight ahead at nothing. I took his hand. He did not respond.

“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of you. No matter what’s happened you’ve always taken care of us. Now it’s our turn. You just relax. Mom and I will be right here with you.” I kissed his forehead. He never moved. But I caught sight of his eyes. They were laden with tears about to spill over. I knew he wouldn’t want me to see that. But it made me feel good to know he could cry. When you have something to cry about and you don’t, that’s bad. When you do, then you’ll be all right. Eventually.