My first car got 11 miles per gallon. It weighed two and a half tons. Cars like this inspired the expression “big as a Buick.” My friends and I called it, affectionately, The Lead Sled.
I once parked The Lead Sled at a train station in East Chicago, Ind., and didn’t even bother locking it up. Who would steal The Lead Sled? But what thieves might not consider, vandals could not resist. Returning from the Loop way past witching hour, I found The Lead Sled void of all glass: windshields, windows, headlights, all smashed. Stunned, I phoned my dad. He asked no questions. He laid no blame. “I’m on my way,” he said.
As we drove home, I boiled with anger but mostly over my father’s silence. He had the grand gift of silence.
The next morning he was up long before me, scouring a local junk yard, unearthing replacement parts. Late that night he got to work. I joined him on the driveway. The temperature was in the teens. The wind was merciless. The job was one for which I had no skill. So I held the flashlight. I handed him tools. He and I barely talked.
We never talked. I mean, not really talked. He was the strong and silent type.
We never talked. I mean, not really talked. He was the strong and silent type, strength and silence being standard-issue equipment among Korean War veterans. But too much silence can confuse a boy. I thought his silence was my fault. Once at a party, Dad was unusually glib. “The best thing I ever did for my son,” he said, “was to leave the boy alone.”
I would like to think that he meant he succeeded in giving me sufficient room to roam. But I never mustered the courage to ask him to clarify.
•••
Late one night, a few years back, my sister phones. Dad could die any minute, she says, assuming that I, his only son, would want to be there when it happened. She assumed wrong. But I go anyway.
Sitting in Chicago’s endless traffic gives a man time to think. And what I think, as I creep by inches toward the Alzheimer’s facility where Dad lives, is that despite my sister’s assumption I still don’t want to do this. I do not want to go.
I get there, park, go in, sign the register. A minute later I step into his room. And there he is, lying in bed, propped up by pillows, staring at the wall. I go to his side and give his arm a squeeze.
Inside of me a tug-of-war rages between my wanting to hear him say my name and my fear that he can’t remember it.
“Hey, Dad!” I say. “It’s me!” Slowly he turns his head in my direction. Slowly he blinks, apparently to focus, while inside of me a tug-of-war rages between my wanting to hear him say my name and my fear that he can’t remember it. I plop down on the bed.
Something is wrong. My pants at the seat, the backs of my thighs, are saturated with his urine. “Dad!” I say, leaping up off the bed as if it is electric. “You’ve had an accident! Let’s get these pajamas off—now!” He lays there, staring up. I stand there, staring down, until I realize that nobody’s moving.
I peel off his pajamas. I send them flying. Rushing to the armoire, I throw open the doors. Inside are pajamas, sheets and a blanket. Seconds later, I’m wrestling with all his limbs as if trying to get pajamas on an octopus.
A nurse appears. She appraises the situation. Calmly, she goes to the armoire. She removes the sheets and the blanket and, in moments, has changed my father’s bed—with him still in it. Miraculous.
Dad could die any minute, my sister says, assuming I, his only son, would want to be there when it happened. She assumed wrong.
She now holds something at arm’s length, toward me. It’s my father’s diaper. I take it. It feels heavy in my hands—filled beyond capacity, limp, dripping, a puddle forming at my feet. I stand there, gazing at what I hold. She now breaks the silence.
“I’ll call an orderly.” She means for the puddle. “And there’s a garbage can over there.” She means for the diaper. I now watch as she tucks in my dad. She’s treating him respectfully. I’m feeling confused.
Thanking me for my help, she leaves the room. I turn to my dad. He seems perked up. From all the activity? I smile weakly. He nods. I nod.
“Back in a sec!” I say to him, and run to my car to get dry clothes for me. Returning a minute later, I sing out, “I’m home!” and strip where I stand. Dry clothes never felt so good. But back at his bed I immediately notice: His teeth are chattering. He’s white as a ghost. I feel all over the bed. The sheets are dry. I run to the armoire. No more blankets. I check the hall. Nobody there. I sprint to his side. Now his lips are blue.
His bed stands next to a window. In front of the window hang curtains. I grab two fistfuls of fabric, ready to tear these curtains off the wall, ready to use them as blankets for my dad. Then I think—What am I doing?—and release the curtains, fearing his disapproval. I imagine his arriving at the train station in the middle of the night to rescue me. And without another thought I climb onto the bed and, instead of curtains, lay myself over him. Color eventually returns to his lips, and I realize he is asleep.
Thanking me for my help, she leaves the room. I turn to my dad. He seems perked up.
Falling lifelessly into a chair, I wake next morning with enough pain in my back to make me cry out loud, then stop when I hear somebody talking. It’s him, beside me, propped up again by pillows. “So what’s the matter with you?” he says.
“I think it’s broken.”
“What is?”
“My back. From sitting here all night—what did you say?”
“I said, ‘What’s the matter with you?’”
“N-nothing.”
“You don’t sound like it.”
“You’re the one in hospice, not me!”
He rubs his chin, considering, saying, “I could use a shave.”
I manage to get him into a wheelchair without hurting either one of us. Inside the bathroom he faces the mirror. I stand behind him and grab the electric razor perched on a shelf well beyond his reach. The motion recalls something from our past.
I love this man who expressed his love with deeds and whose last deed will likely be his slipping away from me.
Time seems to telescope before my eyes, and I blink back tears as I see my kids caring for me as I sit in a wheelchair. What is next for me I cannot guess. All I know is that I love this man who expressed his love with deeds and whose last deed will likely be his slipping away from me. Self-pity interrupted by his handing me the razor, I check his face in the mirror. He seems flustered. The razor’s too complicated. From deep in my soul I find my voice.
“Never was a fan of these things,” I say. “How about if I take a look?” He watches me suspiciously in the mirror as I fiddle with the switch and pretend that the problem is the tool, not the operator. The little engine coming to life, I step up and shave my dad.
In a cup on the sink stand a toothbrush and toothpaste. “Open wide,” I say, and brush his teeth. Brushing done, he leans forward in his chair and spits into the sink. I find a tissue. I wipe his mouth. Beside the faucet lay toenail clippers. Both of his feet are bare. All of his toenails are long. Dropping to my knees, I now trim each one.
•••
It is time to get ready for bed. I find a diaper, and we work on it together. He and I do not talk. The chair in which I spent the night now squeaks as if crying as I collapse into it, despair covering me like a hospital blanket.
“What is it now?” he says.
Explaining is a job for which I have no skill, for I am too exhausted, too wretched, to even try. So I shrug and just sit there and stare vacantly. But he keeps it up, saying, “Thinking about Ellen and the kids?” Picturing my wife and our two daughters, I now miss my family so much my that throat constricts as if somebody’s strangling me.
This man expressed his love with deeds, and his last deed will likely be his slipping away from me.
“They’re terrific,” he says, pride in his voice.
“It’s genetic,” I croak, trying to take credit.
“It skips a generation,” he says.
Through the bedrail I see him grinning at me. And I burst out laughing for the first time since I can’t remember when, then bury my face in my arms and laugh until my arms are soaked with tears.
I wake with a start. I look at my dad. He is staring at me. My voice quivers as I speak.
“I…do…not…”
“Do not what?” he says.
“I do not want to go! I want to stay here—with you.”
“Sorry,” he says, “time to go.”
“I do not want to leave you—not now!”
“They need you back home.”
“But I need you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“What in God’s name do you mean?”
“I mean your place is with your family. All the good you’ve done for them—you’ve done on your own. Not because of me. Now go home. Your work here is done. Then,” he says, his eyes on the ceiling, “I will go home, too.”
“Dad!” I say, back on my feet, gripping the bed rail with both fists. “Remember The Lead Sled? You rescued me. And you didn’t say one word! Do you remember, Dad?”
I stay in Chicago with my sister. Ellen and our girls fly in. After the funeral, my sister and I look at old family photos. In every one that includes our dad, he is smiling. In one photo his arm is wrapped proudly around my shoulder. And he is holding me tight.
