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In a few minutes he comes out smiling, the bottle filled with urine to the brim. It’s still reddish but not so bad as the urine in the toilet this morning. The nurse looks and schedules him for an emergency appointment.

  The next day, I take Dad in at nine o’clock. I stay with him instead of going over to see Mother. I can’t be everywhere, and this is more important right now. He’s nervous, pale, quiet. After ten minutes, a great, handsome black fellow comes out. He tells us the doctor will see Dad now. I ask if I can go in with him. He looks at Dad and nods.

  The doctor’s named Santana. He says he’ll need to do a cystoscopic examination. Well, I know about this trick; it’s a very painful affair. I ask if it’s really necessary.

  “It’s absolutely essential. We can’t tell anything for sure until we look in the bladder.”

  Dad’s so nervous he’s physically shaking. We go outside to wait for Sam; that’s the name of the black guy. Dad wants to know what’s going to happen.

  “Well, it’s not really much, Dad. They’re going to stick a thin little tube up the hole in the end of your penis. They use this to look around in there.”

  “You mean, up the hole I pee out of?”

  “That’s right. They have a tiny light on the end and they can look into your bladder and see what’s the matter.”

  “That must hurt, Johnny!”

  “It does hurt. But there’s no way around it, it has to be done.”

  When Sam comes out, he tells us we should come tomorrow at eight o’clock. Dad isn’t supposed to eat anything from six o’clock this evening.

  I take him straight home. He just can’t visit Mother in this state, and I’m afraid to leave him alone. He’s getting more anxious by the minute.

  At home, he asks two or three times an hour when we’re going for the examination. He reads the simple instructions Sam gave him over and over. He’s terribly concerned about doing it right and, at the same time, frightened out of his mind.

  Myself, I’m turning into a nervous wreck. I’ve been separated from my own life too long and I’m missing the daily support of Vron.

  I call Marty and talk to her but it doesn’t help. I almost ask her to go visit Mother but that would probably be a catastrophe.

  Soon as Dad knows he isn’t supposed to eat, he gets ravenously hungry. I don’t feel I should eat in front of him so I get hungry too. We’re like a pair of hungry wolves prowling around the house, peering into the refrigerator every ten minutes or so.

  I dig him out early without any breakfast and we dash to the hospital. Sam’s waiting. He takes Dad away to prepare him. I go into Dr. Santana’s office. There I explain how my father has a deep worry about cancer. I ask Santana to be careful explaining things if there’s anything seriously wrong. Santana’s reading X-rays but assures me he knows how to handle these things. I go back and sit in the waiting room; Sam and Dad pass through to the examination room. I ask Sam if I should stay with Dad through the examination, but he smiles nicely and says he doesn’t think it’ll be necessary. Dad’s more relaxed; despite his prejudices he’s put himself in Sam’s hands. He has to recognize Sam’s natural authority. He really has it, presence.

  Dr. Santana comes out after Sam’s taken Dad away. I ask what he thinks might be the trouble. He runs his hand through his hair.

  “Well, Mr. Tremont, it could be any number of things but I most suspect small growths in his bladder. It’s a question of whether they’re malignant.”

  “Will you be able to tell after the cystoscopic?”

  “Not really, but I’ll know whether or not they should be taken out. The fact they’re bleeding is not a good sign.”

  I say it once more.

  “Honestly, Dr. Santana, whatever you do, please break it lightly. This is all a terrible experience for him. He’s a very modest man; just someone manipulating his penis is a big shock.”

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Tremont; we’re very careful, especially with older patients.”

  He goes in with Dad. I sit there in the waiting room. I can hear Dad through the door. He’s trying to hold back but there are grunts of pain. A cystoscopic is no fun. After fifteen minutes or so, Sam and Santana come out; Sam motions and says I can go in the examination room.

  Dad’s face is white-green. There are edges of tears in his eyes; he’s sitting on the side of a Gurney table.

  “Boy, Johnny, that really hurts.”

  “I know, Dad, I had it once.”

  “In the army?”

  “No, afterwards. I had it done in Germany when we were living there. I thought for sure those Germans were trying to get even with me.”

  “Well, John, I hope they don’t do this again; it’d kill me for sure.”

  He’s pulling on his shorts and packing in his penis. It’s wrapped in a piece of gauze and there’s blood. I hand him each article of clothing as he gets dressed.

  I’m buttoning his shirt when Dr. Santana comes back in. He has a clipboard in his hand.

  “Well, Mr. Tremont; we’ll have to look at that.”

  Dad stares at Santana, then at me; his voice quavers.

  “What does he mean, Johnny; look? I thought he just looked.”

  Dad turns toward the doctor.

  “I mean I’ll have to schedule you for surgery, Mr. Tremont.”

  I’m standing behind Dad, signaling like crazy; Santana’s ignoring me. Dad looks around for assurance and I try to smile. Christ, it’s hard to smile when you’re scared out of your mind. Santana goes on.

  “Yes, there are some small growths in there and we’ll need to excise them. We’ll go in through the penile canal the way we did today. We won’t do any real surgery. Don’t you worry, Mr. Tremont; there’s nothing to it.”

  Big deal. Not to worry. Dad’s already halfway worrying himself to death. He’s wilting; slipping into deep shock. This guy Santana must have skipped all his classes in “bedside manner.”

  Santana smiles and leaves. Dad stands there, silent. He looks so damned vulnerable.

  “Does he mean I have cancer, Johnny? Growths. That sounds like cancer.’”

  I laugh as if this is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard.

  “Hell, no, Dad! Lots of people have growths all the time. He’ll just go in and snip these out to make sure.”

  I’m thinking fast as I can, trying to calm him, reassure him, fool him, help him back on his feet.

  “These’re nothing but tiny cysts, Dad, the kind Mother’s had out lots of times. That’s why they call this a cystoscopic examination. If it were cancer, they wouldn’t let you out of here today; they’d cut you right open and operate.”

  God, it’s pitiful watching him watch me; wanting to believe, afraid. I finish dressing him; his hands are too shaky to tie shoes.

  We go into Santana’s office. Dad sits down and I stand in back of his chair. Santana is sitting at his desk, still looking at X-rays. I keep trying to catch his eye but can’t.

  At last he looks up and says, “OK, Mr. Tremont, I’ve scheduled you for the tenth of March; we should get at this soon as possible.”

  That’s in about two weeks. Dad sits there, nodding his head. This is the boss talking to him again and whatever the boss says is right. Even though he’s scared to death, he’s shaking his head and smiling, putting his hand over his teeth; doing the whole thing.

  I want to confront Santana about his blunt presentation, but even more, I have to get Dad out of there fast. I hate dashing off again without visiting Mom, but she’d see right through Dad. That’s all she needs.

  So what do I do now? Mostly, I want to talk with Joan. But first I need to help Dad settle down. I take him home and pour us both a drink of the muscatel wine. I turn on one of those contest shows. Dad sits in his platform rocker, not looking at the TV.

  “Johnny, really; do you think it’s serious?”

  “Dad, if it were serious, do you think they’d wait two weeks? They wouldn’t wait like this. You have an ordinary everyday cyst. You know how many cysts Mother�
�s had taken off. It’s nothing at all. Stop worrying.”

  At least he’s listening to me.

  “Oh, it’s a cyst, just a cyst.”

  I pick it up.

  “Sure, just a cyst, nothing to worry about.”

  I’m lying like hell. I don’t know; it could be anything, but there’s no sense having him worry for the next two weeks.

  We try to watch the TV. There are people sitting on top of each other in something like a giant three-dimensional tic-tac-toe design. Different boxes light up and they’re trying to beat each other answering questions. Dad’s mumbling half to himself.

  “Just a cyst, that’s nothing. Nothing to worry about, only a cyst.”

  Sometimes he turns his head and looks out the window at the car and I think he’s seeing something, then he turns to me and smiles.

  “It’s only a cyst. Nothing to worry about there. Nothing at all.”

  I wish I could get asshole Santana to sit here and watch this. I tell Dad the lie again about the cystoscopic examination only looking for cysts. I don’t really know why they call it a cystoscopic examination but I’m glad for the coincidence.

  Finally, he begins to relax, to smile naturally sometimes. I go all out for dinner and cook a couple big T-bone steaks. We have beer with them and coffee afterward. We really eat. Dad enjoys this. He’s coming around, gaining back some of his confidence, making up lost ground. We try some man-talk, at least as much man-talk as we can manage. It’s hard with him. It’s not just because we’re father and son, but he hasn’t had much experience.

  Not long after dinner, Dad goes to bed; he’s completely pooped. I sit up in the living room and turn on the television. I find an old movie I really like called It Happened One Night, with Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. This might just be the most romantic film ever made.

  I’m needing a woman’s care, love. I’m lonesome, not just horny, lonesome. There’s something about being with a woman, knowing mutual pleasure, sharing the most natural part of being alive. It’s been more than a month now, sleeping alone, no one to share with, just alone in a bed.

  I fall asleep in the platform rocker and wake at first light. I haven’t even kicked off my shoes. That’s not like me. I take a shower. I make sure I get all those walls wiped and the tub is spotless. That’s how it is living around Mom. You spend your time making sure of everything. It’s the story of my childhood, constantly trying to stay one step ahead of recrimination.

  I work on Dad not to tell Mom about his operation, to let me break it gently, give her as much time as we can. Then we’ll only tell her Dad’s having a cyst removed, but not until just before he goes.

  When Mother comes home, I put her in the middle bedroom again. I’ve rented a special mattress attached to a pump; it’s to keep her from getting bedsores. I’ve rented an oxygen setup too, in case she needs it. This time we’re ready for anything. I have my cuff for her blood pressure and I can take her pulse or temperature. It’s not exactly an intensive care unit but it’s a homemade approximation. I quietly read the riot act to Mom about taking it easy. She seems willing to go along this time.

  One thing that’s haunting Mother is the notion of having a joint wedding anniversary celebration. I guess she cooked it up lying there in the hospital. My folks’ golden anniversary was three years ago, but Joan and Mario’s twenty-fifth was in January, while Vron and I will have been married twenty-five years in June. Mother is determined to put on some kind of event while I’m here, even though Vron is still in Paris. Joan thinks it might spark her up; it’s just Mom’s kind of thing. Joan made Mom a wedding dress for the fiftieth celebration. There was a mass, renewing of vows, the whole thing. I didn’t come; spending money that way seems stupid; so I’m feeling guilty and go along with it.

  Two days before Dad’s to go in for his operation, we get dressed up. Mario, Dad and I wear suits with white shirts, ties. Joan and Mother are in wedding dresses. Joan’s baked a three-layer cake and she still has the bride and groom dolls from the top of her original wedding cake. She also has the decorations from her wedding, silver collapsible bells and white crêpe-paper streamers. We decorate the dining room.

  Mario and I take turns snapping pictures with a Polaroid camera. We take pictures stuffing cake into each other’s mouths. We keep faking it as if Vron’s there. Both Joan and Vron were married in the same dress. We were married five months after Joan and Mario, so Vron saved on a dress.

  Naturally, Joan still has it and that’s the dress she’s wearing. She stays out of the frame and shoves wedding cake in my mouth. Since it’s Polaroid, we see the pictures right away. It always seems like an accident Vron’s not there. One time, Mario takes a picture with my arm out as if I have it around Vron’s shoulders. He says he’ll frame it so nobody will know, but he doesn’t correct for parallax and it looks as if I have my arm around somebody invisible.

  We do this Tuesday night and Dad’s to be operated on Thursday. Looking back, it’s weird; maybe Mother had some kind of premonition. You’d never know we were virtually lifting Mom out of bed, snapping pictures, then lowering her, wedding dress and all, back into bed. I hate to think what Dr. Coe would say.

  Over my objections, Dad and Mom sleep together that night in their own bed. Dad promises to behave himself; I’m almost ready to rig a bundling board. Of course, in the morning, Mom knows about Dad’s operation; he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. I imagine after more than fifty years’ confiding it’s impossible to hold back.

  She wants to know what it’s all about. I tell her he has a cyst, that some blood showed in his urine and I took him to the hospital. I tell her there’s nothing wrong except a cyst on his bladder they found in the cystoscopic examination.

  Mom sucks in her breath when I mention the cystoscopic; this is something she knows. She’s had trouble with her bladder since I was born. It’s something she’s never let me forget; “I ruined her insides.” I remember as a kid feeling guilty, wishing I hadn’t done it. I’ve heard a hundred times about my “big head.” I’d look at myself in the mirror and was sure I had a head half again bigger than normal people. I do wear a size 7½ hat but I’m not exactly macrocephalic.

  As a result, Mother’s bladder dropped and had to be sewn up. It’s always been small and she’s constantly having it stretched, a painful process.

  My birth was such a trauma she came home and told my father she wouldn’t have any more children. One’s enough and she’s had it. He’s to leave her strictly alone. They’re rigid Catholics, so contraceptives are out of the question.

  At first Dad goes along; she’s scared the daylights out of him; they stay immaculate for six months or so. They’re sharing a single-row house with my Uncle Ed and Aunt Mary. I was born in early November and all through the winter, Mother’s hanging out diapers and having them freeze on the line, fighting diaper rash, and I have colic for the first three months.

  But Dad’s a normal guy with more than normal sex drive. This is something I’ve only recently realized. After six months, he comes home from work and hands something wrapped in a piece of paper to Mother. Inside, there’s a beautifully carved wooden clothespin, not the spring-clip type but the old squeeze kind. Dad’s good with a knife and he’s carved a small man from this clothespin. It has arms, hands, fingers, everything. Written on a slip of paper is “This is the kind of man you need. I’m not it.”

  Mom got the message. She’s carried that clothespin all her life and the note is in her cedar chest of valuable things, along with baby books, birth certificates, baby bonds, war bonds, defense bonds, savings bonds.

  But she’s still scared, so she worms a contraceptive remedy out of a Mrs. Hunt down the street. Why this is going to be all right with the church and Dad wearing a rubber isn’t, I don’t know. But she’s only eighteen years old. She’s still nursing me, so she’s probably not going to get pregnant anyway.

  The remedy is to drink a teaspoonful of bleach every morning. After a few days of this, I start turning
green and sickly; I don’t know how Mom feels. She rushes me to the doctor when I go into a convulsion. The doctor can’t figure the trouble. He asks what she’s been feeding me. She says she’s only been nursing and giving me a little baby food. He decides to check her milk. He asks what she’s been eating, if she’s been drinking heavily. She admits she’s been slugging down bleach. I’ll bet that doctor flipped.

  As soon as she stopped the bleach, I improved. I don’t know what they did after that. They didn’t get pregnant for three years, so they must have been doing something. If Dad put on a rubber before he went to bed, Mother could just pretend it wasn’t there.

  You read this kind of stuff in all the Irish-American novels but it keeps going on, over and over. Nobody seems to learn; humans must want to torture themselves in as many ways possible.

  But to go back. Mother does know a lot about cystoscopic examinations and isn’t nearly as panicked as I thought she’d be. But Dad is scared deep inside.

  That day I drive Dad to the hospital for tests and pre-op things, Mother gets weepy and Joan comes out to stay with her. At the hospital, I take Dad to his room and help store his clothes in the closet. I show him where the john is and assist him with getting dressed in the hospital gown. I speak to some of the nurses and try telling them how scared he is, but they’re mostly only professional. They listen but have their routines and are too busy to do much in the way of personal care.

  Dad’s embarrassed by the hospital gown and wants to wear his pajamas but they won’t let him. The gown is a long shirt with a neck-to-bottom opening in the back and no buttons.

  “Do I walk around in this, Johnny; with the back open and all these nurses here?”

  I want to reassure him but can’t; I don’t know why hospital gowns are made that way. It’s basically degrading. There must be another solution. They spend billions of dollars on hospital buildings and doctors. They charge hundreds of dollars a day, but they still use the same gown they used during the Civil War.

  I settle Dad in bed and show him how to work the TV. He finds a program he likes, and it all doesn’t seem so strange. I leave and tell him I’ll be back as soon as possible.