Dad by William Wharton

Author:William Wharton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

“Where is my Mommy, where can she be?

I’m so awfully lonesome, lonesome as can be.

Papa is brokenhearted, Mother left us alone,

So if you see my Mommy, tell her to come home.”

She hasn’t gotten into the second line before my sobs start, softly, openly. I’m crying, scared, and ashamed as I always was. I stare through my tears at Joan. She stops. I get back some control.

“Did Mom really hide from us when we were little? Sometimes I think I made it all up; it’s so hard to believe.”

“Yep, she really hid. She even recommended the idea to me for my kids. She’d hide behind the hedge or sometimes go over to Mrs. Reynolds, for a cup of coffee.

“She thought it was funny how she could make you do anything she wanted by threatening to sing that song. You really were a ‘simp’ when I think about it.”

“Well, why weren’t you scared?”

“There is a song that makes me cry, too, you know, Jack. I never let Mother know about it and don’t you snitch. I only hope I can sing it without crying now.”

I pick up the melody and we sing together. There on Culver Boulevard, under clear California sunshine, we cry our way through the rest of my quarter.

I pull out and we head toward Jefferson Boulevard. This part of town is cemeteryville. There are three cemeteries within three square miles: a Protestant one, a Jewish one and a Catholic one. I don’t know what you do if you’re an atheist or a Moslem. I wonder if there are still black cemeteries in America? There were when I was a kid. We called them colored cemeteries.

The Catholic one we’re going to is built over what used to be a riding stable.

It has an entrance gate like Mount Vernon. The main administration building is a studio-set blend of a Howard Johnson’s and a Bavarian chapel. Californians come up with the weirdest combinations in architecture. Except for Spanish-adobe style, there’s no indigenous form, and they have no fear.

Inside, it’s a more practical setup. On the wall is Pope Paul VI staring down at us. I wonder if they’ll ask for our baptismal and confirmation certificates. Who’s to know if Dad’s Catholic?

We’re ushered into a cubicle in a row of cubicles. A woman comes with a sheath of folders under her arm. We explain what we want. Again, we’re going for the cheapy but it doesn’t bother her. She puts aside two leather-bound folders and opens the folders in cardboard.

This cemetery is laid out like a golf course. There are no gravestones except fiat plaques set in the ground. She shows us some plots which are still available. It’s like working with a real-estate agent, choosing a lot in a development. In a sense, that’s what it is, only the lots are tiny, the habitation subterranean, the neighbors very quiet.

Each part of the cemetery has a name. There’s the Immaculate Conception Section, the Communion of Saints Section, the Resurrection Section, the Crucifixion Section, and so forth.

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