IN THE MORNING the storm was gone and so was my father. I checked the jug. Down another pint. I dressed and stepped outside. The rain had washed the giant forest, settled the dust, cleared the air, and changed the world. Birds shrieked and chipmunks with plumed tails leaped from branch to branch like circus aerialists. The whole earth had put on its Sunday best to celebrate the smokehouse fiasco. The news must have reached far into the sky, for curious clouds drifted past, surveying the ruins.
Angry voices came from the smokehouse area. I hurried over. My father stood in the rubble, hurling aside small stones, trying to clear away the glut of debris. Sam Ramponi was yelling at him. He was in his black silk work clothes and chewing a cigar.
“Don’t be a horse’s ass,” he was saying. “Quit while you’re ahead.”
“I ain’t ahead!” my father yelled, heaving a stone. “I’m behind.”
“What’s the trouble?” I said.
“Damn fool wants to start over.” Then to my father: “Quit, you dumb son of a bitch! Get your stuff together and I’ll drive you home!”
Old Nick went right on heaving stones. His bleary eyes showed him a very tired man.
“What’s the deal?” I asked.
“No deal. We do it right, that’s all.”
Ramponi screamed: “I don’t want it right and I don’t want it wrong! I don’t want it period. I never wanted a smokehouse. It was my wife’s idea. I hate deer meat. I hate beef. I hate pork. I like chicken, and I like fish. So leave it alone. Ruined. Don’t touch it! Pack up your gear and I’ll drive you back.”
“No, sir,” Papa said. “We’re staying right here. We’ll build it again, if it takes all winter.” Pooped, he eased himself upon a flat stone.
Let them argue, let them destroy one another; I was through. I would do no more. I left them hollering and walked back to the cabin. I took a shower. I packed our clothes. I read an old paperback. Occasionally I went to the open door and put my ear toward the smokehouse, invisible through the trees. I heard nothing. But I knew he was there, the jug on his knees. I told myself I was doing the right thing, and yet I was troubled and wondering if I were wrong in not helping him.
Around noon Mrs. Ramponi rushed up to the door.
“There’s something wrong with your father.”
She ran toward the forest and I followed. Nick lay on his back beside the creek, his face to the sky, eyes closed, his breathing deep and difficult. I dropped to his side and he opened his eyes and moaned. Mrs. Ramponi sank to her haunches and touched his flushed face.
“Heart attack,” she said flatly. “I’ve seen it before. My own father.”
“How about just plain drunk? I’ve seen that before too.”
“Let’s try artificial respiration.”
She got to her knees beside him, took a deep breath, and pressed her mouth to his, pushing her breath down his throat. It wakened him with a start. He opened his eyes, saw her face, and loosed a cry of protest, fighting her off. She grasped his head firmly and tried again.
“No!” he growled. “Leave me alone, goddamnit!”
I scooped water from the stream and dashed it into his face. He licked the water from his lips.
Mrs. Ramponi got to her feet.
“The man’s dying.”
“The man’s drunk.”
“Don’t move him. I’ll get a blanket. We’ve got to keep him warm.”
She dashed away. I pulled him to a sitting position, but he was as limp as a string, his head flopping. Hoisting him to my shoulder I expected a great heaviness, but he was alarmingly light, no heavier than a sack of toys as I carried him toward the motel. Mrs. Ramponi saw us coming and became very agitated.
“Put him down, man. You’re killing him!”
I carried him past her into the office and lowered him upon a leather couch. She covered him with a light blanket and went for his mouth again with artificial respiration. He gagged and twisted and grimaced and pushed her away.
“Water,” he said.
Water? Incredible. He rarely drank water. He had to be very sick indeed. Mrs. Ramponi brought him a glassful from the kitchen and held it to his lips, and he sucked it down greedily.
“More.”
He drank two glassfuls more and sank into a deep sleep. His face was hot and dry against my fingers. He was not drunk. He seemed very tired and flaccid, overcome with weariness. Mumbling, he opened his eyes and tried to rise.
“Water closet…”
He threw off the blanket and stood up, swaying. I steadied him through the kitchen to the bathroom and he stood before the bowl, asleep and rocking. As I steered him back to the office he veered toward the kitchen sink.
“Water.”
He drank three glassfuls, then returned to the bathroom. I held him erect with my arms around his waist. It was the same interminable business. Finally he was on the leather sofa again, confused by a sinister lethargy, his breathing loud.
Watching, Mrs, Ramponi said, “You know what I think? Cancer of the bladder. My uncle had it. We better call an ambulance. I don’t want him dying here.” She pushed the desk phone toward me. “Tahoe Ambulance Service.” She gave me the number.
Dialing the operator, I asked for Dr. Frank Maselli in San Elmo. For more than forty years my father had been Maselli’s reluctant patient, avoiding him as much as possible, for he had but one unvarying prescription for my father’s good health: stop drinking.
Maselli’s first question over the phone was: “Is he drunk?”
I said he was not drunk, and as I began to explain my father’s condition Dr. Maselli cut me off.
“Is he thirsty?”
“Very.”
“I hope you’re not giving him wine.”
“Just water.”
“Does he piss a lot?”
“Gallons.”
“Smell his breath.”
“What?”
“Smell your father’s breath.”
I put the phone down, bent over my old man, and sniffed his heavy breathing.
“Smells sweet,” I said into the phone.
“So it finally happened.”
“What, Doc?”
“Where are you?” I told him.
“How far from Auburn?” “About fifty miles.”
“Get him to the Auburn Hospital as fast as you can. I’ll meet you there.” He hung up. I turned to Mrs. Ramponi.
“Can you drive us to the Auburn Hospital?”
“Lord God, yes.”