ESCAPE

I’D NEVER SLEPT with my father.

Until I went to Harvard. The closest I could get was its Divinity School where an interview had been scheduled with the Church History Department Chairman . . . the designated judge. To that point I’d passed through all its admission chambers.

Neither Father nor I had ever been to Boston. He dropped out of school in the eighth grade, Mother in the fifth. She thought my going to college in the first place was ill-advised. “It’s something sons of doctors and businessmen do,” she said. “Your father has been hanging around drinking with too many of them.”

He had been, in fact. And the day I received an offer of a scholarship to a small all-male college a few hundred miles south of Hebron, Father began picking out my wardrobe. Mother called him a fool, and chastised me for indulging him.

“Why should you be any different than the rest of us? Now it’s your turn to bring money into the house.”

Like most of my relatives, Father was employed by Neshannock, a large plant on the banks of the river of the same name that manufactured chinaware for hotels, restaurants and diners across the States. The family chain of Daugherty and Coleridge potters hadn’t been broken for two generations and now I, bolstered by his encouragement, was threatening to break the covenant . . . to Mother as sacred as attending church each Sabbath.

Not until much later in life did I understand that I was his surrogate for “getting out.” If I could escape Hebron’s suffocating fate, then he, albeit vicariously, would, too. And on this issue he stood right up to her.

“He’s going.”

I’d been programmed for working for Neshanock and raising a family in Hebron. Furthermore, all my friends were staying back. “It’s something the snobs on the hill do, not you, for Chrissake, Daugherty. Who’s gonna help us keep the cooz happy?” Mother had all the evidence on her side. But Pap’d already taken me to Levine’s Men’s Store to purchase that “college” suit, a double-breasted blue serge. Even a felt hat (which I never wore) and a pair of black, cap-toed banker’s shoes.

“You look like Tom Flaherty,” he crowed as I stepped out of the dressing room. “Abe, doesn’t he look good?”

“This damn burg is dead,” Abe replied. “There’s got to be a better way. Your old man is right. Get the hell out while you can. You’ll find a better woman, too. The smart ones want an educated man—not some pasty face smelling of red Neshanock clay.” He smiled ruefully at Father.

When I stepped out of Abe’s store that morning, his window displayed one bone-colored mannequin wearing my suit with a price tag the size of a convict’s number. I could see myself after ten years at the pottery, or even the bronze foundry, stooped over and bleary-eyed like the rest of the Hebron citizenry. Also, each day it was becoming harder to turn back; Pap insisted on parading me before all his working-stiff buddies at the Diamond Cafe.

“My son Westley’s goin’ off to Grant and Lincoln on a full scholarship!”

Raw approval in their glances. It wasn’t another ribald tale Joe Daugherty was passing off. Gossip about the plant. The line that week on the Steelers. His boy was going off to college. Just like the sons of those swells on the Hebron’s North Hill. Sonofabitch!

As if I were escaping. They kept patting me on the back . . . Chrissake, as if I were their son. Pap put away three boilermakers; I’d agreed to down one shot of bourbon. “It’s what educated people drink.” Once outside, the sun near blinded us, for the beer joint was darker than the Greyhound bus depot, lit only by neon “Duquesne Pilsener Beer” signs in red and blue blinking above the mirrored bar.

“Where to now?” Pap asked.

“Well, I need a toothbrush and some toothpaste,” I said.

“Oh, personals!” he gushed. And guided me into Eckard’s drug store, two up from the saloon.

“Sal, my son Westley, here, is going off to college. He needs a toothbrush and toothpaste. What do the college people use?” The pharmacist showed me some arcane magma that cost twice as much as the regular, and handed it to Father as if he were giving him a fiver. “It’s the good stuff, Joe. Flaherty buys a new tube each month.” (Flaherty owned the bronze factory and lived in a Tudor mansion on the hill.) Pap proudly handed me the paste.

“Not that I give a shit,” he said when we stepped outside, “but all these years I ain’t ever known this tusk-scrub existed. Your mother and me been using Arm & Hammer. But Tom Flaherty and his silk-stockings did. The secrets of the rich . . . sonofabitch! That’s why you’re going off to school, kid. The bastards intend to keep us in the dark to perpetuity.”

And when Mother smelled booze on both our greetings, she blanched.

When I returned home the following summer, just when she’d begun to niggardly warm up to the fact that I was, indeed, going to continue my studies, I told her God’s existence might be a hoax.

“What are you talking about?” she cried.

“Well, Mother, I learned in philosophy class that God may be nothing more than a figment of your imagination.” Our kitchen sat funereal dark that evening. I heard her crying to him behind their bedroom door later: “First you turn him into a North-side swell. Then you make him an atheist. What’s your next trick, Joseph? . . . You and your highfalutin’ ideas.”

Four years later, after receiving my degree in philosophy, I headed back home, sat down at the kitchen table, and announced to them both I intended to become a preacher. Father had no problem with my calling. If I wanted to climb up into a pulpit every Sunday morning to cajole sinners, that was fine with him. The pottery had bleached away all his juices but didn’t own me.

Mother phoned her sisters. “Westley’s going to Harvard to study to become a preacher. Will wonders ever cease?” The women of Hebron adored their preachers—the most loved men in town.

When I asked Pap if he wanted to take a trip with me to see the Harvard historian, he happily agreed to take a couple days off from work. So the first week in December we drove out of town in my 1952 Ford Fairlane . . . a decade-old, flamingo and cream oil burner. We decided to conserve what little money we had for “restaurant” meals and a bar tab instead of wasting it on motels.

The longest haul was across the entire length of the Pennsylvania turnpike. We encountered mostly a mixture of sleeting rain and gusting winds. Numbing iron-gray skies with umber fields on either side of us. The heater fan in the Ford pinged as if it were nicking Pap’s bluchers. We talked most of the trip—even when one of us was supposed to be sleeping. Just outside Scranton—it was close to 10 p.m. now—when it became his turn again at the wheel, I glanced over and saw that he’d dozed off. I exited the turnpike and spotted what looked like a budget-rate motel . . . one still managed by its owner, who slept in the room behind an all-night office.

“What’s going on?” Pap woke with a start when I pulled into the gravel lot.

“Twenty dollars isn’t going to break us. I got to be fresh for the interview tomorrow.”

Appointed with plastic Irish-lace curtains, puce chenille bedspreads, a mustard-yellow carpet, and one broken-down Danish modern chair alongside twin beds . . . our room was stone-cold. A toilet and a severely rusted metal shower stall sat off in a closet. But there were clean towels and a fresh roll of toilet paper. An electric heater, installed in the wall between the beds, I turned up full throttle. We each undressed and, wincing, crawled under the covers.

“Wait before you turn out the light,” Pap said. The switch for the overhead light was above my headboard. He proffered a pint of Seagram’s from under his pillow. “It’ll help warm you up,” he said. “These places ain’t for road-weary folk like you and me, Westley—you especially, heading off to preacher’s school. It’s a poontang stop. Short on the amenities.”

“But, Pap, it was only twenty dollars.”

“I’m a cheap date.” He laughed.

Sometime during the night I was awakened by a thundering in the bathroom. I got out of bed. The motel’s exterior corona illuminated Pap—naked, pissing what sounded like pellets of hail into the shower stall.

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?”

“But the toilet’s behind you!”

“This way I won’t dribble on the floor,” he said. “Worse things have happened in a notcherie, boy.”

I lifted the bottle from under his pillow. Empty.

Once we had crossed the Massachusetts line, we assumed we could drive straight to the university; that there would be signs saying Harvard. When we finally got to Cambridge and parked near the Yard, it was equally near impossible to find its Divinity School.

“A theology school at Harvard?” Passersby shook their heads in disbelief.

Pap said he wanted to stay in the car. Quartered in a Gothic building with turrets and stained-glass windows, the seminary sat amidst a stand of century-old oaks. A black-garbed ascetic (his severe manners and gold-rimmed glasses recalled Arthur Dimmesdale) greeted me in an empty classroom across whose chalkboards snaked the graffiti Agape. The interview did not go well at all. Five minutes into it I knew Pap and I would never boast about my going to this university.

The historian insisted on facts. “The mission of the Church predicated upon Her illustrious history—what is your understanding of it, Mr. Daugherty? We are scholars here, sir, more than we are impassioned believers. (Holy Rollers?) Which I suspect you are inclined to be. We proselytize, not by emotion, but by the sheer weight of the Bride of Christ’s edifice, her esteemed tradition and lucid rationale.”

He kept fingering his watch fob. I knew I was dead, and felt pretty glum about having dragged my father all the way to Boston.

“They didn’t like you, eh Son?”

“I spoke in a Marlon Brando vernacular, he said.”

“Uh-huh,” Pap groused. Like he’d expected it.

“I wasn’t erudite enough.”

“What the hell’s that got to do with spreading the gospel?”

“He grilled me on transcendentalism and the Reformation, spoke Latin phrases to me—archly amused by it all. It was awful. I thought he was going to put my sincerity to the test.”

“That Christ died for our sins, right?”

“Something like that.”

He spat. “This goddamn town of scholarly swells . . . I been sitting here watching them all bounce into their fancy towers of learning. See them walking on the balls of their feet? Drop your head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye, Westley, if you think for one minute you’re answering God’s calling by enrolling here. Harvard Divinity School . . . Hosannah Horseshit!

“Maybe to make money. Or write books Jesus H. Christ himself couldn’t decipher. And say they did accept you, Son?” He jabbed the buttons on the mute car radio. “Three years later you come back to a dink town like Hebron. Who’s gonna listen to you? And even if they did, who’d understand? We’re in the wrong country, boy. These are not our people.”

He was right, of course. I wanted to matriculate not because of God, but because of Harvard. As if I were about expunging my past. And there it was sitting waiting in the car for me—smoking filter-tip Kools. Now’s the time, Son, to turn and face me, embrace me, accept your past, love it, be proud of it, then make something of it. Not expunge it.

Maybe he was telling me he didn’t want to be erased, too. Left behind while I roamed for three years inside that crenellated Gothic battlement to exit a stranger of God. And Pap’d wave to me from the cloudy interior of my old Ford. Our secret hand signal that we dreamt up when I was a kid (in unfamiliar or strange circumstances, he’d mirror it so that I never felt abandoned)—but now I wasn’t responding, and he’s tapping on the window with our spare change.

So it was his way of embracing his growing son this raw morning in Cambridge. Yes, he’d pissed in the shower stall the night before . . . like other fools. But this was the real Joe Daugherty speaking to me in men’s language.

Don’t go out there too far, Son. I mightn’t be able to save you. I ain’t that strong a swimmer, you know. That’s what Pap was telling me.

The Cambridge lingo inside those battlements—he couldn’t comprehend it. If I entered and came out in three years, we might become estranged. How fathers sometimes have to speak to sons? Maybe he’d finally seen the absurdity of that beau monde blue serge. Figured, too, that God didn’t exist, then after a couple of years thought better of it—when time came racing forward. So our trip to Harvard . . . well, it was on the cheap. Even if old bitter-cup Dimmesdale had drawn a dripping red X through my application.

He’d saved me. And Pap, too.

It was bone-chilling cold outside, and Father wanted to get back on the turnpike, head home. For the first few hours it was quiet in the car. Both of us staring up ahead. The expectation is always the greatest part of any adventure, it seems. Of course my pride was hurt. What if I had been accepted? He’d have put up a good front . . . but we were traveling buddies now. Nothing had come between us. Very little that I didn’t know about him. Likewise, he me.

Then the snow started to come down in great sheets and with-in one-half hour the driving on the turnpike became treacherous. Soon it would be dark. Cars up ahead of us began to skate off the road down the embankment. I slowed the Ford to fifteen miles an hour and knew we had to exit as soon as possible. The snow wasn’t stopping and he and I could become stranded; our gas tank was running low and I couldn’t keep the heater going for long. Father had begun to cough. Periodically when I’d glance over at him, I noticed he clutched the door handle and mechanically pumped his right foot against a ghost brake pedal.

We heard ambulance sirens behind us. Far behind us. The wipers’ fan-shaped arcs on the windshield narrowed like eyes. We watched the car immediately in front of us—our lead—fishtail, accelerate into a dizzying whine, then plummet its occupants into a deep ravine. Father turned white.

“We have to stop,” he said. “We ain’t going to make it.”

I thought so, too. But if we did stop, I was afraid he might succumb, for I noticed he was much older now. He’d been sick with a bad heart when I was away at school. The cough was more persistent. And the blizzard gave no sign of let-up. We could have been stranded for days. Surely he would perish.

“A turn-off is coming soon. I know it. We’ll creep off and find a place to stay.”

“How soon?”

“Soon,” I said. “It’s just up the road a way.”

Darkness fell. No cars were passing us. Several had stopped dead in the highway, carcasses mantled in snow. I crept around them, uncertain how far ahead the exit road was. I had no idea, but had to make him believe. The bitter chill inside the car mocked the heater’s lilting chatter . . . and Pap reeked of vulnerability. It was a father-sweat only a son can detect. Son-sweat he had smelled numerous times. Calling him into my boyhood room at night. Or when he snatched me out of a Lake Erie undertow, and pumped air into my chest. I was wet with the lake then, the sea-green lake, but he could smell my sweat. It rose up into his red nostrils that dilated like an animal’s as he beat life back into me, crying for me to return. And, years later, he smelled my sweat the night my wife left me and I, foul of urine, called him from a phone booth in a strange town at three in the morning, crying my guts out that I didn’t know what I was going to do. That my life was over and I couldn’t stop myself from caterwauling while racing across bridges, teasing the car against guard rails at seventy miles an hour. “WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO, PAP?” I cried over the phone lines. And even though we were hundreds of miles apart, he smelled blood-sweat that night, a pungent ringing over those rural phone lines. He tried to calm me down. To breathe oxygen back into my heart again. To keep it from tearing itself apart over a woman, a woman, a woman . . . that sounded like another cry, another way to wail to me. But he knew about women, too, and blew peace back into my heart. And I began to breathe easier, slowing the Mercury down, promising him I’d come home to talk to him before I did anything drastic. The gamey, sulfurous odor of my sweat became more pleasant over the phone lines.

But now I smelled his. Big time. He was hunched up in the corner of the front seat, holding onto the chromium door handle, as if we were in an airplane, a single engine one, he—Lindbergh and I, out over the Atlantic, and he was the ghost and I was the ghost’s son and we were trying to do the impossible—the ghost didn’t want to die again. Goddamn NO. And the sweat inside the cockpit was stronger than woman odor, the odor of sex to which we were both addicted. It focused us, just like the odor of sex, woman-leg breath. We were high on it and scared to death. Neither of us talking. I’m taking the slippery-slope-to-Hell turnpike at five miles an hour now . . . faster than God’s sleight of hand . . . looking for an opening, a pathway off, a little village with lights at the bottoms of all these fucking mountains, these Alleghenies . . . and him crying . . . “Do you see it yet? Is it up ahead? Westley, can you see it?” And me lying to my father like I ain’t ever done before . . . “It’s right ahead, Pap.” And him answering, “But you keep saying that. It’s right ahead. It’s right ahead.”

And that was our mantra. “Keep saying it, Pap. Don’t stop saying it. It’s right ahead. By God if Jesus is with us . . . maybe he’ll look kindly on us for forsaking Harvard today” . . . and amidst his sweat I could smell his gallows smile. Lime quick. But then it got real serious again.

“Are we gonna die on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Westley, for Chrissake?”

We might’ve. Crossed it enough times in our lives. Sure seemed appropriate. But what an unforgiving death it would be. He was coughing continuously now. I was being challenged to bring the fucking airplane in. Playing the father’s role now. I ain’t ever been in that seat before. And with him alongside me, incapacitated. My real chance at being the old man, the Pap of this man-marriage, this godly companionship who believed in each other’s myths, never caring whether they were true or not. I could see his lights in me, he could see mine in his. All we need to guide us through the night. Our stars in heaven, probably as close to it as we’d ever get. My star in his. His in mine.

That’s what I had to guide me that night, and carefully I crept down the mountainous exit ramp, steeper than a coal chute it seemed, so easily we could have skied right off its flimsy parapets, tumbled to our certain deaths hundreds of feet below. But we didn’t, and even the lighted toll booth had been abandoned as we crawled onto the main road. One motel outlined in yellow neon was the only corona in sight.

Each of its occupancies had a car parked out in front. Father was sick now. He was shivering. The booze was gone. He wasn’t about to wait in the car. “What choice do we have?”

“We’re full up,” the attendant said.

“We’ll take whatever you have,” Father pleaded. “Anything. I’ll pay to sleep in your cellar if you have one. We’ll freeze to death in that car.”

The man thought. If it had been just me, the no would have been firm.

“Well, I do got an unfinished attic. It’s cold as hell up there, but I can give you plenty of blankets and furnish you with this little heater here I use to keep my legs warm.”

“We’ll take it,” Pap said. And handed the man twenty dollars. “What do you got to eat?”

“Nothing except those candy bars in that machine over there.”

Pap went over and fed all his coins into the vending machine. Six Hershey bars, a Baby Ruth and one Butterfinger. He cleaned out the machine. We followed the man and his flashlight into the attic. Just like he said. We could see the rafters and had to watch out for head-knockers. The man piled six blankets onto the bed and jury-rigged the coil heater to working. There was no bed lamp or toilet. He set a milk pail next to the window. And to think we almost got into Harvard that morning. Pap and I took turns pissing into the pail, then crawled into the bed with all our clothes on and started our candy-bar dinner. He liked the Hersheys. Ate every damn one of them. First time I’d seen him eat a candy bar.

He was breathing easier now. The coughing spasms had quieted down, too. Farther apart now. And that fear-sweat—I could detect it no longer. Almost as if we were home. In the orange glow of the heater’s coil I felt the rhythm of his breathing struggling to get in tune with mine. A kind of father-and-son harmony. It was peaceful in that attic room. I knew he was fully awake, just as I was. We were lying there in the solitude of a strange country place off a perilous highway not thinking about sleep. Now we were cataloguing the day that had begun with a visit to a church historian in Cambridge, then wound treacherously back toward Hebron. And mutely I was thanking him for being with me and he, I know, was grateful that I drove. Where he might not have been able to.

But he did drive me out of Cambridge, he did by God drive me back home, and he did by God fall asleep in my arms; by God he did.