The Mythical Bill: A Neurological Memoir

Prelude

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Prelude . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bozo’s Circus What day is today, I hear him ask, my father, who is called Bill: the dreaded question. I’ve just woken up. Last night I stayed up late watching The Yearling on my portable TV with the rabbit-ears antennae—the one my mother let me buy with the fifty dollars I made dancing in Sleeping Beauty with the Leningrad Kirov Ballet. It sits on my desk so I can watch it from my bed. White gloves keep me from biting my nails to a pulp before I finally surrender, peel them off, and tear nails and flesh till I draw blood. That Jody boy in the movie loses his pet deer, Flag, but my beagle Star sleeps curled around my big feet on my parents ’ old double bed with the caning on the corners chewed out. My cousin Mary-Jo and I like to jump on it till the box spring crashes and my mother comes in screaming at us and pulls my hair. Late last night in the screen’s flickering glow, I thought I saw Mr. McD, with his poodle Jo-Jo in tow, peering in my window trying to look at me—my room is just off the front porch—but I can’t be certain. My dog will protect me. What day is today? It’s a simple question, simple enough to answer once, but not simple to have to answer a hundred times in the same day. Maybe if I answer it right away, the word Saturday will be the beall and the end-all right here, right now. I mumble to him, Saturday, thinking if I don’t make a big deal out of the question this will all go away, and then I head for the bathroom before he can ask me again. I’m afraid to look at his face to see if his eyes look strange the way they get when he’s what we like to call “confused,” without knowing the word used to mean “covered in shame.” He works all week, then on the weekends he sometimes falls apart. He’s not confused every 4 Prelude Saturday, but, lately, he’s confused on more Saturdays than not. Usually , by Sunday he’s not confused anymore; he returns to himself. Do you want to have a cup of coffee with me, he says somewhat mechanically through the bathroom door. I detect a hint of desperation in his demeanor when I come out, even though the question seems normal enough. Maybe he’s still okay. Sure, I say, even though fifteen is too young to be drinking coffee. It’s something we can do together. I pour us each a cup and sit at the kitchen table, but I notice his place is empty. He’s not sitting down; instead he’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other in front of me. Your mother’s not here, he says. I don’t know where she is. I can tell he’s afraid even if he can’t articulate the fear. I don’t know how I got in this get-up, he says, tugging at his maroon velour zip jacket. Why don’t you drink your coffee, I say. Okay, then, Jody, he says, all right then . . . Now I know he’s on the downward spiral. I get some Frosted Flakes and milk and try to eat. Everything tastes like paper and I start wondering where my mother is because I can’t deal with him alone when he’s like this. I’d like to get out of here, escape like she did, before it happens, but I don’t know where to go. He disappears into the living room and I hear the TV playing low. I bolt the rest of the cardboard cereal and head back to my room to get dressed and hide out. I hear him outside my door tapping. Jo, Jo—all I’m asking for is a little reassurance. Just a little reassurance. I open the door and he’s holding the dreaded TV guide. Oh, well then, Jody . . . Come and see. We head down the hall for the living room, me following him. He shows me the TV guide and points at the TV. It’s not the same, he says. What’s not the same? What the TV guide says and what...