THE FEMININE MISTAKE

Miami Herald, The (FL)
May 19, 1991
Author: MEG LAUGHLIN Herald Columnist

Driving home from the hospital my mother said she had some things to tell me. Things she didn't want to say in front of my father. First, she said she wouldn't live through the summer; the chemotherapy wasn't working. Then, she said her death would hit Daddy hard. He wasn't in good shape and he'd probably have a stroke. And finally, she said he'd be terribly alone -- no woman would have him in such a pitiful state.

She was right about everything except the women. Two weeks after my mother died, my father, 68, had a crippling stroke. One week after that, a woman with a horse face, gold lame boots and white hair was perched on the side of the bed holding his hand. And this was just the beginning.

My father left the hospital drooping his arm and dragging his leg. He had gaps in his thinking: He couldn't read or add or subtract. He'd start talking, suddenly lose track of how to get the words out and start cursing and crying. He drooled. He stared off in space. He sat around the house drinking Scotch and never bathing. He was flat out pitiful.

But the calls started coming. It was Martha, who'd met him years ago at a dinner party. She thought she'd come by and bring him a cake. It was Alison, who'd be in the neighborhood on Friday and thought they could go out to dinner. Natalie stopped by for a drink. Susie paid the bills. Margie stocked the house with groceries.

You might be thinking that my father had been quite a lady's man. But this simply was not the case. My father had been routine, regular, loyal. These women were not keeping up with him for old times' sake. These women sought him out, stroke and all.

It was inspiring to see their kindness, but baffling when things got competitive. When I would come to town, they would try to pry things out of me about one another and about my father's intentions. They would tell me how charming he was and how much they enjoyed his company. Would I put in a good word? Who did I think was his favorite?

Sometimes, I would accompany him on dates and marvel at how the evenings went. I would watch bright healthy women, who seemed to have a lot on the ball, fawn over my father, butter his crackers and play kissy-face with the spores on his chin. He'd say things like, "What day is it, dear?" and "Can I have another dessert?" and they would hang on his every word. What they saw in him was incomprehensible to me. He wasn't spending money on them. He wasn't talking to them. He wasn't having sex with them. What was it, I asked them.

"He's so soft-spoken."

"He's such a gentleman."

"He's a great catch."

A GREAT CATCH? Gimme a break. He was ALIVE. He was MALE. And that was about it.

It was about this time that a male friend, in agony over a break with his girlfriend, told me he'd decided men were helpless, needy creatures who relied too heavily on women to take care of them. He said he was ashamed of his gender for being so dependent on women.

I told him about my father and the women breaking down the door. I said it had made me wonder more about women than men. My father, at least, was getting taken care of. But the women, what were they getting? Sure, they could have just been loving, charitable people imbued with the Florence Nightingale instinct. But their intentions were clearly romantic. In the end, all I could figure was that they were widows seeking a distraction from their own lives. Or, what was lacking in them. Perhaps they would rather take care of a zombie than make their own way. I said if he was ashamed, I was horrified.

As time went on, my dad got pickier and pickier. Alison was too old (though five years younger than he). Natalie was too fat (though 50 pounds lighter than he). Martha's hair smelled of smoke. Margie had yellowish teeth. He decided the only one worthy of his attention was Helen. Helen with the auburn hair and infectious laugh who'd fly in from St. Louis every three months. She'd rent a car and tear around town on her own. She never cooked and she buttered only the crackers that went in her mouth. After a year, Helen told my father he was more trouble than he was worth and went home to St. Louis for good.

Too bad about Helen, I told my dad on one of those rare nights when he was single. She had a lot going for her, I said. But my father disagreed. He had thought about Helen a lot, he said, and he had decided she wasn't his type. She was too masculine.

Edition: FINAL
Section: TROPIC
Page: 31
Copyright (c) 1991 The Miami Herald