me…"
His voice stopped. He choked and tried to say something else, and then he died.
Noah touched his father's chest, searching for the beating of his heart. The skin was wrinkled and the bones of his chest were sharp and frail. The stillness under the parched, flaked skin and the naked bone was final.
Noah folded his father's hands on his chest, and closed the staring eyes, because he had seen people doing that in the movies. Jacob's mouth was open, with a realistic, alive expression, as though he were on the verge of speech, but Noah didn't know what to do about that, so he left it alone. As he looked down at his father's dead face, Noah realized that he felt relieved. It was over now. The demanding, imperious voice was quiet. There would be no more gestures.
Noah walked around the room, flatly taking inventory of the things of value in it. There wasn't much. Two shabby, rather flashy double-breasted suits, a leather-bound edition of the King James Bible, a silver frame with a photograph of Noah, aged seven and on a Shetland pony, a small box with a pair of cufflinks and a tiepin, made of nickel and glass, a tattered, red manila envelope with a string tied round it. Noah opened the envelope and took out the papers: twenty shares of stock in a radio-manufacturing corporation that had gone into bankruptcy in 1927.
There was a cardboard box on the bottom of the cupboard. Inside, carefully wrapped in soft flannel, was a large, old-fashioned portrait camera, with a big lens. It was the one thing in the room which looked as though it had been treated with love and consideration, and Noah was grateful that his father had been crafty enough to hide it from his creditors. It might even pay for the funeral. Touching the worn leather and the polished glass of the camera, Noah thought, fleetingly, that it would be good to keep the camera, keep the one well-preserved remnant of his father's life, but he knew it was a luxury he could not afford. He put the camera back in the box, after wrapping it well, and hid the box under a pile of old clothes in the corner of the cupboard.
He went to the door and looked back. In the mean rays of the single lamp, his father looked forlorn and in pain on the bed. Noah turned the light off and went out.
He walked slowly down the street. The air and the slight exercise felt good after the week in the cramped room, and he breathed deeply, feeling his lungs fill, feeling young and healthy, listening to the soft muffled tap of his heels on the glistening sidewalks. The sea air smelt strange and clean in the deserted night, and he walked in the direction of the beach, the tang of salt getting stronger and stronger as he approached the cliff that loomed over the ocean.
Through the murk came the sound of music, echoing and fading, suddenly growing stronger, with tricks of the wind. Noah walked towards it, and as he got to the corner, he saw that the music came from a bar across the street. People were going in and out under a sign that said, NO EXTRA CHARGE FOR THE HOLIDAY BRING THE NEW YEAR IN AT O'DAYS.
The tune changed on the jukebox inside and a woman's low voice sang, "Night and day you are the one, Only you beneath the moon and under the sun," her voice dominating the empty, damp night with powerful, well-modulated passion.
Noah crossed the street, opened the door and went in. Two sailors and a blonde were at the other end of the bar, looking down at a drunk with his head on the mahogany. The bartender glanced up when Noah came in.
"Have you got a telephone?" Noah asked.
"Back there." The bartender motioned towards the rear of the room. Noah started towards the booth.
"Be polite, boys," the blonde was saying to the sailors as Noah passed. "Rub his neck with ice."
She smiled widely at Noah, her face green with the reflection from the jukebox. Noah nodded to her and stepped into the telephone booth. He took out a card that the doctor had given him. On it was the telephone number of a
His voice stopped. He choked and tried to say something else, and then he died.
Noah touched his father's chest, searching for the beating of his heart. The skin was wrinkled and the bones of his chest were sharp and frail. The stillness under the parched, flaked skin and the naked bone was final.
Noah folded his father's hands on his chest, and closed the staring eyes, because he had seen people doing that in the movies. Jacob's mouth was open, with a realistic, alive expression, as though he were on the verge of speech, but Noah didn't know what to do about that, so he left it alone. As he looked down at his father's dead face, Noah realized that he felt relieved. It was over now. The demanding, imperious voice was quiet. There would be no more gestures.
Noah walked around the room, flatly taking inventory of the things of value in it. There wasn't much. Two shabby, rather flashy double-breasted suits, a leather-bound edition of the King James Bible, a silver frame with a photograph of Noah, aged seven and on a Shetland pony, a small box with a pair of cufflinks and a tiepin, made of nickel and glass, a tattered, red manila envelope with a string tied round it. Noah opened the envelope and took out the papers: twenty shares of stock in a radio-manufacturing corporation that had gone into bankruptcy in 1927.
There was a cardboard box on the bottom of the cupboard. Inside, carefully wrapped in soft flannel, was a large, old-fashioned portrait camera, with a big lens. It was the one thing in the room which looked as though it had been treated with love and consideration, and Noah was grateful that his father had been crafty enough to hide it from his creditors. It might even pay for the funeral. Touching the worn leather and the polished glass of the camera, Noah thought, fleetingly, that it would be good to keep the camera, keep the one well-preserved remnant of his father's life, but he knew it was a luxury he could not afford. He put the camera back in the box, after wrapping it well, and hid the box under a pile of old clothes in the corner of the cupboard.
He went to the door and looked back. In the mean rays of the single lamp, his father looked forlorn and in pain on the bed. Noah turned the light off and went out.
He walked slowly down the street. The air and the slight exercise felt good after the week in the cramped room, and he breathed deeply, feeling his lungs fill, feeling young and healthy, listening to the soft muffled tap of his heels on the glistening sidewalks. The sea air smelt strange and clean in the deserted night, and he walked in the direction of the beach, the tang of salt getting stronger and stronger as he approached the cliff that loomed over the ocean.
Through the murk came the sound of music, echoing and fading, suddenly growing stronger, with tricks of the wind. Noah walked towards it, and as he got to the corner, he saw that the music came from a bar across the street. People were going in and out under a sign that said, NO EXTRA CHARGE FOR THE HOLIDAY BRING THE NEW YEAR IN AT O'DAYS.
The tune changed on the jukebox inside and a woman's low voice sang, "Night and day you are the one, Only you beneath the moon and under the sun," her voice dominating the empty, damp night with powerful, well-modulated passion.
Noah crossed the street, opened the door and went in. Two sailors and a blonde were at the other end of the bar, looking down at a drunk with his head on the mahogany. The bartender glanced up when Noah came in.
"Have you got a telephone?" Noah asked.
"Back there." The bartender motioned towards the rear of the room. Noah started towards the booth.
"Be polite, boys," the blonde was saying to the sailors as Noah passed. "Rub his neck with ice."
She smiled widely at Noah, her face green with the reflection from the jukebox. Noah nodded to her and stepped into the telephone booth. He took out a card that the doctor had given him. On it was the telephone number of a
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