twenty-four-hour-a-day undertaker.
Noah dialled the number. He held the receiver to his ear, listening to the insistent buzzing in the earpiece, thinking of the phone on the dark, shiny desk, under the single shaded light in the mortuary office, ringing the New Year in. He was about to hang up when he heard a voice at the other end of the wire.
"Hello," the voice said, somehow vague and remote. "Grady Mortuary."
"I would like to inquire," Noah said, "about a funeral. My father just died."
"What is the name of the party?"
"What I wanted to know," said Noah, "is the range of prices. I haven't very much money and…"
"I will have to know the name of the party," the voice said, very official.
"Ackerman."
"Waterfield," said the thick voice on the other end. "First name, please…" and then, in a whisper, "Gladys, stop it! Gladys!" Then back into the phone, with the hint of a smothered laugh, "First name, please."
"Ackerman," said Noah. "Ackerman."
"Is that the first name?"
"No," said Noah. "That's the last name. The first name is Jacob."
"I wish," said the voice, with alcoholic dignity, "you would talk more clearly."
"What I want to know," said Noah loudly, "is what you charge for cremation."
"Cremation. Yes," the voice said, "we supply that service to those parties who wish it."
"What is the price?" Noah asked.
"How many coaches?"
"What?"
"How many coaches to the services?" the voice asked, saying "shervishes". "How many guests and relatives will there be?"
"One," said Noah. "There will be one guest and relative."
Night and Day came to an end with a crash and Noah couldn't hear what the man on the other end of the wire said.
"I want it to be as reasonable as possible," Noah said, desperately. "I don't have much money."
"I shee, I shee," the man at the Mortuary said. "One question, if I may. Does the deceased have any insurance?"
"No," said Noah.
"Then it will have to be cash, you understand. In advance, you understand."
"How much?" Noah shouted.
"Do you wish the remains in a plain cardboard box or in a silver-plated urn?"
"A plain cardboard box."
"The cheapest price I can quote you, my dear friend" – the voice on the other end suddenly became large and coherent – "is seventy-six dollars and fifty cents."
"That will be an additional five cents for five minutes," the operator's voice broke in.
"All right." Noah put another nickel into the box and the operator said, "Thank you." Noah said, "All right. Seventy-six dollars and fifty cents." Somehow he would get it together.
"The day after tomorrow. In the afternoon." That would give him time to go downtown on January 2nd and sell the camera and the other things. "The address is the Sea View Hotel. Do you know where that is?"
"Yes," the drunken voice said, "yes, indeedy. The Sea View Hotel. I will send a man around tomorrow and you can sign the contract…"
"Okay," Noah said, sweating, preparing to hang up.
"One more thing, my dear man," the voice went on. "One more thing. The last rites."
"What about the last rites?"
"What religion does the deceased profess?"
Jacob had professed no religion, but Noah didn't think he had to tell the man that. "He was a Jew."
"Oh." There was silence for a moment on the wire and then Noah heard the woman's voice say, gayly and drunkenly, "Come on, George, le's have another little drink."
"I regret," the man said, "that we are not equipped to perform funeral services on Hebrews."
"What's the difference?" Noah shouted. "He wasn't religious. He doesn't need any ceremonies."
"Impossible," the voice said thickly, but with dignity. "We do not cater to Hebrews. I'm sure you can find many others… many others who are equipped to cremate Hebrews."
" But Dr Fishbourne recommended you," Noah shouted, insanely. He felt as though he couldn't go through all this again with another undertaker, and he felt trapped and baffled. "You're in the undertaking business, aren't you?"
"My condolences to you, my dear man," the voice
Noah dialled the number. He held the receiver to his ear, listening to the insistent buzzing in the earpiece, thinking of the phone on the dark, shiny desk, under the single shaded light in the mortuary office, ringing the New Year in. He was about to hang up when he heard a voice at the other end of the wire.
"Hello," the voice said, somehow vague and remote. "Grady Mortuary."
"I would like to inquire," Noah said, "about a funeral. My father just died."
"What is the name of the party?"
"What I wanted to know," said Noah, "is the range of prices. I haven't very much money and…"
"I will have to know the name of the party," the voice said, very official.
"Ackerman."
"Waterfield," said the thick voice on the other end. "First name, please…" and then, in a whisper, "Gladys, stop it! Gladys!" Then back into the phone, with the hint of a smothered laugh, "First name, please."
"Ackerman," said Noah. "Ackerman."
"Is that the first name?"
"No," said Noah. "That's the last name. The first name is Jacob."
"I wish," said the voice, with alcoholic dignity, "you would talk more clearly."
"What I want to know," said Noah loudly, "is what you charge for cremation."
"Cremation. Yes," the voice said, "we supply that service to those parties who wish it."
"What is the price?" Noah asked.
"How many coaches?"
"What?"
"How many coaches to the services?" the voice asked, saying "shervishes". "How many guests and relatives will there be?"
"One," said Noah. "There will be one guest and relative."
Night and Day came to an end with a crash and Noah couldn't hear what the man on the other end of the wire said.
"I want it to be as reasonable as possible," Noah said, desperately. "I don't have much money."
"I shee, I shee," the man at the Mortuary said. "One question, if I may. Does the deceased have any insurance?"
"No," said Noah.
"Then it will have to be cash, you understand. In advance, you understand."
"How much?" Noah shouted.
"Do you wish the remains in a plain cardboard box or in a silver-plated urn?"
"A plain cardboard box."
"The cheapest price I can quote you, my dear friend" – the voice on the other end suddenly became large and coherent – "is seventy-six dollars and fifty cents."
"That will be an additional five cents for five minutes," the operator's voice broke in.
"All right." Noah put another nickel into the box and the operator said, "Thank you." Noah said, "All right. Seventy-six dollars and fifty cents." Somehow he would get it together.
"The day after tomorrow. In the afternoon." That would give him time to go downtown on January 2nd and sell the camera and the other things. "The address is the Sea View Hotel. Do you know where that is?"
"Yes," the drunken voice said, "yes, indeedy. The Sea View Hotel. I will send a man around tomorrow and you can sign the contract…"
"Okay," Noah said, sweating, preparing to hang up.
"One more thing, my dear man," the voice went on. "One more thing. The last rites."
"What about the last rites?"
"What religion does the deceased profess?"
Jacob had professed no religion, but Noah didn't think he had to tell the man that. "He was a Jew."
"Oh." There was silence for a moment on the wire and then Noah heard the woman's voice say, gayly and drunkenly, "Come on, George, le's have another little drink."
"I regret," the man said, "that we are not equipped to perform funeral services on Hebrews."
"What's the difference?" Noah shouted. "He wasn't religious. He doesn't need any ceremonies."
"Impossible," the voice said thickly, but with dignity. "We do not cater to Hebrews. I'm sure you can find many others… many others who are equipped to cremate Hebrews."
" But Dr Fishbourne recommended you," Noah shouted, insanely. He felt as though he couldn't go through all this again with another undertaker, and he felt trapped and baffled. "You're in the undertaking business, aren't you?"
"My condolences to you, my dear man," the voice
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