couldnât conceivably see because his eyes had gone dark. All the play had been banished from his fatherâs features, exiled to some Siberia of the emotions for responses that had served their purpose and were no longer useful. What Norman saw across the desk now was his fatherâs legal face, about as expressive as a municipal bond.
âYouâll like her,â Norman said, breathlessly. If only he could bring back the joker in his fatherââSheâs a musician,â he said. âThatâs almost like being Jewish.â
âIâm sure sheâs likable.â
âWell, naturally, I think so. I could be prejudiced.â He knew he was grinning like a simpleton.
âHow much does she want?â
âWhat?â
âYou heard. How much?â
âHow much what?â
âSheâs pregnant, isnât she? Or else just smart. Theyâre all like that. Itâs not a big deal. But you wouldnât compound a mistake by marrying it.â
âGus is not a mistake.â
âAll right, an unfortunate choice. Of words. But you get what Iâm saying, my drift?â
âAnd if I donât?â The ash on Normanâs cigarette was as long as a caterpillar. It fell off before he reached the ashtray with it. His father looked at the floor mournfully. Norman stood up.
âYouâre the child of my old age, Norman.â
âWhat the hellâs that got to do with anything?â
âYou should know.â
âI should know! I should know better than to expect you might have learned something in your old age. Like, the whole world is not contaminated! Not everybody is a Nazi! Hitler is not some big honcho in Argentina and he is not going to deceive you in the guise of a Gentile daughter-in-law.â
âShame! Shame!â
âIâm leaving.â
âLeave. What do I care? I could be dead the next time we see each other. Did I tell you about my blood pressure, the strain Iâm under? What do you care about that?â
âVery funny, but this is my life youâre making the butt of a joke. I donât appreciate that one bit.â
The old manâs face darkened as blood rushed to his cheeks. âWhoâs a ham?â he asked. âNot me.â
As if summoned by the mention of food, at that moment Jocelyn appeared in the doorway, holding a brown paper lunch bag. She was wearing pink.
Norman said to his father, âIâll write a letter. Maybe if you wonât listen to reason, youâll read it.â
âYouâll only upset your mother.â
âMother has nothing to do with this, donât use her as an excuse. Youâre behaving like an ass on your own initiative.â
âListen, Jocelyn, how a son talks to his father.â He shook his head sadly.
âCorned beef on rye,â Jocelyn said, holding out the paper bag.
Norman, possessed, snatched it out of her hands and threw it across the room. It landed against the wall behind his father with a soft plop.
âNow see what youâve done,â his father said. âAnd all because you let your head be turned.â
âSo,â Norman said, âfast. Skip lunch. It wonât kill you. And incidentally donât expect to see me again anytime soon, because you wonât.â But he was lighting another cigarette as he said this; it was his third in half an hour.
âA bad penny always turns up.â
Jocelyn was picking lunch up off the floor. âSpeaking of turning up,â she said, hinting at significance.
âOh no,â the old man said.
Norman heard the hint in Jocelynâs voice and the gasp in his fatherâs. He was silent for a minute, trying to think what it might mean. His father did not often gasp.
âSheâs waiting in the anteroom,â Jocelyn said.
The old man thundered at Norman, but the words came out almost caressingly. Did his father know how he sounded, what a