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couldn’t conceivably see because his eyes had gone dark. All the play had been banished from his father’s 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 father’s legal face, about as expressive as a municipal bond.
    â€œYou’ll like her,” Norman said, breathlessly. If only he could bring back the joker in his father—“She’s a musician,” he said. “That’s almost like being Jewish.”
    â€œI’m sure she’s likable.”
    â€œWell, naturally, I think so. I could be prejudiced.” He knew he was grinning like a simpleton.
    â€œHow much does she want?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou heard. How much?”
    â€œHow much what?”
    â€œShe’s pregnant, isn’t she? Or else just smart. They’re all like that. It’s not a big deal. But you wouldn’t compound a mistake by marrying it.”
    â€œGus is not a mistake.”
    â€œAll right, an unfortunate choice. Of words. But you get what I’m saying, my drift?”
    â€œAnd if I don’t?” The ash on Norman’s 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.
    â€œYou’re the child of my old age, Norman.”
    â€œWhat the hell’s that got to do with anything?”
    â€œYou should know.”
    â€œI 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€œShame! Shame!”
    â€œI’m leaving.”
    â€œLeave. 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 I’m under? What do you care about that?”
    â€œVery funny, but this is my life you’re making the butt of a joke. I don’t appreciate that one bit.”
    The old man’s face darkened as blood rushed to his cheeks. “Who’s a ham?” he asked. “Not me.”
    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, “I’ll write a letter. Maybe if you won’t listen to reason, you’ll read it.”
    â€œYou’ll only upset your mother.”
    â€œMother has nothing to do with this, don’t use her as an excuse. You’re behaving like an ass on your own initiative.”
    â€œListen, Jocelyn, how a son talks to his father.” He shook his head sadly.
    â€œCorned beef on rye,” 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.
    â€œNow see what you’ve done,” his father said. “And all because you let your head be turned.”
    â€œSo,” Norman said, “fast. Skip lunch. It won’t kill you. And incidentally don’t expect to see me again anytime soon, because you won’t.” But he was lighting another cigarette as he said this; it was his third in half an hour.
    â€œA bad penny always turns up.”
    Jocelyn was picking lunch up off the floor. “Speaking of turning up,” she said, hinting at significance.
    â€œOh no,” the old man said.
    Norman heard the hint in Jocelyn’s voice and the gasp in his father’s. He was silent for a minute, trying to think what it might mean. His father did not often gasp.
    â€œShe’s waiting in the anteroom,” Jocelyn said.
    The old man thundered at Norman, but the words came out almost caressingly. Did his father know how he sounded, what a