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 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 said, 'in your hour of grief, but we cannot see our way clear…'
Noah heard a scuffle at the other end of the wire and the woman's voice say, 'Let me talk to him, Georgie.' Then the woman got on the phone. 'Listen,' she said loudly, her voice brassy and whisky-rich, 'why don't you quit? We're busy here. You heard what Georgie said. He don't burn Kikes. Happy New Year.' And she hung up.
Noah's hands were trembling and he felt the sweat coming out on his skin. He put the receiver back on the hook with difficulty. He opened the door of the booth and walked slowly towards the door, past the jukebox, which was playing a jazz version of Loch Lomond, past the group of blonde and drunk and sailors at the bar. The blonde smiled at him and said, 'What's the matter, Big Boy? Wasn't she home?'
Noah hardly heard her. He walked slowly, feeling weak and tired, towards the unoccupied end of the bar near the door and sat on a stool.
'Whisky,' he said. When it came, he drank it straight and ordered another. The two drinks had an immediate, surging effect on him, blurring the outlines of the room, blurring the music and the other people in the bar into softer and more agreeable forms, and when the blonde, in her tight, flowered, yellow dress with red shoes and a little hat with a purple veil, came down the bar towards him, swaying her full hips exaggeratedly, he grinned at her.
'There,' the blonde said, touching his arm softly, 'there, that's better.'
'Happy New Year,' Noah said.
'Honey…' The blonde sat down on the stool next him, jiggling her tightly girdled buttocks on the red leatherette seat, rubbing her knee against him. 'Honey, I'm in trouble, and I looked around the bar and I decided you were the
