one man in the room I could depend on. Orange Blossom,' she said to the bartender, who had padded up to where she was sitting. 'In time of trouble,' she went on, holding Noah's arm at the elbow, looking earnestly at him through her veil, her small, blue, mascara'd eyes inviting and serious, 'in time of trouble I like Italian men. They have more character. They're excitable, but they're sympathetic. And, to tell you the truth, Honey, I like an excitable man. Show me a man who doesn't get excited and I'll show you a man who couldn't make a woman happy for ten minutes a year. There are two things I look for in a man. A sympathetic character and full lips.'
'What?' Noah asked, dazed.
'Full lips,' the blonde said earnestly. 'My name is Georgia, Honey; what's yours?'
'Ronald Beaverbrook,' Noah said. 'And I have to tell you… I'm not an Italian.'
'Oh.' The woman looked disappointed and she drank half her Orange Blossom in one smooth gulp. 'I could have sworn. What are you, Ronald?'
'An Indian,' Noah said. 'A Sioux Indian.'
'Even so,' the woman said, 'I bet you can make a woman very happy.'
'Have a drink,' Noah said.
'Honey,' the woman called to the bartender. 'Two Orange Blossoms. Double, Honey.' She turned back to Noah. 'I like Indians, too,' she said. 'The one thing I don't like is ordinary Americans. They don't know how to use a woman properly. On and off and bang, and on their way home to their wives. Honey,' she said, finishing her first drink, 'Honey, why don't you go over to those two boys in blue and tell them you're taking me home? Take a beer bottle with you, in case they give you an argument.'
'Did you come with them?' Noah asked. He was feeling very light-headed now, remote and amused, and he caressed the woman's hand lightly and smiled into her eyes as he talked. Her hands were calloused and worn and she was ashamed of them.
'It comes from working in the laundry,' she said sadly.
'Don't ever work in a laundry, Honey.'
'Okay,' said Noah.
'I came with that one.' With a gesture of her head, the veil fluttering in the green and purple light of the jukebox, she indicated the drunk with his head on the bar. 'Knocked out of the box in the first innings. I'll tell you something.' She leaned close to Noah and whispered to him, and he got a strong impression of gin and onions and violet perfume. 'The sailors are plotting against him. In the uniform of their country. They are going to roll him and they're planning to follow me and snatch my purse in a dark alley. Take a beer bottle, Ronald, and go talk to them.'
The bartender put down their drinks and the woman took out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to him. 'This is on me,' she said.
'This is a poor lonely boy on New Year's Eve.'
'You don't have to pay for me,' Noah said.
'To us, Honey.' She raised the glass three inches from his face, and looked over it, through her veil, melting and coquettish.
'What's money for, Honey, if it isn't for the use of your friends?'
They drank and the woman put her hand on his leg and caressed his knee. 'You're terribly stringy, Honey,' she said.
'We'll have to do something about that. Let's get out of here. I don't like this place any more. Let's go up to my little apartment. I got a bottle of Four Roses, just for you and me, and we can have our own private little celebration. Kiss me once, Honey.' She leaned over again and closed her eyes determinedly. Noah kissed her. Her lips were soft and there was a taste of raspberry from her lipstick, along with the onion and gin. 'I can't wait, Honey.' She got down off the stool, quite steady, and took his arm, and they walked, carrying their drinks, to the rear of the bar.
The two sailors watched them coming. They were very young and there was a puzzled, disappointed look on their faces.
'Be careful of my friend,' the woman warned them. 'He's a Sioux Indian.' She kissed Noah's neck behind the ear. 'I'll be right out, Honey,' she said. 'I'm going to freshen up, so you'll love me.' She giggled and squeezed his hand moistly and, still holding her glass, walked, with her exaggerated, mincing gait, the flowers dancing over her girdled rear, into the ladies' room.
'What's she been giving you?' the younger of the two sailors asked. He didn't have his hat on and he had his hair cut so short that it looked like the first outcropping of fuzz on a baby's skull.
'She says,' Noah said, feeling powerful and alert, 'she says you want to rob her.'
The sailor with the hat on snorted. 'We rob her! That's hot. It's just the other way around, Brother.'
'Twenty-five bucks,' the young sailor said. 'Twenty-five apiece, she asked. She said she never did it before and she's married and she ought to get paid for the risks she's taking.'
'Who does she think she is?' the one with the hat on demanded. 'How much did she ask you?'
'Nothing,' Noah said, and he felt an absurd sense of pride.
'And she wants to throw in a bottle of Four Roses.'
'How do you like that?' The older sailor turned bitterly to his partner.
'You going with her?' the younger one asked, avidly. Noah shook his head. 'No.'
'Why not?' the young one asked.
Noah shrugged. 'I don't know.'
'Boy,' the young one said, 'you must be well serviced.'
'Ah,' said the sailor with the hat on, 'let's get out of here. Santa Monica!' He stared accusingly at the other sailor. 'We might just as well have stayed on the Base.'
'What about him?' Noah touched the drunk sleeping peacefully on the mahogany.
'That's the lady's problem.'
The young sailor put on his little white hat with an air of severe purpose and the two boys went out. 'Twenty- five bucks!' Noah heard the older one say as he slammed the door.
Noah waited a moment, then patted the sleeping drunk in a comradely fashion, and followed the sailors. He stood outside the door, breathing the soft, wet air, feeling it chill his flushed face. Under a wavering, uncertain lamp-post down the street he saw the two blue figures forlornly disappearing into the fog. He turned and went in the other direction, the whisky he had drunk hammering musically and pleasantly at his temples.
Noah opened the door with careful deliberation, silently, and stepped into the dark room. The smell was there. He had forgotten the smell. Alcohol, medicine, something sweet and heavy… He fumbled for the light. He felt the nerves in his hand twitching and he stumbled against a chair before he found the lamp.
His father lay rigid and frail on the bed, his mouth open as if to speak in the bare light. Noah swayed a little as he looked down at him. Foolish, tricky old man, with the fancy beard and the bleached hair and the leather-bound Bible.
Make haste, make haste, O God, to deliver me… What religion does the deceased profess? Noah felt a little dizzy. His mind didn't seem to be able to fix on any one thing, and one thought slid in on top of another, independent and absurd. Full lips. Twenty-five dollars for the sailors and nothing for him. He had never had particular luck with women, certainly nothing like that. Trouble probably made a man attractive, and the woman had sensed it. Of course she had been terribly drunk… Ronald Beaverbrook. The way the flowers had waved on her skirt as she rolled towards the ladies' room. If he had stayed he'd probably be snug in bed with her now, under the warm covers, the soft, fat, white flesh, onion, gin, raspberry. He had a piercing, sharp moment of regret that he was standing here in the naked room with the dead old man… If the positions had been reversed, he thought, if it was he lying there and the old man up and around, and the old man had got the offer, he was damned sure Jacob would be in that bed, now, with the blonde and the Four Roses. What a thing to think of. Noah shook his head. His father, from whose seed he sprang. God, was he going to get to talk like him as he grew older?
Noah made himself look for a whole minute at his father's dead face. He tried to cry. Somehow, deserted this way, at the end of a year, on this winter night, a man, any man, had the right to expect a tear from his only son.
Noah had never really thought very much about his father, once he was old enough to think about him at all.
