Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  He took a deep breath and was silent for a long time. He didn’t seem to move on his bed and Noah looked uneasily over at him to make sure he was still alive.

  “Dear Brother,” Jacob said, finally, his voice broken and hoarse, and unrecognizable, “everything I have told you is a lie. I have led a miserable life and I have cheated everyone and I drove my wife to her death and I have only one son and I have no hope for him and I am bankrupt and everything you have told me would happen to me has happened to me.…”

  His voice stopped. He choked and tried to say something else, and then he died.

  Noah touched his father’s chest, searching for the beating of his heart. The skin was wrinkled and the bones of his chest were jagged and frail. The stillness under the parched, flaked skin and the naked bone was final.

  Noah folded his father’s hands on his chest, and closed the piercing, staring eyes, because he had seen people doing that in the movies. Jacob’s mouth was open, with a realistic, alive expression, as though he were on the verge of speech, but Noah didn’t know what to do about that, so he left it alone. As he looked down at his father’s dead face, Noah could not help realizing that he felt relieved. It was over now. The demanding imperious voice was quiet. There would be no more gestures.

  Noah walked around the room, flatly taking inventory of the things of value in it. There wasn’t much. Two shabby, rather flashy double-breasted suits, a leather-bound edition of the King James Bible, a silver frame with a photograph of Noah, aged seven and on a Shetland pony, a small box with a pair of cufflinks and a tiepin, made of nickel and glass, a tattered red manila envelope with a string tied around it. Noah opened the envelope and took out the papers: twenty shares of stock in a radio-manufacturing corporation that had gone into bankruptcy in 1927.

  There was a cardboard box on the bottom of the closet. Noah took it out and opened it. Inside, carefully wrapped in soft flannel, was a large, old-fashioned portrait camera, with a big lens. It was the one thing in the room which looked as though it had been treated with love and consideration, and Noah was grateful that his father had been crafty enough to hide it from his creditors. It might even pay for the funeral. Touching the worn leather and the polished glass of the camera, Noah thought, fleetingly, that it would be good to keep the camera, keep the one well-preserved remnant of his father’s life, but he knew it was a luxury he could not afford. He put the camera back in the box, after wrapping it well, and hid the box under a pile of old clothes in the corner of the closet.

  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 toward 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’Day’s.”

  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 toward the rear of the room. Noah started toward 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 dialed 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 a 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 second and sell the camera and the other things. “The address is 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, les 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 whiskey-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 toward 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, toward the unoccupied end of the bar near the door and sat on a stool.

  “Whiskey,” 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 toward 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 his. “Honey, I’m in trouble, and I looked around the bar and I decided you were the 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, they’re out of bed and they’re putting on their pants 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 inning. 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 purse-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 stingy, 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 steadily, 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, 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.”
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br />   “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.”

  “Where’s the Base?” Noah asked.

  “San Diego. But he …” The older sailor gestured bitterly and derisively at the fuzz-topped one.…“he had us all fixed up in Santa Monica. Two widows with a private house. That’s the last time I’ll leave any arrangements to you.”

  “It’s not my fault,” the young one said doggedly. “How was I supposed to know they were kidding me? How was I supposed to know the address was a phony?”

  “We walked around in this damn fog for three hours,” the older sailor said, “looking for that fake address. New Year’s Eve! I’ve had better New Years when I was seven years old on a farm in Oklahoma. Come on … I’m getting out of here.”

  “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 lamppost down the street he saw the two blue figures, forlornly disappearing into the fog. He turned and went in the other direction, the whiskey 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.