Augusta Played Read Online Free PDF Page B

avalanche by dislodging a single pebble. His father roared—or tried to.
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I?” he demanded. “You think I’m not? I could take on a dozen wiseguys like you.” He put an arm around Norman’s shoulders, breaking away to feint and jab. “Sit. Did you eat already?”
    â€œI’m not hungry.”
    â€œJocelyn”—he was leaning into the intercom—“get lunch. How do I know what? Food. Get food.” He turned to Norman. “Now tell me, what kind of a name is Jocelyn?”
    For all the power behind his father’s voice, it came out high—not feminine, but not so masculine, either. It was as if the old man’s gender was fading away with age, like the color in his face. He could end up a pale, brown-specked, cigar-puffing, money-making bookworm. Not that he ever read anything but law. He had strong eyes and even now didn’t need glasses. He peered into Norman’s face, cheeping in that high, loud voice which always came as such an unpleasant surprise and made a listener feel rather as though he were pitching to a bunt. Norman backed away, using as an excuse the cigarette in his hand; his father shoved an ashtray across the desk at him and he put it out. Then he took a seat in a straight-backed chair and tried to get his bearings. His father sat down behind the desk, facing him. His father’s head was bald and lumpy, with a neat white fringe encircling the bottom edge of the skull, like a slipped halo. With his squat, substantial pudge-body widening at the base, he looked like a cross between a cherub (belonging to the knowledgeable order of celestial beings) and a toad. On the right side of his head, alopecia had exposed a thick mole that ought to have been removed, if only as a precaution. But the old man’s gaze was as sharp as Chopin’s Thirteenth Prelude. Norman lit another cigarette, and his father said, “You smoke too much.”
    â€œI know, Pop.”
    â€œFor a son, I have a chimney.”
    â€œI know, Pop.”
    â€œHey, was the train on time? Did you stall? Did anyone get electrocuted on the third rail? Was there a mugging in Union Square?”
    â€œI got here, didn’t I?”
    â€œGood,” he said, “that’s great. What an age. The wonders. Airplanes, rocket ships, miracle drugs, television by satellite—”
    â€œSpare me.”
    â€œYou don’t eat right, Norman. You got no pep.”
    â€œNo get-up-and-go.”
    They glanced at each other slyly, like vaudeville comedians checking out a rival act, and then they smiled, a kind of shorthand applause for each other. The old man laughed until he had to blow his nose to clear his sinuses. He had often explained to Norman that laughing was lousy for the sinuses.
    â€œPop—” Norman began.
    â€œCome on, come on, I don’t have all day. I’m an old man! I could die tomorrow!”
    His father always overacted. Never knew when to quit. It was the thing about him that his mother had always been a little disgusted by, though she would never complain. “Look, Pop, this is serious,” Norman said.
    The old man folded his handkerchief back into his pocket and nodded.
    â€œI’m getting married.”
    The old man was now acting serious. “It’s time,” he said, seriously. “You were the child of my old age.” He looked grim, preparing to meet his maker. Inside, Norman knew, he was as excited as if the Messiah had just walked through the door. More. The Messiah wouldn’t give him a grandson.
    â€œHer name is Gus.”
    â€œGus?” He looked bewildered.
    â€œFor Augusta.”
    â€œShe’s not a Jew?”
    â€œNo.”
    Norman watched his father’s bewilderment deepen. It seemed to sink in through the nonplussed eyes and settle somewhere lower down, around the heart. “I see,” his father said. But Norman knew that he didn’t. He