the edge of the bed.
He lay quite still, though his mind was choked and smothering under a flood of memories that no move of the hand, no wish and no thought could wipe away. Something made him raise his head. The woman had opened her eyes. She was looking full at him, and he held her look. He clasped her hand, let it go, clasped it again, hoping, wondering. Was she really dying? Or just ill? Very tired, orââBut what was she doing here? In this place on this early morning, and the rain pouring outside and a wind breaking over the roofs. He shut his eyes, opened them again. Was she really looking at him? His wife? Fanny?
âFanny! Dear, dear Fanny. Sure God help you, woman, I ⦠How are you now?â
âMy bag?â
âYour bag, Fanny. Why, I donâtâââ and then he smiled, remembering. âWhy, of course. Your bag. Your own bag. Dâyou want it, Fanny?â
âMy bag,â she said.
âYes, yes. Iâhereâwhat is this, itâI wonderââFanny, are you dying? Oh God!â
âMy bag.â
âOf course, Fanny. Here! There now.â
He had found the black bag, for they had not yet taken her things away. It lay on the locker by her bed. He laid it near her hand, and he noticed how she clutched it.
âThere, Fanny.â
âMy bag,â she said, and somehow the voice seemed to rise from the bottom, from the very inside of the bed.
And again he was afraid. âOh Great God this night,â he said, and suddenly sat up rigid. She was looking up at him, as though he were some stranger. She looked through and beyond him. He was a stranger to her.
âI wonât die,â she said.
He felt his arm gripped by her hand, then it slackened and fell away. The words sang their way around the manâs brain. âWonât die! Wonât die!â
Hearing a sound he turned; somebody was coming. He shifted his chair to the head of the bed, and as he moved he saw something that turned him cold.
âTheyâve bound my poor Fanny,â he said. He bent his head on his breast and sobbed. After a minute or two he was silent. The screen had moved then.
It was at this moment that Captain Desmond Fury had come. Father had not noticed son, the son had not noticed the father.
Now they were together, outside the hospital, the rain falling, and a slight mist shrouding the building from a grey, almost starless sky. And the father drew back and then looked up at his son. And Captain Fury looked down at him, and then up at the windows.
âWell! What have you to say for yourself?â asked Mr. Fury.
He stood there, hands in his pockets, looking down at the polished boots, then up at the collar and tie and uniform cap. What had he to say? Anything? So here he was.
âDad! I am sorry about this. Itâs hard all right! Look here, couldnât we go somewhere and talk? I meanâââ Yes, what did he meanâexactly? Take his father home? Go home with his father? What? Which? The rain was falling heavily. âListen, Dad?â
âWell! Iâm glad you went, anyhow! Though she didnât know anybody. I think itâs the end of your poor mother! Only God this night can look to her.â
He looked away from his son. Desmond! The eldest! The first to fly and be free! âThe pusher,â as he called him. Ran off with that woman. Married out of the church. Well, by heck, he had pushed somewhere now! An officer. A captain.
âListen, Dad, Iâm really sorry about this. Look here! Would you like to come home with meâfor the night, say? Besides, we canât stand here in the rain, can we?â
âMaybe not. Well, you look well and fat and prosperous! But then you were always the healthiest in the family. Ah, well! You were always a pusherâa thruster! I tell you straight, your motherâs fair beat. Fair beatâbut sheâs been a sticker your mother has. A real sticker,
Lightnin' Hopkins: His Life, Blues