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Show ft3 For awhile, we milled aimlessly about the house and took turns answering the telephone, which rang sporadically. Members of the group and the other fundamentalists organizations called to share our sorrow. So did family friends and many of my father's p a t i e n t s. "He was my doctor for t h i r t y - £ i v e years." sobbed an ancient, heavily-accented voice. "Now he dies before me. I cannot see someone e l s e . What can I do?" Mrs. Morgan, my f a t h e r ' s hypochondriacal gumshoe, called, moaning. "But I-have these t e r r i b l e attacks. I'm having one now! What will I do without him? What shall I do? What s h a l l I do?" Danny grimaced and spoke into the receiver. "Do what we a l l have to do - get along without him. Look, take two a s p i r i n and c a l l someone tomorrow." We were touched and a l i t t l e horrified to rediscover that so many depended on him much more than--his own family- Each friend who c a l l e d expressed deep, personal loss. Even my mother was strong, comforting those who called as though something of my f a t h e r ' s indomitable faith had entered her and now reassured others as he would have done. But then, I thought, he bred us to be strong - to be like him, a light to others. When the news report came on, we clustered before the television. The f i r s t scenes showed the outside of my f a t h e r 's office, policemen and r e l a t i v e s clustered about as they wheeled a s t r e t c h e r toward the waiting ambulance. One of my brothers was t h e r e , his face a study in grief, eyes wrinkled in an effort to r e s t r a i n t e a r s , mouth a t i g h t line of emotion - sc like my f a t h e r ' s . Other familiar faces appeared. And then 50 |
