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All the nurses I had seen so far appeared to be in their twenties. She had her coat over her arm, the straps of her bag over her shoulder and a carrier bag in one hand, so she looked like she was either just coming in or just going out. The other two nurses were embracing her in turn, whispering and looking tearful.I was going to speak to them about my father and to pass on my thanks but didn’t want to interrupt them, after all it could wait until I came back after my coffee. As I passed them by, they hadn’t really noticed me as they were so engrossed in their own conversation. I was trying to ignore them, until I heard one nurse beg the older one to “Go home, Maureen” in a slightly more forceful tone than the rest of the conversation. That pricked up my ears.I turned back to face them over the counter and cleared my throat. The nurses turned as one to attend to me in their usual professional manner.“Sorry to hear about your loss, Mr Bird,” said one young nurse, sympathetically,. Many more one would think remaining in their closets. You're an actor, act straight if you have to."They talked movies, mostly Hollywood, particularly Douglas Sirk and "Written on the Wind," which had been the starting point being such a campy movie and starring Rock Hudson. Joseph was surprised when Jordan told him about his love of Godard and Truffaut and the French New Wave, which led the conversation to the American film noir of the forties and fifties, a topic Jordan was unfamiliar with.After the long slow walk, they arrived at Jordan's house, an older, rundown one story home. Jordan invited Joseph in. He was introduced to a woman in her forties whose once beautiful face had gone pasty and bloated and her once lively eyes had darkened and saddened. She was in a house coat and her bleached blonde hair with dark roots was untouched and chaotic like Medusa. There was a bottle of scotch on the kitchen table; some of its contents had been poured into a glass sitting in the mother's.
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