43A strong wind is blowing at our back. Large drops are falling fast.
“Quick! Under the Old Vic’s porch!” he breaks into a run.
We reach the porch just as the storm breaks.
“I hope it won’t rain at the funeral tomorrow.”
“Rain tonight; clear tomorrow,” he smiles, and brushes off the rain from his arms.
Ever the optimist, I think as I watch him shake the drops out of his hair vigorously, a habit that reminds me of our first meeting when he’d run dripping wet up the stairs into Ah-ku’s room after he’d fought off the urchin boys to snatch back my little red pail and return it to me. The memory brings a smile I try to suppress. A sudden strong gust whips through the porch sending waste papers and memories flying in our direction. Lightning flashes across the sky. The shower has turned int
