Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

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by GEORGE CHRISTY Only the two of them were in the white hospital room. The eighty-two-year-old man with the ' snow-white hair and the thin, drawn face lay back on the white pillowcase. His deeply-set brown eyes stared at his grandson glassily. Falteringly, in a hesitant mixture of Italian and English, the boy was saying . . . “Grandpa,” his voice was soft, broken by tears. “Grandpa, do you understand what I’ve been telling you? I want you to know . . .” Johnny Saxon didn't finish the sentence. His grandfather was not listening, a serene expression passed over his face in spite of the short, huffy and uncomfortable gasps in his breath. Leaning over, Johnny clasped his grandfather’s hard, wrinkled hand in his. “Grandpa,” Johnny asked, calling the old man as he used to as a boy. “Tell me, look at me ... let me know you understand.” His grandfather lay still. The (Continued on page 86)