She understood, however, when she saw him, for he was older than any man she had ever seen. He sat in the door of his tent, on a low stool with a back to it, so he did not have to keep himself upright, and he seemed to be asleep, though his left hand trembled slightly even in slumber. His face was gaunt, hollow under the cheekbones, as if each year had eaten away a little at his cheeks until he had only a parchment’s thickness of skin hiding his teeth and jawbones from view. Indeed, his face seemed little more than a skull with skin and wisps of hair and beard reaching out in every direction as if they grew with no goal but to escape by whatever route they could find.

If Isaac had said, “Oh, look, Father seems to have died,” Rebekah would not have been surprised. But then, as they approached, the old man’s eyes fluttered open and he slowly turned his head to regard them. He moved no other part of his body and said nothing until at last they were standing before him.

“Sit down,” he said. “Don’t make me lift this old head.”

His voice was thin and reedy and full of air, like a whisper with only a hint of melody in it. It was hard to hear him.

They sat on a rug that had been laid out for visitors. There was a patch of bare earth between their rug and his, and for a moment Rebekah found herself reaching for a stick so she could write, as she had for so many years written every word she said to Father. But if Abraham was deaf, no one had mentioned it. She held the small stick she had picked up and played with it in her fingers, feeling a little foolish.

“She’s a beauty,” said Abraham.

Rebekah bowed her head.

“The Lord has been kind to me,” said Isaac.

“Couldn’t wait for me to perform the marriage,” said Abraham.

Isaac said nothing.

Abraham said nothing. Waiting for an answer?

Finally Rebekah spoke. “The Lord seemed to be acting in haste, and so we hurried,” she said. “I hope we did right.”

“You did what your husband said,” Abraham answered. “No one can fault you.”

Still Isaac said nothing.

“Talk to me, Isaac,” said Abraham. Then, to Rebekah, “He’s stubborn when he’s pouting.”

Was Abraham trying to tease Isaac out of his silence? If he was, it didn’t work. Rebekah did not look at Isaac, though, for that would seem a tacit admission that she, too, thought he needed to speak.

“What am I to call you?” asked Rebekah. “All my life I’ve spoken of you as Uncle Abraham.”

“Call me Grandfather,” said Abraham, “so your children will learn to call me that.”