“For those who don’t know me,” I began, “my name is Eric Truell. I accompanied Arthur to China on his last reporting trip, and I was with him when he died.” I paused. That was enough to say. Any more and I would begin to tell lies. “The Bowman family has asked that I read a favorite psalm, which Arthur had marked in his Bible at home. It is Psalm One Hundred and Two.”

I cleared my throat again and began speaking—slowly, evenly, the way the rector had told me to do. Like so much of Arthur Bowman’s life, the funeral was a form of theater, and I wanted to play my assigned role as well as I could. “‘Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry come unto you. Do not hide your face from me in the day of my distress.’” My voice was strong, clear, unreal. People’s faces were turned toward me with attention and expectation. “Incline your ear to me; answer me speedily in the day when I call. For my days pass away like smoke, and my bones burn like a furnace. My heart is stricken and withered like grass; I am too wasted to eat my bread.’”

I had practiced reading the psalm over a dozen times, but until I spoke the words aloud I hadn’t fully understood what a sad, desperate passage it was. The members of the congregation didn’t seem troubled. They mostly had the blank, tolerant looks of irreligious people waiting for the mumbo jumbo to be over. “‘I lie awake; I am like a lonely bird on the housetop. All day long my enemies taunt me; those who deride me use my name for a curse. For I eat ashes like bread, and mingle tears with my drink.’” I stopped for a moment and looked at the audience. I wondered if I was the only one who could hear Arthur’s voice speaking these desperate words. There were a few more verses—happier ones with the boilerplate about God smiting enemies and tormentors—and then I was done.

I returned to my seat. Ed Weiss squeezed my arm as he made his way up to deliver his eulogy. When he reached the lectern, he gripped it tightly on either side and gazed out at the audience. Even at sixty, he was a man of sharp edges—hard cheekbones, a nose that hooked slightly like an Indian chief’s, all that gray hair, swept back on his head—and then the surprise, that lovely, soft smile. He was smiling now, in a way that could only reassure the audience of mourners. This was his flock, more than the rector’s. He removed a written text from his pocket but laid it down, unopened, and began to speak.