Sad news travels fast. We’ve decided to wake Dad here at the house, since it’s the place that he most loved, and though we designated tomorrow for formal visiting, that doesn’t stop others from coming today. After the judge and his wife leave, two of Dad’s former law clerks drop by, as do several of his law partners and, as the afternoon progresses, a steady trickle of locals.

I tell myself that this keeps us from dwelling on the mechanics of death. Paul is certainly right about people wanting to share good memories. Does it help? At a time when you need to smile but can’t? Margo can do it. She is the ultimate grown-up. Anne is the ultimate child and, as such, is allowed to break down and be coddled by these people she has known forever. And me?

Ideally, I’d be on the beach with the waves. Was it just yesterday morning that I’d been there with Dad, when he was short of breath, and I did nothing? Would it have mattered if I’d dragged him to the local ER? Would he have allowed it?

This last question is a crock, of course. It puts the blame elsewhere to ease my guilt.

But I’ll always wonder, which is why I need time alone to process what was and will be. If I talk, I want it to be with Margo and Anne about our issues—or with Joy about death and her grandfather—or with Jack about truths that Tom Aldiss now takes to his grave. I want to talk about the future.

But death defines its own moments, and mourning with friends is where we have to be now.

It isn’t until eight in the evening that we’re alone, by which point we’re too tired to talk about ourselves or anything else. It’s just the four of us nibbling bits of a chicken-ziti casserole from a neighbor, and the farro-and-vegetable dish that Anne’s assistant manager brought with Joy in mind. Not that Joy eats much more than we do. Hunger isn’t a priority, any more than working through our differences is. We’re respectful in a hands-off kind of way. We give each other space.

Margo goes upstairs as soon as the kitchen is clean. Anne takes off for Bill’s. That leaves me alone in the living room listening to Joy, who is in the sunroom picking out pieces on the piano. They’re slow, sad ones, a few strains of “Someone Like You,” then strains of “Fix You.” After a silence comes the opening of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 4, which I never thought of as sad but which grows more so as allegro slows to adagio. Then nothing.