As we smoked, Dr. Rising was gazing behind me, so I swiveled around. On the shelf was a framed photograph of a teenage boy in a cap and gown who bore a striking resemblance to a young Dr. Rising, and therefore to Babe Ruth in his rookie season.

“My son, Richard,” the doctor said with pride. “His high-school graduation.”

I was astounded that Glenna had lied to me about being an only child, and I was trying to come up with potential explanations for the lie when Dr. Rising said, “Richard was a prodigy, a true genius in science and math. Ten years older than Glenna. Does medical research in Colorado. Glenna distinguished herself in school, but Richard’s work was of another order.”

I was distracted from the mystery of Glenna and her brother by the sight of a boxy portable radio on the shelf next to Richard’s photo. If you could tune in the news in the aftermath of a missile strike, it should be a cinch to raise a football game under peaceful skies. I asked Dr. Rising if we could listen to the Super Bowl.

“Never played that radio before,” he said. “Paid for the installation of a special antenna on the roof. And I never forget to change the batteries every six months. But I’ve forgotten to play it. Let’s give it a go.”

I reached back and clicked on the radio.

“Marvelous,” Dr. Rising said as I spun the dial through the stations and tuned in the game.

The third quarter was under way, and miracle of miracles, the Jets were up thirteen-zip. Late in the period, Johnny Unitas, the greatest play caller and passer in history, who had been nursing a sore elbow all season, replaced Earl Morrall at quarterback. But even if Johnny U. could save the game for the Colts, he wasn’t going to beat the eighteen-point spread. So I was a grand to the good, which is pleasant knowledge to have while listening to the Super Bowl and sipping cognac in a bomb shelter.

Dr. Rising was also having a bang-up afternoon, though I think that was because he ordinarily drank alone, and today he had more to keep him company than the Rémy Martin. He surely didn’t follow football. At the outset of the fourth quarter, when Turner’s field goal bumped the Jets’ lead to sixteen, Dr. Rising told me that he was rooting for New York because he’d once taken Richard to watch them play the Cleveland Browns at the Polo Grounds. I was too polite to indicate that he was talking about the NFL’s Giants, except then he asked me when the Giants had changed their name to the Jets, and I diplomatically explained pro football’s expansion.

“A new league,” he mused. “I must’ve missed that. When did they start it?”

“Oh, let’s see,” I said as nonchalantly as possible so as not to offend him, “eight, nine years ago.”

He raised a yahrtzeit glass and said, “I’ll drink to that,” which he did, and kept doing, until the Jets won the game 16–7.