So it was strange for him to be halted at the very turnstile of the subway, recalling that his father had been buried on this day and wondering whether he really oughtn’t go and see the old man. But wondering is a false word for his mental state at this moment. All he knew was that something was drawing him to the cemetery. A true solemnity of soul had somehow descended upon him, and he obeyed it and went back to the street, walked some seven blocks to the trolley, and took it out to the populous graveyards at the northern edge of Brooklyn.

The Jewish dead lie in the earth much as they lived on it – crowded together, one headstone touching its neighbor. Mr Finkelstein entered the cemetery and walked along a winding concrete road which meandered through all parts of the grounds in great loops. To a man of Mr Finkelstein’s speculative propensity, this roundabout way of arriving at a grave presented interesting possibilities. He noted, as he walked, how most of the expensive mausoleums were congregated within easy view of the gates of the cemetery, lending the place a staid and upper-class atmosphere. But once past them the long acres of headstones told the real story, to Mr Finkelstein’s mind. Here were the people, the mass of them. And for every broad and well cared-for stone there were hundreds, thousands, of cheap slates tilting to leeward, their graves sunken or flattened out like so many deflated chests. Off to the right a small funeral procession was making its way and he listened for a moment to the faint sound of the wailing. Another one for Moses, he mused, and went on down the curving road.

His father’s grave was hard to find, but his sharp memory led him surely. He turned off the main road into a little gravel path, then left it and stepped gingerly among the graves of a plot, and squeezed himself up to the resting place he sought.

Looking at the inscription on the stone transfixed him. It always did, despite his cold views on death. But today it was worse, somehow, worse than ever. He looked at the gnarled slab of rock and at the lumpy grass grave, and there was speech forming in him. It distressed him, for he did not like to be affected by this kind of thing. Despite himself he set the carton of toys with one end on the ground and the other resting against his leg, and placed his hands on his hip.

What am I doing here? he wondered. Underneath is probably not even bones left. Maybe one bone. What can I say to a bone ? What am I doing here ?

He could not leave yet, however, for it was as though he knew he had come for some reason and nothing had happened yet.

And then he knew. Standing like this before the old stone he could remember what he had to remember, what he needed now. An old story. He had come to recall the story, the one story his father had been able to tell time after time from start to finish without changing it. Mr Finkelstein had always believed this story, as he had disbelieved the others the old man told, because this one had come out the same every time. And he stood staring at the stone recalling it.