Early in his career, he had a wonderful library of books about canopic jars, and paintings and photographs of them; the whole process was so fascinating and guaranteed to hold a class’s interest. Then of course, that silly fad of imitation canopic jars sprang up, and that’s all anyone gave him for years, everything from the sentimental syrupy ones—wishes, dreams, desires—to the irreverent—ex-wives, grudges, felonies. Beware if you are a man with a hobby and anyone discovers it—you will get more urns than there are shelves; or if you like to fish, you will get fish that flap and sing and all kinds of silly rulers and signs about lying. Or baseball: you will get baseballs that talk. Whatever, all silly, and, what’s more, it will taint your desire for this thing you love, which someone else is trying to claim with you. Part of having an interest is that it is yours—or should be—in a way that allows you to feel removed, instead of invaded, like the kudzu and wisteria overtaking the trees around him. He stops again to judge his distance from the car. So hard to find the right spot.

Years ago, when he sometimes practiced class lectures on Lil, he told her about the special ceremony that took place to open the mouth of a mummy so he could speak in the next life, and she immediately began naming all of the people she hoped they kept sealed up. She said, “Mum’s the word!” Something she repeated a lot, especially after they moved. Now, he finds it all funny and has for a lot of years, but that night as he practiced, a young professor craving respect and recognition and tenure, he was irritated that she didn’t listen better, that she didn’t at least say something serious—How did they do that? or Oh, how interesting! or how smart his words were—before it became a conversation that was about her being funny. It was a time in his life when he really needed to be heard. He needed to be seen, to feel alive. He had just turned the age his father was when he died, and he woke each day with a tightening in his chest, a reminder that this could be his day. Of course, Lil also made him aware of that, since she herself had already experienced it.

“What haven’t you experienced, Lil?” he asked her. “Anything? Is there anything at all?”

“I haven’t been to the moon,” she said. “I haven’t gotten the Nobel Peace Prize,” and then when she realized he wasn’t laughing, she put her arms around him, the same way she did with the kids, when offering comfort. “Really, Frank,” she said. “You’ll be great. You always are.”