"Sure. Some of these go back two years if not more."

"Paid or unpaid?"

"Haven't figured that out yet. A little bit of both, I suspect. It's a mess."

"I can't believe you agreed to do this."

"It's not so bad."

I shook my head at him, smiling slightly. He's a dear and I knew he'd do the same for me if I needed help. We sat in companionable silence, opening and filing bills. I said, "Where's Rosie all this time?"

"In the kitchen making a calf s liver pudding with anchovy sauce."

"Sounds interesting."

Henry shot me a look.

"Well, it might be," I said. Rosie's cooking was madcap Hungarian, the dishes impossible to pronounce and sometimes too peculiar to eat, her fowl soup with white raisins being a case in point. Given her overbearing nature, we usually order what she tells us and try to be cheerful about it.

The kitchen door swung open and William emerged, dressed in a natty three-piece pin-striped suit, a copy of the evening paper tucked under his arm. Like Henry, he's tall and long-limbed, with the same blazing blue eyes and a full head of white hair. The two looked enough alike to be identical twins on whom the years had made a few minor modifications. Henry's face was narrower; William's chin and forehead, more pronounced. When William reached the table, he asked permission to join us, and Henry gestured him into the remaining chair. "Evening, Kinsey. Hard at work, I see. Rosie'll be out momentarily to take your supper order. You're having calf's liver pudding and kohlrabi."

"You're really scaring me," I said.

William opened his paper, selected the second section, and flapped the first page over to the obituaries. Though his lifelong hypochondria had been mitigated by marriage, William still harbored a fascination for those people whose infirmities had ushered them out of the world. It annoyed him when an article gave no clue about the nature of the final illness. In moments of depression or insecurity, he reverted to his old ways, attending the funeral services of total strangers, inquiring discreetly of the other mourners as to cause of death. Key to his query was identifying early indications of the fatal illness – blurred vision, vertigo, shortness of breath – the very symptoms he was destined to experience within the coming week. He was never at ease until he'd solicited the true story. "Gastric disturbances," he'd report to us later with a significant stare. "If the fellow'd only consulted medical authorities at the first hint of trouble, he might be with us today. His brother said so."

"We all have to die of something," Henry invariably said.

William would turn peevish. "Well, you don't have to be such a pessimist. Vigilance is my point. Listening to the body's messages –"

"Mine says, You are going to die one day regardless so wise up, you old fart."

Tonight, Henry glanced at William's paper politely. "Anyone we know?"

William shook his head. "Couple of kids in their seventies; only one with a photo. Couldn't have been taken much later than 1952." He squinted at the page. "I hope we didn't look that smarmy when we were young."