“Secaucus is a really great town,” I told him. “Even if years ago it was filled with hog rendering farms and there was a big sign reading ‘The Pig Capital.’”

“James,” said Edgar, before James could say a word.

Everyone peered out at the acres of swampy landfill belonging to another community.

“Isn’t this marvelous,” James commented. “It’s like one of those dystopian films which teenagers so enjoy, where much of civilization has been destroyed. And that sign said we’re in a city called Elizabeth, which is undoubtedly named after one of our most beloved monarchs. And you’ve memorialised her with piles of rotting truck tires, the rusted shells of abandoned vehicles, lakes of iridescent green sludge and a rather pungent odor. May I ask, and only from curiosity, at this wedding—will there be zombies?”

“James!” said Edgar.

“I’m so very sorry,” said James, “that was rude and uncalled for. But—zombies?”

“It depends,” I said, “on which table you’re sitting at.”

We reached Piscataway in a little over an hour and pulled into the parking lot of the temple where I’d been bar mitzvahed, a large brick building with a soaring A-framed chapel and those sort of modern stained glass windows that resemble expensive crafts projects.

“I went to Hebrew school here for about ten minutes because my parents wanted me to appreciate my heritage, but then I told them, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to regular school and then another school.”

“Is your family deeply religious?”

“I’d say we have a chatty relationship with God and appreciate a decent buffet.”

We were late, and as we left the SUV, a second van pulled up and the security team emerged, fanning out to investigate entrances and exits.

“If I were you,” I told the team, “I’d keep my eyes on the bride and my great-aunt Miriam.”

“This is so exciting,” said Edgar, “I’ve been to more than my share of weddings, but they’ve always involved cathedrals and processionals and shrieking choirs. This feels so much more, what’s that expression, user-friendly.”

I almost ran, escaping across the parking lot and past the 7-Eleven and over the many lawns to my childhood home, where I could hide in my old room for the rest of my life, clutching Paddington Bear and gorging on ice-cream bars and Tootsie Pops, in hopes that no one would ever find me. Stop it, I scolded myself. This is your family and you love them and if they embarrass you until you wish you were dead, well, so be it. Shut up. You’re an adult. Gay up. Maybe there’ll be a freak tornado.

“Just remember I warned you,” I told Edgar as we moved through the lobby and into the synagogue.