I returned to the Inn and placed a call to Carter. Carter had a lawyer’s mind for reasoning the unreasonable, and though it often bothered me that he could be so dispassionate about passionate matters, it always impressed me that his thinking was clear and direct. If there was an explanation for the book of poems, Carter would find it, or he would make me believe he had found it.

Libby Blister told me Carter was in a meeting and would not return until after he attended the memorial service. “I’m sure I can find him, if you need him, though.”

“No, it’s all right,” I said. “I’ll see him at the service.”

“We’re looking forward to having dinner with you tonight,” Libby said cheerfully. “Carter’s talked a lot about you.”

“Believe only half what you hear, and then take that with a grain of salt.”

She giggled. “You must know him pretty well.”

“Believe me, too well,” I said. “Tonight, then?”

“Tonight.”

It was nine-thirty. I sat at the desk in my room and read Whitman’s poem of the child going forth. Whoever left the book at the Home had to know Avrum well. Avrum had imagined the poem was the story of his life, of his history. Childlike, he had filled himself with all that he had seen and heard and experienced, and he had tried to leave payments of himself for all those things that had mattered to him.

Yes, I thought: I will read the poem.

I rested and then went to Dan Wilder’s Coffee and Pastry Shop and had coffee and a breakfast of crumb cake fresh from a morning baking. I left at ten-thirty for the Home. Sammy and Lila had promised to meet me there. Sammy was giddy. He had his camera. “I want to take some shots of you beside my Old Man,” he said enthusiastically. I asked him to wait until after the service.

“Sure, Bobo, sure. I understand. That’ll give us more time.”

Lila looked at me and smiled empathetically.

Inside the Home, the old people were moving into the cafeteria, a slow, waddling, silent crowd. Some of them looked at me suspiciously; others smiled nervously. I saw Leo Gutschenritter and Morris Mekel and Carl Gershon. They were sitting together, watching intently.

Sol was in the cafeteria, testing the sound system by tapping on the microphone with his finger. The dull, hollow thumping echoed in the room. He seemed relieved to see me.

“I think everything’s ready,” he told me.

“I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble. I didn’t even think about a sound system.”