It was not a church service. It was a circus event. When I read my brother’s sermon, I heard a high-pitched, rushing voice, not the Richard Burton baritone of Raymond. I tried to remember how Raymond appeared in the pulpit, how he would pause and curl the Bible in his hand, how he used his arms to scatter words into the congregation like a sower of truth, and I tried to emulate him. Harry later told me I looked like an addicted spastic begging for medication.

And then the oddest thing happened. When I finished the reading of the sermon, I stepped back, and suddenly, in unison, the congregation rose and began applauding. George was startled, and so was I. I wondered what Raymond would do, but I had never seen a congregation offer a standing ovation for Raymond. I did the only thing I could: I bowed slightly and sat down.

“Hallelujah!” George thundered. “Praise Jesus!”

Standing at the front door to greet the congregation after the service, I heard the voices— “Gut, gut… Ja, gut…” —and I looked into their confused, smiling faces. Nora Dowling and Mrs. Mendelson embraced me. Harry mumbled, “Praise Jesus.” Avrum said, “I gave a dollar.” Joel Lourie said, “Very nice, Bobo, very impressive. Your brother would be proud.” Evelyn Lourie smiled. Amy touched my arm. I could feel the heat of her fingers through my suit.

Avrum’s request that his memorial service—or my memorial service for him—should be held on the third day after his death was his teasing of that uncomfortable Sunday, as well as his mockery of religion, but I did not care. He had been my friend. I could accept the mockery. Avrum had also balanced his mockery with humor: no requiem music. And I understood that, too. Avrum despised requiem music. To him it did little more than bore the living and irritate the dead. “If you must do music, do one of your songs from the fields,” he had said to me. “Just don’t make it about Jesus.”

At eleven o’clock, the cafeteria was filled. In one corner of the room, I saw Sammy and Lila standing beside Sammy’s Old Man. He smiled radiantly and lifted his camera in salute and pointed to his sculpture. I nodded to him. Lila pulled his arm down.

I did not see Carter, but it did not surprise me. Carter was always late to events that he attended only out of obligation. “Last in, first out,” he had often bragged. “Anything else is a waste of time.”

Sol stood at the metal podium, waiting for the doors to close. The lights for the video camera struck him and I saw him blink and drop his head, then raise it again.