“That is when Avrum came out of his hiding. He had a bouquet of roses that he had picked from the roadside. He called out to her, ‘Wait, please.’ She turned back to him and he crossed the lawn of her home and handed her the roses.

“She took them, looked at them, and then she threw them at his feet. She shouted at him, ‘Leave me in peace.’ And Avrum hurried away. He did not know she had heard the stories of a man who worshiped her, who followed her each summer to the Catskills. He would not know that until years later, when he read an account of it in an interview that was published in an opera magazine.

“That night, Avrum took his collection of recordings by Amelita Galli-Curci and he wanted to smash them. He wanted to destroy all that he had ever felt for her, but as he raised the first record to strike it against a chair, he began to hear her voice, and he put the record away.”

I could hear whispers from the silhouettes.

“I do not know why he heard her voice,” I said, “but he did. I have never doubted that. The mind, obsessed by very great caring, is a marvelous thing, I think.

“And this is the last thing I want to say: When you think of Avrum Feldman, think of him as a man who had a gift, not a burden. He told me he was Whitman’s Old Man. I think he was Whitman’s Child. And it is my hope that that child will rest in peace.”

I moved away from the podium.

There was no response from the audience, only the sound of labored breathing. Sol walked to the microphone and said, “This ends the memorial service for Mr. Feldman. Thank you for attending. You may return to your other activities now.”

The glare of the camera lights pivoted to scan the leaving audience. Sol extended his hand. “Very nice,” he said. “Very warmly done.”

I could see Dee Richardson flash a thumbs-up approval from the back of the room. Sammy and Lila were standing beside the Old Man sculpture. Sammy was aiming his camera at me. The flash spit light and I blinked at the glare. I felt someone touch my arm and I heard a voice.

“Bobo.”

I knew who it was before I turned.

Amy Lourie.

Carter was standing beside her, beaming.

CHAPTER 14

I WANTED TO SPEAK AMY’S NAME, BUT I WAS NUMBED BY DISbelief. She was dressed in a dark blue pants suit, with a simple white silk blouse that buttoned at her throat. She wore a delicate silver necklace with a blue love stone, like the one she had given me, set in a oval of thin silver. She was as beautiful as she had been on the first night that I saw her in Arch’s.

“Jesus, Bobo, don’t you know who this is?” Carter prodded.