“The person you’re looking for is not in there, Bobo,” he declared. “The only reason you come here is because every one of those piles of bones reminds you of something that happened with her. You’re forgetting your Bible, my man: ‘Why seek the living among the dead?’ Or was that Shakespeare? Anyway, she’s not out here, and if she were, it wouldn’t do you any good, would it?”

I had never considered that I was looking for Amy in the cemetery, as Carter had accused, yet it was true that when I was there, I would sense her. Gentle thoughts, gentle moments. Like leafing through an album of old family photographs and pausing, with a tremor of gladness, over a smiling face from another, smiling time.

I remembered her at Ben Benton’s grave. Remembered Ben’s affable kidding about dating a rich Jewish girl from the city. Remembered his constant offers to let me borrow his garbage truck to drive her to some isolated country road to park and make out. “Won’t nobody mess with you in my truck,” Ben had bragged.

I remembered her at Nora Dowling’s grave. Remembered seeing Nora Dowling’s look of pride over my friendship with Amy sour into a frown of concern. “It’s not good to be so close a friend with such a girl at your age,” she had lectured. “She’s pretty. Pretty girls leave their marks. And you are so different, Bobo. So different. It is not easy when you are so different, I can tell you. My late husband, he and I were different. It was never easy.”

I remembered her at Harry Burger’s grave. Especially at Harry’s grave. At Harry’s grave, I remembered his warnings about Avrum: “Avrum, he wants to make himself young again.… Amy, your Amy, she is lovely, yes, but she is not Amelita Galli-Curci. If you make her that, you will suffer.”

Harry had been prophetic.

And, now, I remembered Amy at the grave of Arch Ellis, which was decorated with fresh flowers in a buried vase. There was no card, but I knew the flowers were from Amy. I stood beside the grave and remembered Amy’s delight over Arch’s stories, remembered her body against me at the dance on Arch’s Night, remembered the covered touch of her hand on mine as we sat together in Arch’s, in a booth, with Carter and Rene sitting across from us.

And I remembered the night, after work, when Joey Li, who had been hired to replace me as the dishwasher, came into Arch’s and said, “Excuse, Bobo. Mrs. Dowling says you have a phone call.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

Joey bobbed his head, a reflex to the Chinese bow he always used in greetings. He answered, “Very sure.”