Norman Gold shifted on the sofa where he was sitting. He lifted his chin and licked on his lips.

“I spent some time today with Sol Walkman at the Highmount Home,” he answered timidly. “I try to stop by there a couple of times a week, to see if I can be of any assistance.”

I thought it would be kind to rescue him from further uneasiness: “You talked about Avrum Feldman’s kaddish. Am I right?”

He nodded with relief. “Yes. That, as well as the generous gift from his estate to the Home. Believe me, it comes at a critical time.”

“I’m glad he had the means to leave something substantial,” I said. “And, to be honest, I think the Home deserves it. They took care of Avrum for many years and he was, at best, a difficult man.”

Norman Gold smiled.

I thought about Carl Gershon and Leo Gutschenritter and Morris Mekel. “I know the Yiddish expression for the way he behaved. Meshugge.”

Norman Gold’s smile became a laugh. “Mr. Feldman was unusual,” he said. “We had many discussions about God.”

“That must have distressed you,” I replied. “His attitude about matters of religion was often very radical. I hope God has settled things for him by now.”

“I’m confident of it,” Norman Gold said.

“He was something of a prophet, though,” I suggested. “He knew this visit would take place, that a rabbi would come to speak to me.”

I could see a question twitch in Norman Gold’s eyes.

“Do you know what he told me?” I said.

“I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“He told me—no, instructed me—to ignore what the rabbi would say.”

Norman Gold brushed his lips with his fingertips. He looked at me, waited.

“There’s an envelope upstairs in my room,” I explained. “I am to open it on Sunday, six days after his death. In it will be his directions about his kaddish.”

A frown settled sadly into Norman Gold’s forehead.

“I am not Jewish, Rabbi Gold, but I know what a kaddish is. And I know that what I am to do is not that. It has nothing to do with a sacred ceremony. The word was used by Avrum as part of his argument with religion— all religion.

“I don’t know why he wanted me to wait six days to open the envelope, but I have a pretty good idea. He meant to pull my leg. He used to joke with me that if Christ could rise from the dead in three days, so could he. I’m certain that in the envelope upstairs, I’ll find a comment, something on the order of, ‘So, maybe it’ll take twice as long for me.’ Whatever it is, Rabbi, it will be a private thing between us, an old argument. I only know that I am bound, as a friend, to follow his wishes.”