Norman Gold bobbed his head. “I understand. My concern is that the kaddish, or maybe the reverence for the dead, is not insulted.”

“I respect that,” I said.

“The sacred ceremonies, they mean much to us,” Norman Gold said quietly. “I wasn’t sure you had ever attended one.”

“Not many,” I told him. “A few. The first one, in fact, was here, in this room.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“A bris.”

He laughed easily. “That must have been memorable for you.”

“It was,” I admitted. “It was the grandchild of a guest. The parents lived in Big Indian in a home too small for the ceremony.”

“Then you know what I mean,” Norman Gold said.

I remembered the bris. Amy had persuaded the grandparents—the Cohens—to invite Carter and me. At first, Carter had declined. He had been to a bris. “I don’t care what they call it, to me they’re cutting his pecker off,” he had complained. “They get him drunk on wine sucked from a cloth and then whack away. Who wants to see that?” Amy had forced him to attend. “If you don’t come, Bobo won’t either,” she had badgered, “and I want Bobo to see it.” I had asked, “Why?” and Amy had answered, “I want to see you in a yarmulke.” I had asked what a yarmulke was. “Didn’t you ever see a Jewish baseball team?” Carter had answered. “It’s a baseball cap without a bill.” At the bris, in a borrowed yarmulke, I had been pronounced exceedingly handsome by Amy. “It’s a setup, boy,” Carter had warned. “She wants you to know what you’re going to go through when the two of you start having babies.” The ceremony, I thought, was beautiful. There had been much laughter and many tears.

“Yes, I think I know how you feel,” I said to Norman Gold.

He rubbed his hands together and smiled. “So, we will see. If you need me for anything, please call.”

I promised that I would.

Norman Gold left a few minutes later, after casual talk about Avrum’s passion for Amelita Galli-Curci. Norman Gold confessed that he, too, loved the opera and was familiar with the Galli-Curci legends. Other than for arguments about God, it was one of the reasons he had visited Avrum at the Home.

“At least, he knew about worship,” Norman Gold said.

“Yes, he did,” I agreed.

As I started up the stairs to my room, Lila stopped me.

“Thanks, Bobo,” she said sarcastically. She was standing at the door leading into the dining room.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.

“You made me sit here half the afternoon entertaining a rabbi. I’m not used to that. Makes me squeamish.”

“I think, Lila, that it was the rabbi who was squeamish.”