He had noted the date beneath his initials: 6-11-80. He would have been ninety-three, I thought.

I unfolded the single sheet of paper and read:

Dear Bobo,

I am dead.

When you read this, I will be face-to-face with God. He won’t get away this time.

You are as close to being my son as I have ever had. Go be my son and do away with me. Bury my ashes on the sixth day where I told you. Go do your service that you want to do. Do it three days after I am dead. You know why. No requiem music. You know why.

My kaddish is in the other envelope. Do not listen to the rabbi. Do what I say.

Give away everything I have left.

I love you, my son.

It was signed, Avrum Feldman. The date was the same as on the second envelope: 6-11-80.

CHAPTER

3
 

BEFORE I LEFT MY ROOM FOR LUNCH, I CALLED CAROLYN. SHE works in a small computer store, a job she accepted after our children—Rachel and Lydia and Jason—were gone from home. She does not like the job, but does not dislike it enough to search for another. She makes good money— more than I do—and she has a good arrangement and she knows it. If she wants to take off for a day, to shop, or do nothing, she tells Darby Bailey, who is her employer, and he nods permission. Sometimes she gets annoyed that Darby is so accommodating. She believes he doesn’t want her around. I tell her she would be more distressed if, one day, he refused her request.

Darby answered the telephone. “Yeah, Bobo, she’s here. Just a minute.” Darby’s voice is kind, a voice that people like.

Carolyn did not say, “Hello.” She said, bluntly, “I thought you were going to call me last night.”

“Did I say that? I thought I said I’d call you when I got here. I stayed in Kingston last night. Went to bed early.”

“Never mind,” she said. “We’re busy. Where are you? At the Inn?”

“Yes. You’ve got the number.”

“How long will you be there?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe a week. It’ll take some time to settle things.”

“A week?”

“Maybe less. I don’t know.”

“What’s there to do? He’s dead. You said he was going to be cremated. How long does that take?”

“That’s already been done, as far as I know. But there are other things. A memorial service. Some paperwork. You remember how it was when your father died. It’s not simple.”

Her voice became soft. I knew she was thinking of her father. “I know,” she said.

“I’ll take care of things as fast as possible,” I promised.

“You know where I am,” she said.

“I’m sorry about this, Carolyn.”