Harry Burger died in 1958 and was buried in Pine Hill because he believed Pine Hill was where he belonged. Avrum told me about Harry’s death in one of the three telephone calls he made to me in the thirty-eight years that I knew him. He sobbed when he said Harry’s name. The second time Avrum called was a year later. He was worried, he said. It was the day before my wedding to Carolyn. He begged me to wait. He said I had given up too easily. “She is not the one,” he advised. “Listen to me. I know.” He told me again about the terrible pain of loving someone and believing you could never be with them. “It is not always true,” he said. “Why do you not listen to me?” I told him that I was fine, that I was doing what I had always wanted to do. He said nothing more. The telephone went dead against my ear. The third time he called was in 1963. He said simply, “She is gone.” The next day, I read that Amelita Galli-Curci had died in California.

It was ironic, or maybe it was the power of Avrum’s bench, but sitting there, remembering the calls from Avrum, I heard Lila from the front porch of the Inn: “Bobo, you’ve got a call. Some woman from a television station.”

For a moment, an eyeblink, I thought she said that Avrum was calling.

In a way, he was. In a way.

CHAPTER

4
 

THE REPORTER WAS A FREELANCER, A STRINGER FOR CNN, AN aggressive, but pleasant, young woman named Dee Richardson. She said she was calling from Margaretville, a few miles north of Pine Hill, and she wanted to schedule an appointment with me.

“I’ve called a dozen places to track you down,” she said. “They told me at the Home that you were taking care of Mr. Feldman’s affairs.”

“I suppose that’s right. It was something he asked me to do a long time ago, but I’m not sure I can tell you why. We weren’t related.”

“The why doesn’t interest me,” Dee Richardson replied. “I want to talk about his age and his obsession with Amelita Galli-Curci. We’ve been here shooting some background at the Galli-Curci Theater.”

I remembered the theater. It had been dedicated to Amelita Galli-Curci in the early twenties, when she vacationed in the Catskills. Supposedly, she attended the grand opening, sang two selections accompanied by her husband, the pianist Homer Samuels, and never returned.

“Does that still operate?” I asked.

“It’s part of what I would call antique row, but the name’s still there. Will you have time to see me?”

“I suppose,” I answered. “May I ask you a question?”

“Ask.”

“How did you know about Amelita Galli-Curci?”