“And the ashes? What will you do with them?”

“Bury them.”

“Where?”

I swallowed. I was not ready to tell anyone where I would bury Avrum’s ashes. It would have been, for anyone other than me or Avrum, a foolish answer. “I’m not sure yet,” I lied. “Certainly nearby.”

“Interesting,” she said. “All of it.”

And then the interview was over. I was surprised that she had not mentioned the destruction of Avrum’s room, and I asked her about it.

She took me by the arm and led me away from Avrum’s bench, where she had positioned me for the taping.

“Look,” she said, “don’t say anything about that. I’d get my tail kicked for not making something out of it. The fact is, this is a much nicer story, and sometimes I think nice gets lost in the shuffle. Let’s just say there are times when enough is enough. He was one hundred and six years old, for God’s sake. He was a man who knew something about love. Why spoil that? Besides, I won’t get this kind of story again for another five years, and I’ll have a dozen of the others before the week is out.”

“You know, Dee Richardson, you’ve almost restored my faith in journalism,” I said.

“And you’ve almost restored mine in friendship,” she replied. “I hope you get a chance to see this.”

“Me, too,” I told her.

Watching her drive away, I wondered how many people would watch Dee Richardson’s love story of an old man and care. I wondered how many would laugh.

CHAPTER

5
 

IT WAS FOUR-THIRTY WHEN DEE RICHARDSON LEFT. A SLIP OF cool air funneled through the village and followed the street out into the valley. Three blocks down, I saw a young girl skipping rope. I could hear the slapping of the rope on the sidewalk, as rhythmic as a calm pulse beat, and I wondered if there was any joy for her in her solitary dance.