Again, there was a pause, then Sol said, curtly, it seemed, “Very well. It’s not a Jewish custom, but as a gentile I thought you may wish to view the body.”

“I have no reason to,” I replied.

“You probably wouldn’t know him. Frankly, he looks bad.”

“I’m sure he does. He was old.”

“Yes,” Sol sighed. “Old and helpless. He required a lot of special attention.”

“He was a special man,” I said.

I could hear Sol Walkman inhale, then he countered, “All of our residents are.” His voice was barely controlled.

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” I told him.

The telephone clicked into a hum.

By late afternoon, I was at the airport in Newburgh, New York, slightly off-balance and groggy, like someone awakening from a disturbed sleep. The day had been a blur—arrangements at school for a substitute to take my classes, flight reservations, hurried packing, the expected and irritating argument with Carolyn, my wife. She had complained about my rush to leave, about the expense of the trip, about forcing her to juggle plans that included both of us. It had been an uncomfortable confrontation. I did not blame Carolyn and, yet, I resented her for not understanding. She had never accepted my friendship with Avrum. To her, it was an odd and ridiculous and embarrassing relationship. What could I possibly have in common with an old man who was as batty as the Mad Hatter? For years, she had accused him of using me, and she had accused me of not having the nerve to call an end to his demands.

“Now that he’s dead, maybe you’ll put all that nonsense behind you,” she had said.

“I didn’t know it was nonsense,” I had replied.

“What else do you call it?”

“Friendship.”

“Good God, Bobo,” she had sighed.

I had wanted to call her immediately after talking to Sol Walkman. I had wanted to tell her about Avrum and how he had warned me by his presence in my classroom. I had wanted her to understand about the shivering and to reply, in her softest voice, “I’m sorry, Bobo. I know he meant a lot to you.”

I could not make the call then because she could not give me the answer I needed. Carolyn was the last person I had called.

The quarrels between us over Avrum were ancient and tiresome.

I rented a car at the Newburgh airport and drove to Kingston and checked into a motel. I had dinner in a small, nearby restaurant, then bought a bottle of brandy from a package store and returned to the motel. In my room, I poured a shot of brandy over ice and took the complimentary Kingston newspaper and propped against the pillows of the bed.