“Our kids.”

“Who is this?”

“Bobo.”

“I don’t know any Bobo.”

We both laughed, this strange woman and I.

“Ain’t marriage the pits?” she said. “You don’t even sound like my husband, but you ask the same questions.”

“And you don’t sound like my wife,” I told her, “but you have the same answers.”

“You know, that’s scary,” the woman said. “Makes me wonder what happened. Now that I think of it, I—what’s your name?”

“Bobo.”

“Right. Bobo. Now that I think of it, Bobo, this is the first decent conversation I’ve had with anybody in a year.”

“I could say the same, I suppose,” I admitted.

“Well, thanks for the call,” she said. “Hope the kids are all right.”

I had been away from home for two days. I knew that Carolyn would call and I knew the call would come between five-thirty and six. She was—no; we were—that predictable.

There was nothing of importance in the mail, she reported. No phone calls that needed my attention. She had talked to each of the children. They were well. Nothing was different at her work, except for a summer cold that Darby was suffering.

“How much longer are you going to be there?” she asked.

“Probably through the weekend,” I said. “I met with Carter about handling the legal stuff. It’ll take time, but I won’t have to worry about it.”

Predictably, she did not ask about details. She said, with an edge to her voice, “Well, I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Carolyn, I’m not on vacation.”

“Sounds like one to me, if you’re just sitting around, waiting.”

“Well, it’s not. I’ve got the memorial service tomorrow. It takes time to put these things together.”

I could hear her sniff restlessly. I knew she was pacing between the kitchen and the dining room, dragging the long extension cord with her. She said, “Mavis Rogers called to tell me she saw you on television last night. I didn’t know anything about it.”

“It was on down there?” I asked.

“Mavis said it was.” Her words were measured, as though I had called Mavis Rogers personally, secretly, to inform her of the interview.

“I’m surprised,” I said. “I didn’t see it, either. But Avrum was over a hundred. I guess that interests people.”

“Mavis said it had something to do with that opera singer you’re always talking about.”

“Look. I’m sorry about the interview,” I told her. “I didn’t know when it would show, or where. And you know who that opera singer is, and I don’t always talk about her. Anyway, you know the story.”

“I should,” she replied bluntly, “I’ve heard enough about it. It still seems ridiculous to me.”

“I’m sure it seems that way to a lot of people,” I conceded. “It wasn’t to Avrum.”