Building the garage had been a project of pride for Tom. He slowed the Jeep now, aimed it straight ahead and watched for the green tennis ball suspended from a string tied to a ceiling beam. The moment he saw the ball thump against the windshield, he braked. He’d come up with the tennis-ball solution after ramming his first car into a workbench he’d installed across the back wall of the garage. As there was little room to spare, the swinging tennis ball saved all subsequent vehicles from minor scratches and dents. He scooped up his groceries and entered the house through the side door.

He was sorry Will hadn’t stayed longer. His son was good company and there was never any loneliness when he was around. But when Tom was alone, as he was now, his own footsteps echoed. An inner voice reminded him that he was hanging on by a frayed thread. Sometimes the same voice asked: What’s the point? A question that was never answered.

Ida was the one who’d kept up most of their social contacts. She had organized outings and entertainments. After her funeral service, friends and colleagues came back to the house to support the family. Will and his wife and children circulated, shaking hands and accepting expressions of sympathy. Women busied themselves in the kitchen. Tom noticed that his male contemporaries sat around the edges of the living and dining rooms, rheumy-eyed with drink. One of them mentioned that he’d started up a branch of the Fountain Pen Society, and he invited Tom to join. They needed a few more members before they began to meet at one another’s homes. Tom hadn’t owned a fountain pen for thirty years, and though he could see the interest in old pens—why would that be any different than an interest in old watches?—he declined. The main reason was that he couldn’t imagine himself taking part in discussions about nibs, pens and inks. Actually, he didn’t know what the members talked about, but he couldn’t work up enough enthusiasm to find out.

During the weeks that followed the funeral, wives left casseroles and tins of date squares at the side door. Whatever they baked was cut into tidy pieces. The phone rang for a while, but gradually these efforts ceased. Neighbours continued to greet him. Acquaintances and regular customers dropped in at Rigmarole to express condolences. But his present life was not his easy, routine life, with Ida looking after most household decisions. The two had relied on each other, and he missed that. He had a flash of memory now about travelling with Ida through a small village in Greece, more than a decade ago. Four old men were sitting in a row on a wooden bench at the edge of the village square, observing activities from which they were excluded. The four kept up a rhythmic clicking of worry beads. Tom did not want to become one of those excluded old men clicking his worry beads.