He goes to the funeral the next morning, and stands at the back of the chapel at Fairhaven Cemetery. Watches the ceremony dully. He knew Lillian Keilbacher mostly in churches, he thinks. There was a time in high school when he was volunteered by Lucy to help build the Bible school on the back of the church lot; the church was too poor to hire a real construction crew, and the work was all volunteer, led by two churchgoing carpenters who seemed to get a kick out of it all, though it went awfully slowly. Every day that Jim was there he saw a skinny blond girl with braces who had the biggest, most enthusiastic hammer swing you could imagine. The carpenters used to go pale as they watched, but she was surprisingly accurate. That was Lillian. Jim can see perfectly the delighted brace-bright grin of the girl as she knocked a nail all the way in to the wood with one immense swing, Don the head carpenter clutching his heart and spluttering with laughter.…

They move outside into a shaft of sun. The cemetery is under the upper level of the Freeway Triangle, a concrete sky like low threatening clouds, but there is a big skylight gap overhead to let a little sunlight down. They walk slowly behind a hearse as it navigates the complex street plan of the city of the dead. Population over 200,000. Again Jim walks behind, watching the little crowd of people around the Keilbachers, the way they hold together. There is a feeling in their church community, standing on its little island of belief in the flood of twenty-first-century America, a feeling of solidarity that Jim has never experienced again since he stopped going. The camaraderie, the joy they shared, building that little Bible school! And it turned out solid, too, it’s still there. Yes, there’s no doubt Lucy is on to something with her involvement in the church.… But his faith. He has no faith. And it can’t be faked. And without faith.…

Beyond the last row of graves is an orange grove, standing under a big skylight. The procession is in shade now, under the concrete underside of the Triangle, and the wide shaft of light falling on the green-and-orange trees is thick with dust, very bright. The trees are almost spheres, sitting on the ground: green spheres, dotted with many bright orange spheres. It’s the last orange grove in all of Orange County. It belongs to the cemetery, and is slowly being taken out to make room for the dead.

The ceremony at graveside is short. No sign of Abe, Jim notes. He excuses himself to a disapproving Lucy, and slips off; the idea of a wake is too much.

He tracks up Saddleback Mountain, listening to Beethoven’s Hammerklavier Sonata. There’s no one home at Abe’s place.