Hawkins stood up. The men outside the circle were still talking and eating. They hadn’t heard any of this. They weren’t part of it any more than Hawkins was. He was dismissed. Alldmann and Roth moved to let him out; Dworkin kept a hold on his arm, and before he could say any more to Levy he was on the outside and Dworkin was leading him to the table. He looked back. It was a definite circle, seven men and one empty stool. A circle of men—a tribe in Brooklyn.

Dworkin filled a paper plate with salads, lox, and sturgeon and held it out to Hawkins. He didn’t take it. “Abe, why did Luria slap you?”

Dworkin held the plate. “He was very nervous,” he said. “It was a terrible night.”

“But you said something first. It sounded like Aunt Sophie.”

“Aunt Sophie?” Dworkin asked.

“But drawn out . . . Aaaauunt Sooophie.”

Dworkin looked down at the plate. “We have to find you some place to sit.” He paused, then he said, “Listen to me, we come from the same village; we lived there for generations, maybe centuries. And after so long we’re probably related. Cousins, at least. It’s possible. So Adam was a cousin. More—a son, because he was so bright, and we could be so proud of him.”

If they were a family, Hawkins thought, they didn’t look like one. But even if they were, something more connected them. Family men compete, discuss, argue. These men didn’t even have to talk to each other. They were quiet, but no one was uncomfortable. An outsider broke the circle, bent over Levy, and said something. Then he spoke to Walinsky; then he left the circle, and they relaxed, because it was only them again.

“We’ll try the dining room,” Dworkin said, and he went down the hall, waving at Hawkins to follow. But Hawkins stopped in the doorway to look one more time at the men in the circle.

Dworkin came back without the plate. “You must eat,” Dworkin told him. Then in the kindest voice he said, “Customs last because they have a reason. You loved him, too, your grief is sharp and you feel empty. Eat, you’ll see, the emptiness shrinks and with it a tiny edge of the sorrow. Lean down to me.” Hawkins did, thinking Dworkin wanted to whisper something. But he kissed Hawkins’s cheek gently, firmly, with what seemed great affection. Then he said, “I just cried out last night. The sound was meaningless but it startled poor Isaac and he struck out blindly. You know how it is. . . .” He patted Hawkins’s arm, then went back to his stool and sat down. No one greeted him, no one even looked up, but the circle was complete.