does it matter if someone sees me?”
“Come in, for God’s sake, don’t stand there arguing.”
“All right, I’ll come in, I have things to talk about anyway. Stand aside. There. I’m in.”
Steve Ralphs backed off across the room and waved to a chair. “Sit.”
“I don’t feel welcome.” Henry sat. “You have any strong liquor around this place?”
“I was just thinking that.” Steve Ralphs jumped, ran into the kitchen, and a minute later returned with a tray, a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and some ice. His hands were trembling as he poured the liquor.
“You look shaky,” said Henry Grossbock. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t you know, can’t you guess? Here.”
Henry took the glass. “You sure poured me a lot.”
“You’re going to need it. Drink.”
They drank and Henry examined his coat front and his sleeves.
“You still haven’t told me where I am going,” he said, “or have I been there already? I don’t usually dress this way except for concerts. When I stand up there before an audience, well, one desires respect. This is very good scotch. Thanks. Well?”
He stared at Steve Ralphs with a steady and penetrating stare.
Steve Ralphs gulped half of his drink and put it down and shut his eyes. “Henry, you’ve already been to a far place and just come back, for God’s sake. And now you’ll have to return to that place.”
“What place, what place, stop the riddles!”
Steve Ralphs opened his eyes and said, “How did you get here? Did you take a bus, hire a taxi, or … walk from the graveyard?”
“Bus, taxi, walk? And what’s that about a graveyard?”
“Henry, drink the rest of your drink. Henry, you’ve been in that graveyard for years.”
“Don’t be silly. What would I be doing there? I never applied for any—” Henry stopped and slowly sank back in his chair. “You mean—?”
Steve Ralphs nodded. “Yes, Henry.”
“Dead? And in the graveyard? Dead and in the graveyard four years? Why didn’t someone tell me?”
“It’s hard to tell someone who’s dead that he is.”
“I see, I see.” Henry finished his drink and held the glass out for more. Steve Ralphs refilled.
“Dear, dear,” said Henry Grossbock, slowly. “My, my. So that’s why I haven’t felt up to snuff lately.”
“That’s why, Henry. Let me catch up.” Steve Ralphs poured more whiskey in his own glass and drank.
“So that’s why you looked so peculiar when you opened the door just now—”
“That’s why, Henry.”
“Sorry. I really didn’t mean—”
“Don’t get up, Henry. You’re here now.”
“But under the circumstances—”
“It’s all right. I’m under control. And even given the circumstances, you were always my best friend and it’s nice, in a way, to see you again.”
“Strange. I wasn’t shocked to see you.”
“There’s a difference, Henry. I mean, well—”
“You’re alive, and I’m not, eh? Yes, I can see that. Hello, I must be going.”
“What?”
“Groucho Marx sang a song with that title.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.”
“Marvelous man. Funny. Is he still around? Did he die, too?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Don’t be afraid. I’m not. Don’t know why. Just now.” Henry Grossbock sat up straight. “To business.”
“What business?”
“Told you at the front door. Important. Must tell. I am very upset.”
“So was I, but this liquor does wonders. Okay, Henry, shoot.”
“The thing is—” Henry Grossbock said, finishing his second drink quickly, “my wife is neglecting me.”
“But Henry, it’s perfectly natural—”
“Let me finish. She used to come visit constantly. Brought me flowers, put a book nearby once, cried a lot. Every day. Then every other day. Now, never. How do you explain that? Refill, please.”
Steve Ralphs tipped the bottle.
“Henry, four years is a long time—”
“You can say that again. How about Eternity, there’s a real vaudeville show.”
“You didn’t really expect to be entertained, did you?”
“Why not? Evelyn always spoiled me. She changed dresses two or three times a day because she knew I loved it. Haunted bookshops, brought me the latest, read me the oldest, picked my ties, shined my shoes, her women’s-lib friends joshed her for that. Spoiled. Yes, I expected to have someone fill the time for me.”
“That’s not how it works, Henry.”
Henry Grossbock thought and nodded, solemnly, and sipped his whiskey. “Yes, I guess you’re right. But let me name the biggest problem.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s stopped crying. She used to cry every night, every day at breakfast, twice in the afternoon, just before supper. Then, lights out, crying.”
“She missed you, Henry.”
“And now she doesn’t?”
“Time heals all wounds, they say.”
“I don’t want this wound healed. I liked things just the way they were. A good cry at dawn, a half decent cry before tea, a final one at midnight. But it’s over. Now I don’t feel wanted or needed.”
“Think about it the way you had to think about your honeymoon with Evelyn. It had to end sometime.”
“Not entirely. There were stray bits of it for the rest of forty years.”
“Yes, but you do see
