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           HisfirstthoughtwasthatRachelhadbeenrightandhow.IrwinGoldmanhadindeedaged.Hewaswhat?Fifty-eight,fifty-nine?Todayhelookedagravenandcomposedseventy.HelookedalmostabsurdlylikeIsrael’sPrimeMinisterMenachemBeginwithhisbaldheadandCoke-bottleglasses.RachelhadtoldLouisGoldmanhadagedwhenshecamebackfromherThanksgivingtrip,butLouishadnotexpectedthis.Ofcourse,hethought,maybeithadn’tbeenthisbadatThanksgiving.Theoldmanhadn’tlostoneofhistwograndchildrenatThanksgiving.

           Dorywalkedbesidehim,herfaceallbutinvisibleundertwopossiblythreelayersofheavyblacknetting.Herhairwasfashionablyblue,thecolorfavoredbyelderlyladiesofanupper-classAmericanpersuasion.Sheheldherhusband’sarm.AllLouiscouldreallyseebehindtheveilwastheglitterofhertears.

           Suddenlyhedecideditwastimetoletbygonesbebygones.Hecouldnotholdtheoldgrudgeanylonger.Suddenlyitwastooheavy.Perhapsitwasthecumulativeweightofallthoseplatitudes.

           "Irwin.Dory,"hemurmured."Thankyouforcoming."

           Hemadeagesturewithhisarms,asiftoshakehandswithRachel’sfatherandhughermothersimultaneously,orperhapseventohugthemboth.

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