«How did you know―?»
«She was in the graveyard,» I said. «I couldn't stand it. Her just talking to that cold piece of marble and no answers. So I recopied your tapes, just his raves and yells, and one late afternoon looking into the graveyard I saw that yes, she was there and might be there forever and starve and die being there. No answers. But there had to be, even if you don't listen or think you don't, so I just walked in by the grave, turned on the tape, handed it to her where she sat by the stone, made sure he was yelling, and walked away. I didn't look back or wait to hear if she yelled, too. Him and her, her and him, high and low, low and high, I just left.
«Last night she was back here on the bench, eating some cheesecake. I think she's going to live. Isn't that swell?»
Sid listened. The old man was complaining. «Why do I put up with this? Someone tell me! I'm waiting. So?»
«Okay, smartie,» the old woman cried.
Sid and I walked away in the late summer night. Her high voice and his deep voice faded.
Sid took my arm as we walked. «For a goy,» he said, «you make a fine Jew. What can I do you for?»
«Pastrami on rye?» I said.