“C’mon in,” I say. “Thank you for coming. I’m Sol Gedenkenman. That’s right, the one who called the funeral home. Yes, that’s right, he was my uncle.”
The rabbi says he’s sorry for my loss and so forth, asks if my uncle had any kids of his own and I say no. He looks around at the chairs real slow, like it’s a big decision which one to sit in. Finally, he picks one, the orange one with the big yellow and green flowers. He sits down, takes out a pad and a pen from some kind of knapsack like the school kids use, looks at me like he’s waiting for me to tell him something. Just sits there, doesn’t say anything. Clears his throat, like he’s waiting. So I start to talk.
“Okay, Rabbi,” I say to him. “I’ll tell you how it was. You know how every family has one cousin or uncle all the kids chase after and hang onto, like he was the ice cream man on a hot day? That was my Uncle, Solly Gedenkenman. He should rest in peace.”
The rabbi checks his pad where he scribbled the names, looks mixed up, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask. I feel kind of sorry for him, cat got his tongue and so forth. So I explain it real slow: “Yeah, that’s right,” I say, “My uncle had the same name as me, even though we were Jewish. That’s what I’m getting around to explain to you. Believe...
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