ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER
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such occasions . What he witnessed was not just a burial but an an–
cient sacrifice wherein a lot was cast to determine who should be
given back to the soil on this gloomy winter day. They had to fill the
grave in a hurry, before the earth froze .
As soon as the ceremony was over, the rush to depart began.
Everyone spoke of one thing only-the best way to get back to the
city. The matter of transportation had now become the paramount
issue; men and women vied with one another in their knowledge of
shortcuts, tunnels, and bridges .
He did not return to the limousine but struck out on his own, in
search of a bus or subway. He had severed his relations with those
who drove back in the black Cadillac with the stiff chauffeur. Some–
one had to acknowledge that Bessie was now lying in a casket
covered with earth, while myriads of microbes were beginning to
decompose her flesh and return it to the elements. Did some vestige
of thought still remain in her brain? Had her spirit been entirely ex–
tinguished, and did absolute darkness alone hold sway?
If
that were
so, Bessie hadn't even died-she had just vanished. It was actually
his funeral, he thought, not hers.
He shivered and raised his collar as he trudged through snow
and slush. He lifted his eyes heavenward; perhaps he would be given
a sign there. Maybe the divine powers would make an exception.
But the clouds overhead writhed brown as rust. The wind caught up
his hat, but he recovered it at the very last second. The Lord of the
Universe, or His appointees delegated to rule this insignificant
planet, were apparently in no mood for revelation.
As he sloshed down the street, a hodge-podge of garages, unoc–
cupied buildings, and empty lots, a horn sounded. He turned to see
a man leaning out of a car window who said, half questioningly,
"You were at the funeral. You want to go back to the city?"
"Yes."
"Get in." He got in and thanked the stranger. Only now did he
take a real look at the driver, elderly but powerfully built, with broad
shoulders, gray curly hair, and a red flattened face with a wide nose
and thick lips clamped around a cigar. His eyes were gray and
overhung by bristling brows. He wore a snappy yellowish overcoat
of the kind worn by old people attempting to appear younger. His
hat sat jauntily on his head, sporting a red feather in its band. Even
his manner of driving accentuated his efforts to appear young: he
lounged in his seat, holding the wheel negligently in one hand, with
the easiness of a driver fully capable of handling any possible emer-
