The old man in the gray suit stood up, holding his hat in both hands, and crossed the fellowship hall to stand beside my son Darius. Clarence, still grinning from his own joke, lowered his punch cup.
The old man introduced himself. His name was Mr Abernathy. He told the room that two years ago he buried his wife of fifty-eight years at a funeral home in Greensboro, and that his only son, who lived three hours away, did not come. Not to the visitation, not to the service, not at all.
He sat alone in the chapel that day, an old man beside his wifes casket with not one soul to sit with him.
Except a young man who worked there. A young man who was supposed to be setting up chairs for the next service, who instead sat down beside him and stayed. For six hours. Held his hand during the prayer. Drove him home when it was over because Mr Abernathy was in no state to drive. Called him the next week to check on him, and the week after that.
That young man was Darius.
They are all dead, Clarence had said, you have got the easiest job in America. He did not know the hardest part of that job is sitting with the living when no one else will.
Mr Abernathy told the room that Darius had driven the long car for his wife with more tenderness than his own son could manage, and that he had come to this birthday party, invited quietly by Mother Lewis, for one reason, to say thank you in front of the family who did not seem to know what they had.
My mother, eighty-five and sharp as a tack, squeezed Dariuss hand and smiled at Clarence the way she used to smile right before she sent one of us to our room.
Clarence set down his punch cup and did not mention his golf handicap again. Darius just helped his grandmother with the last of her cake and said, it was my honor, Mr Abernathy, truly. He meant it. He always does.