The minister from the English church finished his "ashes-to-ashes" litany. I had no idea what connection he had to the Tates. He evidently hadn't known Paul, because he spoke in a professionally sympathetic voice that had neither warmth nor sadness in it. The interesting thing to me was that he had the same name as the priest in my hometown – the man who'd delivered the funeral services for both Ross and my mother.

When everything was done, I waited while the people said their last words to India. She looked fine; once again I had to admire how strong and sure she was, notwithstanding the smile of a few minutes before. She was not the kind of woman who would self-indulgently fall into her sadness and never reemerge. Death was forever and horrible, but its force didn't own her as it did so many others in the same situation. I knew the difference, too, because I had seen Ross's death drown my mother in its undertow. Now, watching India walk toward me, I could see that would never happen to her.

"Take me home, Joe?" The wind gusted, and a drift of her hair blew across her face. Although I had expected her to ask, I still felt touched and honored that she wanted me with her then. I took her arm, and she pulled it tight to her side. For a moment I felt the curve and hardness of one of her ribs on the back of my hand.

"I thought it was an okay service. Didn't you? At least it was harmless."

"Yes, you're right. I think those Diane Wakoski poems were lovely."

"Yeah, well, she was Paul's favorite."

The Yugoslav passed and asked if we wanted a ride into town. India said thanks but she wanted to walk for a while, we'd catch the tram a few blocks away. I'd assumed she'd want to go by cab, but I said nothing. When he was gone, we were the only ones left in the cemetery.

"Do you know how they bury people in Vienna, Joe?" She stopped on the gravel path and turned so she was looking down one of the short, orderly rows of grave markers.

"How do you mean?"

"It's not like in America, see? I'm a big expert on it now. Ask me anything. In the States you buy yourself a little plot of ground – your very own piece, right? – and it's yours forevermore. Not here, baby. You know what happens in merry old Wien? You rent a place for ten years. That's right, no kidding! You rent a plot in the cemetery for ten years, and then you have to pay on it again when the time's up or else they'll exhume you. Dig you right back up. One of the guys here told me some graveyards are so popular that even if you keep making your rent payments, they still dig you up after about forty years so someone else can rest in peace for a while. Oh, shit!"

I looked at her; she looked sick and tired of the world. I squeezed her arm and accidentally bumped into the softness of her breast. She didn't seem to notice.

"I know what I'll do, Joe." She started crying and wouldn't look at me. Staring straight ahead, she kept walking. "After ten years here, you and I will get Paul and we'll move him to a brand-new graveyard! A new place in the sun. Maybe we'll get a mobile home and have it fitted out for him. Move him around all the time. He'll be the best-traveled body in town." She shook her head; the tears flew away from her face. The only sounds in the world were her high heels hitting the pavement and the short gasps for breath.

All the way home on the tram she held my hand tightly and looked at the floor. The crying had flushed her face, but it had begun to pale again by the time we reached her stop. I tugged gently on her arm. For the first time she looked from the floor to me.

"Are we here? Would you mind sticking around, Joe? Do you mind coming home with me for a while?"

"Selbstverstдndlich."

"Joey, I hate to tell you this, but you speak German like Colonel Klink on Hogan's Heroes."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Come on, let's get out of here."

The tram glided to a stop. We descended the steep metal steps to the street. I took her arm again, and she pulled it to her side. I remembered the time I'd watched the Tates walk away from me at the Cafй Landtmann. She had held Paul's arm that way, too.

"How did you feel after your brother's death?"

I swallowed and bit my lip. "Do you want to know the truth?"

She stopped and drilled me with one of her looks. "Will you tell me the truth?"

"Of course, India. How did I feel? Good and bad. Bad because he was gone and because he had been so much a part of my life up to that point. Big brothers really are important to you when you're young."

"I believe you. So where did you get off feeling good? Where did that come from?"

"Because kids are omnivorous in their greed. You said so yourself, remember? Yes, I was sorry he was gone, but now I could have his room and his desk, his football and the Albanian flag I'd always coveted."

"Were you really like that? I don't believe it. I thought you said you were such a good little kid."

"India, I don't think I was any different from most boys or girls that age. Ross had been bad for so long that he owned almost all of my parents' attention. Now all of a sudden I was about to get that attention. It's terrible to say, but you said you wanted to hear the truth."

"Do you think it was bad to feel that way?"

We reached the door to her building, and she went digging around in her pocketbook for her keys. I ran my hand lightly down the row of plastic buzzers.

"Was I bad? Sure, I was a nasty little rat. But I think that's the way most kids are. People are so indifferent to them so much of the time, because they're kids, they just naturally grab for whatever they can get. People pay attention to children the way they do to dogs – once in a while they kiss and hug and smother them with a thousand presents, but it's all over in two seconds, and then the grownups want them out of there."

"Don't you think parents love their kids?" She turned the key in the lock and pushed the heavy glass door open.

"If I were to generalize, I'd say they love them but wish they'd stay at a good distance. Once in a while they want them around so they can giggle and laugh and have fun with them, but never for very long."

"Seems as if all you're saying is kids are dull."

"Yes, India, I'd agree to that."

"Were you a dull kid?" She turned to me and dropped the keys into her purse in one movement.

"Compared to my brother I was. I was dull and good. Ross was interesting and bad. But really bad. Even evil sometimes."

She reached over and took a thread off my coat. "Maybe that's why your parents paid more attention to him than to you."

"Because he was a bad boy?"

"No, because you were dull."

The stairwell was damp and dark after our having been outside in the sun for so long. I decided to say nothing to India's mean remark. She went ahead of me. I watched her legs climb the stairs. They were so nice.

The apartment was a mess. It was the first time I'd been back there since the day Paul died. Cardboard boxes on the floor, the couch, and the windowsill. Men's clothes and shoes unceremoniously dumped into them; some were already brimming over with socks, ties, and underwear. Over in a corner three boxes were sealed with shiny brown tape and stacked out of the way. There was no writing on any of them.

"Are these Paul's things?"

"Yes. Doesn't it look as if we're in the midst of a fire sale? I got so uncomfortable opening closets and drawers and seeing his things everywhere I decided to lump it all together and give it away."

She walked into the bedroom and closed the door. I sat down on the edge of the couch and shyly peered into an open box on the floor near my foot. I recognized a green sport shirt Paul had often worn. It was ironed and, unlike the other clothes in there, folded neatly and placed on top of some brown tweed pants I'd never seen before. I reached into the box and, after a quick glance at their bedroom door, took the shirt out and ran my hands across it. I looked at the door again and brought the shirt up to my nose to smell. There was nothing – no Paul Tate left in it after its washing. I put it back and unthinkingly brushed my hands off on my pants.