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improbable. They’d met at a United Jewish Appeal Young Leadership event in San Diego. Ray was there because he’d heard that the UJA program was a good place to meet nice Jewish girls. After a series of miserable relationships with shiksas, he’d decided it was time to find a nice Jewish girl and settle down. Brandi was there in search of a nice Jewish man, having just walked out of a grisly two-year affair with a Vegas pit boss. She’d heard from one of her girlfriends that the UJA was filled with eligible, housebroken Jewish attorneys, doctors, and CPAs.
    And thus two lapsed Catholics—Ray from St. Joseph’s parish in Pittsburgh, Brandi from Sacred Heart in Peoria—found themselves seated next to each other during the UJA Young Leadership main event that night: a talk by the Israeli consul on West Bank settlements. Both affected keen interest in the speech while sizing each other up. Ray fit Brandi’s stereotype of a nice Jewish boy: black curly hair, broad nose, dark eyes, platinum Rolex. As for Brandi, although her blonde hair and blue eyes didn’t quite fit Ray’s stereotype, her nametag (B. Wine) assuaged his doubts. After all, he reminded himself, wasn’t Goldie Hawn Jewish? It wasn’t until their third date that they discovered their unexpected kinship. It was not until their sixth date that Brandi revealed the precise nature and venue of the “modern interpretive dance” that she performed for a living.
    Over by the elevators, Ray said something to Brandi. She glanced over at Lou, back at Ray, and nodded. The elevator doors slid open, and Ray gave her a quick kiss before she got on. She waved good-night to Lou as the doors closed.
    Ray came back to Lou. “Where’s your car?”
    â€œIn the garage down the street,” Lou said.
    â€œCome on. I’ll keep you company.”
    They walked to the end of the block. Busch Stadium was directly ahead. To their left was a multi-story concrete parking garage. The wind had picked up—a warm summer breeze that rattled the flagpoles in the plaza in front of stadium. The huge bronze statue of Cardinals legend Stan Musial—Stan the Man—shimmered in the moonlight. Lou looked up into a clear night sky. A crescent moon hung just above the ridge of the stadium. They crossed the street and stopped when they reached the parking garage.
    Ray said, “Do me a favor.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Ray was studying Busch Stadium.
    â€œI was out of the loop all those years,” he said. “First I heard was last year when you came to San Diego.” He turned to Lou. “I want to say good-bye to her.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œTonight.”
    Lou looked away. “It’s probably closed.”
    â€œMaybe not.”
    Lou stared at Stan Musial—bat cocked, head tilted at that trademark angle. Stan the Man appeared to be staring back, studying Lou, waiting for his response.
    â€œCome on,” Ray said. “I haven’t been to St. Louis in more than twenty years, and with any luck I’ll never come back to this shithole.”
    ***
    They parked near the main entrance. The front gate was closed but Ray found an open service entrance around the side.
    The moon and stars illuminated the pathways, although Lou could have found his way blindfolded. The first year he’d come here every Saturday morning after saying Kaddish at the synagogue. He’d tell her things—about the kids, her parents, her girlfriends. Sometimes he’d try to tell her about himself—his cases, crazy stuff at the firm, a book he was reading. Sometimes he’d try to apologize. Often, though, it was just too hard to talk.
    As they approached her grave, Lou slowed his pace to scan the ground. He spotted a white stone about the size of a walnut and bent to pick it up. He straightened and pointed down the aisle.
    â€œThis way,” he said.
    They walked along the grass between the