The Reston Hebrew Home wasn’t in Reston. Too many zoning restrictions, I guess. Or maybe the town council didn’t like old people. Or Jews. Or maybe it was only old Jews they despised. For whatever reason, the sprawling campus occupied a dozen acres three blocks east of the town limits.

The Hebrew Home wasn’t a single entity. A mélange of separate buildings housed an assisted living center, a hospice, a nursing home, a senior citizen recreation center, a homeless shelter, a geriatric-focused medical building, and various other units. Connected by a maze of walkways, tunnels, and skyways, you could get all of your business and visiting done without having to brave the elements.

The architecture represented an eclectic mish-mash of styles. Modern, traditional, glass, brick, what-have-you, all represented without a single unifying design. Whenever I drove up, I always imagined a bunch of preschool kids using different materials—Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs, wooden blocks, Legos—to piece together their creations, only to dump them down on the playmat in haphazard fashion when they had to break for snacktime.

Named the Arthur Budzinger Building after one of the Home’s founders, the main building contained the management offices and many of the common facilities. In a few hours, the Arthur Budzinger Building also would be the official home of the Handleman Library.

When I entered the lobby, bittersweet memories swarmed back from my visits with Mom. I’d spent more than a few afternoons sitting with her in the large, airy space, pleasant periods when she had the strength and desire to venture from her room. The constant buzz of visitors and residents milling about seemed to provide something—comfort, companionship, meaning—she had craved.

I took a deep breath, knowing the distinctive odor would trigger more memories, all the way back to grandmother visits at an old folks home in Jersey. No matter what name you used—retirement homes, nursing homes, assisted living centers—they all smelled the same to me, a mixture of Listerine and baby powder, with the faint scent of impending death layered beneath. I tried to shake off the past, but it clung to me like a tenacious burr in my sock.

I’d lobbied hard for Aunt Shel to join me at today’s dedication, but she complained she was still recovering from the shock of my father’s death. That, and she wanted to have enough energy to cook for the Shabbat dinner she’d invited me to tonight. I harbored hopes Lev might show up, too, although I had the sinking feeling he was avoiding me, not wanting to get into another argument. The couple of the calls I’d made to his house yesterday had gone unreturned. All the people who had taken a break from their daily routines to pay a shiva call earlier in the week had drifted back to their lives, leaving me to pick up the pieces by myself.

I showed ID and signed in at the reception desk. I was about twenty minutes early for the dedication ceremony, so I decided to wander around a bit. Off the lobby to the left, a hallway led to a number of smaller meeting rooms. A fairly new card and game room occupied the western half of the back portion of the main building; its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a broad courtyard where a well-tended garden sprouted in the spring.

Might as well get a preview of the main event. Sandwiched between the card room and a snack machine alcove, they’d converted a utility room into the library. A poster board on an easel advertised the dedication ceremony, Free refreshments, an inducement to attend. A dozen chairs fanned out in a semicircle before two heavy, burnished wood doors. Somebody had tied a shoelace-thin blue ribbon around the curved metal door handles, creating a tiny bow. Little pomp, less circumstance. No one would confuse this dedication with the opening of a presidential library at a world-famous university.

A ten-inch square of brass hung on the wall next to the doors. The Handleman Library, in a neatly engraved classic font. It was weird seeing your name on a plaque, hanging on a wall. I ran my fingers along the smooth, cool surface, tracing the letters.

“Nice, huh?”

The voice startled me. A lanky man about my height, a kid really, stood by my side, holding a spray bottle of Windex in one hand, a bunch of rags in the other. I couldn’t place the face, but I’d seen him before. “I’m sorry, you’re … ?”

“DeRon Woodson. I started here a week before your mother joined us. She was one of the first patients I really got to know. Sweet lady.”

Now I remembered. A nurse’s aide. Silky baritone, crisp enunciation. Unspoken wisdom behind the words. Unnerving, coming from someone barely out of his teens. “Hey, good to see you again. How are things going?”

“Fine, just fine.” Then he glanced around the lobby. “Only way it’d be better is if the patients stopped calling me a schvartz. But I’m not holding my breath.” He grinned conspiratorially, then jutted his chin at the plaque. “Nice thing your father did, you know?”

“I guess.”

He eyed me. “And it wasn’t just this. There’s talk of a new facility for Russians. He’d always been fond of them. Bet he had something to do with that, too. A good man.”

More surprises from my father. I should be getting used to them by now, but the more I found out, the more I discovered how little I really knew about his life.

“Speaking of Russians, how’s Mr. Kassian? He and your father were very close. Took him in when he couldn’t stand it here at the shelter.”

“He’s taking it hard. At least he hasn’t been drinking in a few days,” I said, not sure which was worse, a drunk Kassian or a semi-comatose Kassian rocking back and forth in a chair, barely speaking.

DeRon’s eyes narrowed. “He’s been drinking?”

“Yes, I found him the morning after my father died, practically passed out.”

DeRon lowered his head, shook it slowly from side to side. “No, no, no. Say it ain’t so, Joe DiMaggio.” His head continued its pendulum swing. “Mr. Kassian had been doing so well, too. Hadn’t had a drink—that I heard about anyway—since your father took him in. That was the deal, what I heard. He could stay at your father’s as long as he didn’t touch the sauce.”

“Really?” I’d assumed Kassian was a lush, but what did I know?

“Yeah. Oh, he was hitting it pretty good for a while. He’d stay at the shelter, and then there’d be some kind of dust-up, and he’d go missing for a while—back on the streets. Then he’d return and it’d start all over again. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer,” DeRon said, looking around the lobby. He lowered his voice. “I don’t think the shelter director wanted him there either. They seemed to go at it pretty good.”

Something didn’t add up. “If Kassian hated the shelter so much, why would he come to the day programs here?”

“Kassian is an odd one, all right. Couldn’t take getting locked in at night. Made a big deal about it, too. Something about being locked up back in Russia. Doesn’t have any problem coming here during the day, though. In fact, I’d say he really likes coming here during the day. People are funny, huh?”

Kassian’s a real stitch, all right. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Anyway, your father stepped in and saved Mr. Kassian. Yes sir, without your father’s help, Mr. Kassian wouldn’t be with us no more. And that’d be a real shame. We’ve grown fond of him around here. Kinda like our mascot or something. Nice to see you’ve followed in your father’s footsteps. He would have wanted you to watch out for Mr. Kassian, you know.” DeRon’s eyes shot over my shoulder, and he quickly turned his head and gave the brass plaque a spritz of Windex. He polished it with a rag, then sauntered off, brandishing his spray bottle like a pistol.

Footsteps came louder from behind me. I turned and saw Carol Wolfe, Director of Resident Life, approach, followed by two men and a woman, all dressed in business attire. I’d remembered her from Mom’s stay, and she’d been the one who called to officially invite me to the dedication.

“Hello, Josh. I’m so glad you could make it today,” she said, offering her hand.

“Thanks for inviting me. Good to see you again.” I shook her hand, and she clasped the top, in a double-handed shake. Carol hadn’t changed a bit that I could remember. In her mid-to-late fifties, she was tall and trim and had a welcoming face with deep-set eyes. Diamond earrings twinkled on her lobes, and she dressed well, too. When she smiled, crow’s feet enhanced the total package. She was one of those women who would be attractive well into her later years.

“Good to see you, too. I’m so sorry about your father.” Her eyes were moist.

“Thanks.” Behind her, the two male members of her entourage set up a folding table while the woman unloaded a couple packages of store-bought cookies from a bag. From another, she produced two large bottles of Juicy Juice and a stack of paper cups. Set-up job complete, they all took their seats. A handful of residents had also gotten settled in, and a few others seemed to be closing in as fast as their walkers could bring them. Must have smelled the Fig Newtons.

Carol waved her hand at the microphone. “This isn’t going to be anything terribly formal. But we did want to acknowledge Abe’s contribution, even in his absence. He wasn’t much for …” Carol paused. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to say a few words?”

On the phone, Carol had asked me to give a little speech about the library, or about my father, or about the Hebrew Home. I’d politely declined then, and I hadn’t changed my mind. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I’m not much on public speaking.”

Carol arched an eyebrow as she glanced at the twelve people sitting in the folding chairs. “Yes, I see. You’ll at least stand up front with me, won’t you?”

I felt my face flush. “Uh, sure.”

She glanced at her watch. “Well, then. Let’s get started.”

We stood before the small gathering and Carol delivered a five-minute speech full of platitudes and gratitudes, a good chunk of it devoted to describing the wealth of activities at the Hebrew Home in minute detail. When she finished, she thanked my father again and wrapped things up to lackluster applause. Stepping to the library doors, she motioned me over to stand next to her in front of the ribbon. She draped one arm around me, pointed my head to the right, and whispered in my ear. “Say cheese.”

One of her assistants snapped a couple photos, while I forced a smile. Then someone handed Carol a pair of scissors, the kind used to cut surgical tape, and she snipped the ribbon. It fell to the floor to another smattering of applause. Then the audience attacked the cookies and juice with vigor.

“Why don’t you come in and take a look, Josh? See what a wonderful thing your father did.” She opened one of the tall doors and held it for me. “I’ll catch up to you later.” She smiled, and once again, her eyes shone. “Thanks for coming. I’m sure your father would have appreciated it. He loved you very much, you know.” She held my gaze for a moment, then backed out into the hallway, leaving me alone in the library.

For the most part, the small room was simply designed. Bookshelves lined both of the side walls, and three square tables, each with four chairs tucked neatly underneath, occupied the center. A small desk stood sentry to the left of the entrance. Books filled about two-thirds of the available bookshelves.

In the back of the library, two large windows faced the courtyard, offering a view of the gardens. But it was the spectacular Star of David stained-glass panels above them that reflected my father’s soul. Royal blue, deep red, and milky white sections of glass fit together like shimmering puzzle pieces. Admiring the craftsmanship, knowing how my father must have felt when he admired it, sent a shiver down my spine.

As a child, I remembered him leafing through a coffee table book with gorgeous photos of Marc Chagall’s work. He’d shake his head and make appreciative noises as he flipped the pages. I guess this was his tribute to the great artist. The windows probably cost more than everything else in the library combined. My father was modest in many ways, but every once in awhile, he’d go against form and do something like this. Incredible.

I stood off to the side as a few other people drifted into the room, their hushed murmurs reminiscent of every library I’d ever been in. And every single person’s face brightened when gazing upon the stained glass.

After a few more minutes of my own “Star-gazing,” I left the room. My mouth had gone dry, but when I stopped at the snack table, I discovered the vultures had finished the Juicy Juice. As I crossed the lobby to the water fountain, someone called my name.

I changed course and veered toward the outstretched arm waving at me from near the reception desk.

“Josh Handleman. It’s great to see you,” Tamara Rosen said, as she smothered me in a hug. “How are you doing? I read about your dad in the paper. I’m so sorry.” The hug continued for a moment and then she let go and stepped back, examining me up and down. “You look great.”

“So do you,” I said, and I meant it. Her hair was different, and she seemed more … sophisticated. I hoped I did, too. We’d dated for most of my senior year in high school, but things fizzled shortly thereafter. Nothing dramatic, just went our separate ways after graduation.

“I thought about coming to the funeral, but …” Her captivating brown eyes warmed my mood and got things stirring, just like they used to.

I waved her off. “Don’t worry. I almost didn’t go myself.” I winked.

She flashed me a stern look and shook her head, then took my arm and set off across the lobby. “I’ve wondered about you over the years, Josh. How have you been?”

I thought about my crumbled marriage and scumbag business partner. “Okay, I guess.” And then another look at her smiling face boosted my spirits. What was it about seeing an old flame that got the sparks flying? I hadn’t seen her since our graduation party, but it could have been yesterday. “How about you? Married?” I blurted out, sounding way too interested.

“I’m afraid I’m taken,” she said, the corners of her mouth upturned. “You?”

I hesitated. “Not anymore.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry, Josh.”

“Don’t be. It’s for the best. No kids or anything.” I shrugged. If I kept saying it was for the best, then it had to be, right?

“Are you going to be staying for a while?”

“Yeah, I think.” We stopped in front of the elevators that served the nursing home wing.

“We’re here to visit my grandmother. She’s upstairs,” Tammy said. “And here comes the love of my life now.” She tipped her head back toward the lobby.

Two ancient men and a striking brunette woman approached. No sign of Tammy’s husband. I looked back at Tammy, puzzled. The brunette came up to her and pecked her on the cheek. Tammy turned toward me. “Josh, this is my partner, Nicole.”