The last week of the year, the news had nothing better to do than remind them of all the celebrities who’d died—Sonny Bono and Harry Caray and Dr. Spock and Gene Autry. Like Emily, Henry thought it was morbid, but also wrong. The famous didn’t need to be remembered again. The world had already noted their passing. What about Dr. Runco and the rest of them; didn’t they count? He told himself he wasn’t jealous, but each time a tribute to Henny Youngman or Roy Rogers or Frank Sinatra ran, he had to fend off a surge of resentment, as if they’d taken his rightful place.
Not Maureen O’Sullivan, though. He’d always liked her.