Deborah

In fact, a few days earlier, she left a phone message saying it would be four minutes long, suggesting she'd already timed it and practiced it just to get it all right.

My worry is that with a speech already committed to memory, Deborah might have already decided how and how much she wants to feel.

Yep, thank you.

We load into the van.

Deborah, her aide Javi, her daughter Lee, and my producer Phoebe.

Joe seats himself up front.

The papa.

Ostensibly, it's so he can silently record Deborah and me in the seats behind him.

Silently.

Being questioned on one's own podcast is not unlike being strapped into a baby seat in one's own 14-seater van, which, might I add, one paid for.

Rather than demanding that everyone in the van pause their various recording devices so I can throw a full-on Kirk Lee Hammett-level artistic tantrum, I instead do this.

We are heading off to the Queens Cemetery.

I obey my master.

Master.

That's a Metallica reference.

We ride through Washington Heights, where Jerry grew up, past the grounds of the World's Fair, where he and Deborah spent many a summer's afternoon.

Together, they marveled over futuristic architecture, the debut of the first television, portraits of a hopeful future.

When we arrive at the cemetery, we consult the map.

The cemetery is so large that it has streets, and the streets have names.

Jerry's not on Paradise Avenue, is he?