Read Online This Is Where I Leave You by Jonathan Tropper - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Tropper
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just a big romantic comedy to them, and if you meet cute, happily-ever-after is a foregone conclusion. So there we were, the pretty blond girl milking her very slight congenital limp in order to seem damaged and more interesting, and the nervous boy with the ridiculous hair trying so hard to be clever, the two of us hypnotized by the syncopated rhythms of our furiously beating hearts and throbbing loins. That stupid, desperate, horny kid I was, standing obliviously on the fault line of his embryonic love, when really, what he should have been doing was running for his life.
Chapter 7
3:43 p.m.
B oner comes by with three volunteers from the Hebrew Burial Society to deliver the mourning supplies. They rearrange furniture and set things up with a hushed military precision, after which Boner gathers the four Foxman siblings in the living room. Five low folding chairs with thick wooden frames and faded vinyl upholstery are lined up in front of the fireplace. The mirror above the mantel has been clouded over with some kind of soapy white spray. The furniture has all been pushed to the perimeter of the room, and thirty or so white plastic catering chairs have been unfolded and placed in three rows facing the five low chairs. There are two silver collection plates placed on the piano. People paying their respects to the family can make dollar contributions to the burial society or to a local children’s cancer society. A few lonely bills have been placed on each plate like tips. In the front hall, a thick candle formed in a tall glass is lit and placed on the table, next to Wendy’s baby monitor. This is the shiva candle, and there is enough wax in the glass for the candle to burn for seven days.
Phillip nudges one of the low chairs with his toe. “It was nice of Yoda to lend us his chairs.”
“They’re shiva chairs,” Boner says. “You sit low to the ground as a sign of mourning. Originally, the bereaved sat on the floor. Over time, the concept has evolved.”
“It still has a ways to go,” Phillip grumbles.
“What’s with the mirror?” Wendy wants to know.
“It’s customary to remove or cover all the mirrors in a house of mourning,” Boner says. “We’ve fogged up all the bathroom mirrors as well. This is a time to avoid any and all impulses toward personal vanity and simply reflect on your father’s life.”
We all nod, the way you would at a self-indulgent museum tour guide, taking the path of least resistance to get to the snack bar.
“A little while ago, your father called me to the hospital,” Boner says. He was a tense, chubby kid, and now he’s a tense, beefy man, with rosy cheeks that make him look perpetually angry or embarrassed. I don’t know exactly when Boner found God; I lost track of him after high school. Boner, not God. I lost track of God when I joined Little League and could no longer attend Hebrew school classes at Temple Israel, the synagogue we went to once a year for Rosh Hashanah services.
“Your father wasn’t a religious man. But toward the end, he regretted the absence of tradition in his life, in the way he raised his children.”
“That doesn’t really sound like Dad,” I say.
“It’s actually somewhat common for people facing death to reach out to God,” Boner says, in the exact same self-important, didactic tone he employed as a kid when explaining to us what a blow job was.
“Dad didn’t believe in God,” Phillip says. “Why would he reach out to something he didn’t believe in?”
“I guess he changed his mind,” Boner says, and I can tell he’s still pissed at Phillip for the earlier nickname slip.
“Dad never changed his mind,” I say.
“Your father’s dying request was that his family sit shiva to mark his passing.”
“He was on a lot of drugs,” Wendy points out.
“He was perfectly lucid.” Boner’s face is starting to turn red.
“Did anyone else hear him say it?” Phillip.
“Phillip.” Paul.
“What? I’m just
Chapter 7
3:43 p.m.
B oner comes by with three volunteers from the Hebrew Burial Society to deliver the mourning supplies. They rearrange furniture and set things up with a hushed military precision, after which Boner gathers the four Foxman siblings in the living room. Five low folding chairs with thick wooden frames and faded vinyl upholstery are lined up in front of the fireplace. The mirror above the mantel has been clouded over with some kind of soapy white spray. The furniture has all been pushed to the perimeter of the room, and thirty or so white plastic catering chairs have been unfolded and placed in three rows facing the five low chairs. There are two silver collection plates placed on the piano. People paying their respects to the family can make dollar contributions to the burial society or to a local children’s cancer society. A few lonely bills have been placed on each plate like tips. In the front hall, a thick candle formed in a tall glass is lit and placed on the table, next to Wendy’s baby monitor. This is the shiva candle, and there is enough wax in the glass for the candle to burn for seven days.
Phillip nudges one of the low chairs with his toe. “It was nice of Yoda to lend us his chairs.”
“They’re shiva chairs,” Boner says. “You sit low to the ground as a sign of mourning. Originally, the bereaved sat on the floor. Over time, the concept has evolved.”
“It still has a ways to go,” Phillip grumbles.
“What’s with the mirror?” Wendy wants to know.
“It’s customary to remove or cover all the mirrors in a house of mourning,” Boner says. “We’ve fogged up all the bathroom mirrors as well. This is a time to avoid any and all impulses toward personal vanity and simply reflect on your father’s life.”
We all nod, the way you would at a self-indulgent museum tour guide, taking the path of least resistance to get to the snack bar.
“A little while ago, your father called me to the hospital,” Boner says. He was a tense, chubby kid, and now he’s a tense, beefy man, with rosy cheeks that make him look perpetually angry or embarrassed. I don’t know exactly when Boner found God; I lost track of him after high school. Boner, not God. I lost track of God when I joined Little League and could no longer attend Hebrew school classes at Temple Israel, the synagogue we went to once a year for Rosh Hashanah services.
“Your father wasn’t a religious man. But toward the end, he regretted the absence of tradition in his life, in the way he raised his children.”
“That doesn’t really sound like Dad,” I say.
“It’s actually somewhat common for people facing death to reach out to God,” Boner says, in the exact same self-important, didactic tone he employed as a kid when explaining to us what a blow job was.
“Dad didn’t believe in God,” Phillip says. “Why would he reach out to something he didn’t believe in?”
“I guess he changed his mind,” Boner says, and I can tell he’s still pissed at Phillip for the earlier nickname slip.
“Dad never changed his mind,” I say.
“Your father’s dying request was that his family sit shiva to mark his passing.”
“He was on a lot of drugs,” Wendy points out.
“He was perfectly lucid.” Boner’s face is starting to turn red.
“Did anyone else hear him say it?” Phillip.
“Phillip.” Paul.
“What? I’m just
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