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Authors: Jonathan Tropper
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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. 58“Did anyone else hear him say it?” Phillip.
“Phillip.” Paul.
“What? I’m just saying. Maybe Bone - Charlie misunderstood.”
“I didn’t misunderstand,” Boner says testily. “We discussed it at length.”
“Don’t some people sit shiva for just three days?” Me.
“Yes!” Wendy.
“No!” Boner shouts. “The word ‘shiva’ means ‘seven.’ It’s seven days. That’s why it’s called shiva. Your father was very specific.”
“Well, I can’t be away from the business for seven days,” Paul says.
“Believe you me, Dad would never have gone for that.”
“Listen, Charlie,” I say, stepping forward. “You’ve delivered the message. You held up your end. We’ll discuss it amongst ourselves now and come to a consensus. We’ll call you if we have any questions.”
“Stop it!”
We all turn to see my mother and Linda standing under the archway to the living room. “This is what your father wanted,” Mom says sternly, stepping into the room. She has taken off her suit jacket, and her low-cut blouse reveals her infamous cleavage. “He was not a perfect man, and not a perfect father, but he was a good man, and he tried his best. And you all haven’t exactly been model children lately.”
“It’s okay, Mom. Calm down,” Paul says, reaching out for her.
“Stop interrupting me. Your father lay dying in his bed for the last half year or so. How many times did you visit him, any of you? Now I know, Wendy, Los Angeles isn’t exactly next door, and, Judd, you’ve been going through a rough time, I understand that. And, Phillip ...Well, God only knows what you’ve been up to. It’s like having a son in Iraq. At least then I’d know where you were. But your father made his last wish known, and we will honor it. All of us. It’s going to be crowded, and uncomfortable, and we’ll all get on each other’s nerves, but for the next seven days, you are all my children again.” She takes a few steps into the room and smiles at us. “And you’re all grounded.”
My mother spins on one stiletto heel and plants herself like a child into one of the low seats. “Well,” she says. “What are you waiting for?”
We all hunker down in the seats, silent and sullen, like a group of scolded schoolchildren.
“Um, Mrs. Foxman,” Boner says, clearing his throat. “You’re really not supposed to wear dress shoes when you’re sitting shiva.”
“I have bad arches,” she says, flashing him a look sharp enough for a circumcision.
The one tattered remnant of Jewish observance that my parents had maintained was having the family stay over for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Every year, as summer bled into fall, the call would come, more a summons than an invitation, and we would all descend upon Knob’s End, to argue over sleeping arrangements, grudgingly attend services at Temple Israel, and share an overwrought holiday
“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. 58“Did anyone else hear him say it?” Phillip.
“Phillip.” Paul.
“What? I’m just saying. Maybe Bone - Charlie misunderstood.”
“I didn’t misunderstand,” Boner says testily. “We discussed it at length.”
“Don’t some people sit shiva for just three days?” Me.
“Yes!” Wendy.
“No!” Boner shouts. “The word ‘shiva’ means ‘seven.’ It’s seven days. That’s why it’s called shiva. Your father was very specific.”
“Well, I can’t be away from the business for seven days,” Paul says.
“Believe you me, Dad would never have gone for that.”
“Listen, Charlie,” I say, stepping forward. “You’ve delivered the message. You held up your end. We’ll discuss it amongst ourselves now and come to a consensus. We’ll call you if we have any questions.”
“Stop it!”
We all turn to see my mother and Linda standing under the archway to the living room. “This is what your father wanted,” Mom says sternly, stepping into the room. She has taken off her suit jacket, and her low-cut blouse reveals her infamous cleavage. “He was not a perfect man, and not a perfect father, but he was a good man, and he tried his best. And you all haven’t exactly been model children lately.”
“It’s okay, Mom. Calm down,” Paul says, reaching out for her.
“Stop interrupting me. Your father lay dying in his bed for the last half year or so. How many times did you visit him, any of you? Now I know, Wendy, Los Angeles isn’t exactly next door, and, Judd, you’ve been going through a rough time, I understand that. And, Phillip ...Well, God only knows what you’ve been up to. It’s like having a son in Iraq. At least then I’d know where you were. But your father made his last wish known, and we will honor it. All of us. It’s going to be crowded, and uncomfortable, and we’ll all get on each other’s nerves, but for the next seven days, you are all my children again.” She takes a few steps into the room and smiles at us. “And you’re all grounded.”
My mother spins on one stiletto heel and plants herself like a child into one of the low seats. “Well,” she says. “What are you waiting for?”
We all hunker down in the seats, silent and sullen, like a group of scolded schoolchildren.
“Um, Mrs. Foxman,” Boner says, clearing his throat. “You’re really not supposed to wear dress shoes when you’re sitting shiva.”
“I have bad arches,” she says, flashing him a look sharp enough for a circumcision.
The one tattered remnant of Jewish observance that my parents had maintained was having the family stay over for Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Every year, as summer bled into fall, the call would come, more a summons than an invitation, and we would all descend upon Knob’s End, to argue over sleeping arrangements, grudgingly attend services at Temple Israel, and share an overwrought holiday
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