“That’s right, Cole,” I say, looking over at Paul’s plate. “It is a T, and a nice one at that.”
Paul and Alice climb to their feet shaken and nauseated. We are all standing now, posed around the table like a painting, the Foxman family minus one, contemplating the steaming, erudite turd on Paul’s plate. It’s utterly inconceivable that we will survive seven days together here, caroming off each other like spinning molecules in a chemical reaction. There’s no way to know how it will all shake out, but as far as metaphors go, you can’t do much better than shit on the good china.
Chapter 6
I
f you’ve ever been in a failed marriage, and statistically speaking, it’s a safe bet that you have, or, if not, that you soon will be, then you’ll know that the first thing you do at the end is reflect on the beginning. Maybe it’s some form of reverse closure, or just the basic human impulse toward sentimentality, or masochism, but as you stand there shell-shocked in the charred ruins of your life, your mind will invariably go back to the time when it all started. And even if you didn’t fall in love in the eighties, in your mind it will feel like the eighties, all innocent and airbrushed, with bright colors and shoulder pads and Pat Benatar or the Cure on the soundtrack. There you were, minding your own business, walking across campus to class, or stepping into a café for a cup of coffee, or dancing at a wedding, or drinking at a bar with some friends. And then you saw her, laughing at someone’s joke, tucking her hair behind her ear, or taking the stage with a friend to sing a slightly drunken karaoke version of “Ninety-nine Red Balloons” (and she was just drunk enough to cop to knowing the German lyrics too), or she was leaning against the wall, eyebrows arched genially over her lite beer as she surveyed the scene, or she was strolling alone through the falling snow without a jacket, her sleeves pulled tightly over her hands in the absence of gloves, or she was . . .
. . . riding her bike across the quad, on her way to class. I had seen her around, with her small leather backpack, her blond ponytail flying in the slipstream behind her as she sailed past on her red Schwinn. We were both juniors, but we didn’t have any classes together and were probably just a few weeks away from being on nodding terms. But on that day, as she pedaled past me, I called out to her, “Hey! Bike Girl!”
She braked too hard and skinned her shin on the pedal as she slid off the seat. “Ouch! Crap!”
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean for you to actually stop.”
She looked at me, perplexed. “But you called out to me.” Her eyes were an incandescent green; I suspected tinted lenses, but I wanted to write a song about them right there anyway. I’d stand outside her dorm room with a guitar and serenade her, while her friends looked on, smiling approvingly in their skimpy pajamas.
“Yeah, I guess I did. Poor impulse control, I’m sorry. I didn’t really have a plan beyond that.”
Her laugh was rich and throaty. She did it like a girl who knew how to laugh, who had a long association with laughing. And she looked at me, this pretty blond girl, the kind of girl from whom I’d been conditioned to expect a smiling but no less firm rejection, and she said, “I’ll give you five seconds to come up with one.”
This was unprecedented, and the miracle emboldened me. “I just thought we’d have a lot to talk about,” I said.
“Really.”
“This bike, for instance. You’re the only girl on campus who rides a bike.”
“So?”
“I think you do it ironically.”
“You’re accusing me of ironic cycling?”
“It’s a growing sport. There’s an Olympic petition.”
“Is your hair always like that?”
I had thick, curly hair like pulled springs, and back in college I kind of gave it the run of the place. “The higher the hair, the closer to God.”
“I limp,” she said.
“What?”
“That’s why I ride the bike when I cross the quad. I was born with one leg shorter than the other.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“Afraid not.”
So she got off the bike and showed me her custom sneaker. “You see how this sole is almost an inch thicker than the other?”
“Damn. I’m an asshole.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t mean it.”
“I’m Judd, by the way. Judd Foxman.”
“I’m Jen.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll call you Bike Girl for a little while longer.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I’m only going to call you Jen after I’ve kissed you.”
She seemed accustomed to such bold repartee. “But what if you never do?”
“Then it won’t matter anyway.”
“You’re ruling out the possibility of friendship.”
“I’m guessing a girl like you has enough friends.”
“And what kind of girl is that, exactly?”
“An ironic cycler.”
That laugh again, from out of nowhere, like it had been percolating inside her waiting to be released. In the sixty seconds she’d known me, I’d already made her laugh twice, and I’d read enough
Playboy
by then to know that beautiful women want a man who can make them laugh. Of course, what they really meant was a man who could make them laugh after he’d delivered multiple orgasms on his private jet with his trusty nine-inch cock, but I was on a roll, and hope tentatively unfurled its wings in my chest, preparing to take flight.
I knew that she was much too pretty and well-adjusted for me. Over the last few years, I had carved out a niche for myself on campus among the screwed-up girls with dark lipstick and too many earrings, who worked through their mixed bag of childhood traumas by drinking excessively and having sex with unthreatening Jewish guys with ridiculous hair. This had actually happened exactly twice in as many years, but since it was all the action I’d seen, I liked to think of it as a niche. And I was not at all Jen’s type, but her type, genetically gifted man-boys with expensive sports cars, hairless Abercrombie bodies, and entitlement issues, hadn’t really been working for her as of late. Her last boyfriend, Everett—that was really his name, and he looked exactly how you’re picturing him, only not as tall—had actually told her that her poor posture made her look unimpressive. This from a boy, she later railed to me, with a concave chest and a pencil-thin dick. The one before that, David, had returned from winter break to tell her he had gotten engaged and was getting married that spring. Jen was in turmoil; she was grappling with self-esteem issues and a failed attempt at anorexia. I was in the right place at the right time, and the gods were finally ready to cut me some slack.
But I didn’t know any of that yet. All I knew was that a conversation that should have ended already seemed to have taken on a life of its own, and a girl who, according to the laws of the universe, shouldn’t have given me a second glance was now leaning forward, her smiling mouth aimed unmistakably at mine. It was a quick, soft peck, but I felt the give in her lips, a hint of plush softness just beneath the surface, and I was in love. Seriously. Just like that.
“Poor impulse control,” she said, proud of her daring.
“Jen.” I exhaled slowly, running my tongue along the inside of my lips, savoring the waxy residue of her lip gloss.
“Judd.”
“I think I’m going to call you Bike Girl until we have sex.”
She laughed again, and that was three, for those keeping score at home, and I didn’t stand a chance. Later on, Jen would swear that was the moment she knew she was going to marry me. That’s the problem with college kids. I blame Hollywood for skewing their perspective. Life is 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 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 meal during which, tradition had it, at least one person would theatrically storm out of the house in a huff. Usually, it would be Alice or Wendy, although a few years ago it was memorably Jen, after my father, already well into his peach schnapps, told her, apropos of nothing in particular, that our dead son wouldn’t have been technically Jewish since she was a gentile. This was just a few months after she’d delivered our dead baby, and so no one blamed her for hurling her plate at him as she stormed out. “What got into her?” he said. On the plus side, she insisted we go home immediately, which got me out of having to attend the interminable services at Temple Israel the following morning, where Cantor Rothman’s slow, operatic tenor makes you want to prostrate yourself on the spot and accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior.