This Is Where I Leave You

by Jonathan Tropper

  Chapter 8

  7:45 p.m.

  We’ve been at it for a few hours already, and the visitors keep coming, pouring through the door in an endless stream, as if busloads are being dropped off at the front door every half hour. Knob’s End has become a parking lot, and my face is sore from smiling politely as my mother introduces and reintroduces everyone, my ass numb from the cheap foam underneath the crappy vinyl of the shiva chair. Th e plas­

  tic tips of the fl imsy catering chairs set up around the room scrape the oak floor as the guests jockey for position, gradually working their way from the back of the room to the front, where they can ask the same questions as the guests who came before them, invoke the same plati­

  tudes, and squeeze my mother’s forearm with theatrically pursed lips. We should have a handout at the door to speed things along, a brief summary of Dad’s illness and all that transpired in the final days, maybe even a photocopy of his charts and a four-color printout of his last CAT

  scan, because that seems to be what all of his and Mom’s peers want to talk about. And at the bottom of the handout a simple asterisked decla­

  ration would state that it’s of absolutely no interest to us where you were when you found out our father/husband had died, like he was John F. Kennedy or Kurt Cobain.

  Paul gets by without saying much, offering up a series of Rorschach

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  grunts that people seem to hear as actual responses. Wendy shamelessly takes cell phone calls from her girlfriends back in L.A., and Phillip amuses himself by lying his ass off, seeing how far he can push the boundaries of credibility.

  Middle-Aged Woman: My God, Phillip! The last time I saw you, you were in high school. What do you do now?

  Phillip: I run a Middle East think tank in D.C. Phillip: I manage a private equity biotech fund. Phillip: I’ve been coordinating a freshwater project for UNICEF in Africa.

  Phillip: I’m working as a stuntman on the new Spielberg project. And then there are the platters. Jews don’t send flowers, they send food, in large quantities: fruit platters, assorted cookie platters, cold cuts, casseroles, cakes, wild rice salads, bagels and smoked salmon. Linda, who has effortlessly slipped back into her habitual role of supple­

  mental caretaker for the Foxman clan, sets up the nonperishable items on the dining room table, along with a coffee samovar, which leads to an ad hoc buffet situation. The visitors work their way through the chairs, chat with the bereaved, and then gravitate into the dining room for cof­

  fee and nosh. It’s like a wake, except it’s going to last for seven days, and there’s no booze. Who knows what kind of epic party this might become if someone popped the plastic lock on the whiskey bar? The visitors are mostly senior citizens, friends and neighbors of my parents, coming to see and be seen, to pay their respects and contem­

  plate their own impending mortality, their heart conditions and cancers still percolating below the surface, in livers and lungs and blood cells. Another of their number has fallen, and while they’re here to console my mother, you can see in their staunch, pale faces the morbid thrill of having been passed over by death. They have raised their kids, paid off

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  their mortgages, and they will spend their golden years burying each other, somberly keeping track of their relentlessly dwindling numbers over coffee and crumb cake in houses just like this one. I’m supposed to be decades away from this, supposed to be just starting my own family, but there’s been a setback, a calamitous detour, and you wouldn’t think you could get any more depressed while sitting shiva for your father, but you’d be wrong. Suddenly, I can’t stop seeing the footprints of time on everyone in the room. The liver spots, the mul­

  tiple chins, the sagging necks, the jowls, the flaps of skin over eyes, the spotted scalps, the frown lines etched into permanence, the stooped shoulders, the sagging man breasts, the bowed legs. When does it all happen? In increments, so you can’t watch out for it, you can’t fi x it. One day you just wake up and discover that you got old while you were sleeping.

  There were so many things I thought I might become back in col­

  lege, but then I fell for Jen and all my lofty aspirations evaporated in a lusty haze. I just never imagined a girl like that would want someone like me, and I had this idea that if I applied all of my energy toward keeping her happy, the future would sort itself out. And so I disappeared without a trace into the Bermuda Triangle of her creamy spread thighs, scraping through my classes with B’s and C’s, and when, shortly after graduation, she accepted my proposal, I remember feeling, more than anything, an overwhelming sense of relief, like I had just finished a marathon. And now I have no wife, no child, no job, no home, or anything else that would point to a life being lived with any success. I may not be old, but I’m too old to have this much nothing. I’ve got the double chin of a stranger in photographs, the incipient swell of love handles just above my hips, and I’m pretty sure that my hairline, the one boundary I’ve al­

  ways been able to count on, is starting to creep back on me when I’m not looking, because every so often my fingers discover some fresh topogra­

  phy on my upper forehead. To have nothing when you’re twenty is cool,

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  it’s expected, but to have nothing when you’re halfway to seventy, soft­

  ening and widening on a daily basis, is something altogether diff erent. It’s like setting out to drive cross-country without any gas money. I will look back at this time and see it as the start of a slow process that ends with me dying alone after living out my days in an empty apartment with only the television and a slow, waddling dog to keep me company, the kind of place that will smell stale to visitors, but not to me, since the stale thing will be me. And I can feel that miserable future hurtling to­

  ward me at high speed, thundering across the plains in a cloud of dust like a wildebeest stampede.

  Before I know it, I’m on my feet, ducking and weaving through the crowd, intercepting random bits of conversation, keeping my eye on the sanctuary of the kitchen door.

  “. . . Paul, the older one. He spoke very nicely . . .”

  “. . . on a ventilator for three months . . . basically a vegetable . . .”

  “. . . a place down on Lake Winnipesaukee. We do it every year. It’s beautiful. Maureen brings the kids . . .”

  “. . . recently separated. Apparently, there was a third party in­

  volved . . .”

  That last one pierces me like a fishhook—but by then I’m at the door, and I’m not looking back. I step into the air-conditioned quiet of the kitchen and lean up against the wall, catching my breath. Linda is crouched at the fridge, absently chewing on the nub of a raw carrot like a cigar, trying to make room for all of the food that’s been delivered.

  “Hey there, Judd,” she says, smiling at me. “What can I get you? And, bear in mind, we have pretty much everything now.”

  “How about a vanilla milkshake?”

  She closes the fridge and looks at me. “That, we don’t have.”

  “Well, then, I guess I’ll have to run out and grab one.”

  Her smile is sweet and maternal. “Getting a little intense in there?”

  “We passed intense a while ago.”

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  “I heard the shouting.”

  “Yeah . . . sorry. And thank you, you know, for all of your help, for taking care of Mom and everything.”

  She looks startled for a second, seems on the verge of saying some­

  thing, but then just pops the carrot back into her mouth and smiles. From the other room, we can hear my mother laughing.

  “Well, Mom seems to be enjoying herself, at any rate.”

  “She’s had a long time to prepare for this.”

  “I guess so.�
�

  We stand there for a minute, the well of small talk having run dry.

  “Horry looks good,” I say, and wish instantly that I hadn’t. Linda’s smile is sad, ragged, and somehow beautiful, the aching smile of the long-suffering. “You learn not to think about what might have been, and to just appreciate what you have.”

  “Yeah. I’m probably not the right guy to hear that right about now.”

  She steps over to me and puts her arms on my shoulders. It’s been forever since I’ve been touched, since I’ve even had any sustained eye contact, and I can see my tears reflected in her eyes. “You’re going to be okay, Judd. I know you feel lost now, but you won’t feel this way for long.”

  “How do you know?” I am suddenly inches away from a full-on cry­

  ing jag. Linda diapered me, fed me, mothered me almost as much as my own mother, without ever being recognized for it. I should have sent her Mother’s Day cards every year, should have called her every so often to see how she was doing. How is it that, in all these years, I never once spared so much as a thought for her? I feel a dark wave of regret for the kind of person I turned out to be.

  “You’re a romantic, Judd. You always were. And you’ll fi nd love again, or it will come fi nd you.”

  “Did it ever find you again?”

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  Something changes in her expression, and she lets go of me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was a terrible thing to say.”

  She nods, accepting my apology. “It would be a terrible mistake to go through life thinking that people are the sum total of what you see.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t,” Linda says, not unkindly. “And it’s not the time or place to go into details, but rest assured, I have not spent the last thirty years sleeping alone.”

  “Of course not. I’m an asshole.”

  “Maybe, but you get a free pass this week.” She off ers up a friendly smirk. “Just don’t abuse it.” She looks out the window to the crowded street in front. “Looks like you’re parked in by Jerry Lamb’s Hummer. Why a retired doctor needs to drive a tank like that in Elmsbrook, New York, is a question for the ages. His penis can’t be that small, can it?” She reaches into her apron and tosses me some keys. “It’s the blue Camry. If you time it right, you can pick up Horry on your way back. I don’t like him walking home this late.”

  8:30 p.m.

  Linda’s car smells like yeast and flowers. Other than the small gold locket that hangs from her rearview mirror, the car is empty and clean in a way that strikes me as sad. Or maybe anything empty is just striking a chord with me these days. The earlier rain has tapered off into a light mist that dusts the windshield just enough to blur the headlights of on­

  coming cars. I drive down Centre Street and park at a meter in front of Foxman Sporting Goods’ fl agship store.

  Dad worked as an electrician, but when Paul was born he decided he wanted a legacy for his children. He borrowed money from his father-in-law to buy a small sporting goods store out of bankruptcy, and 70

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  over the years he expanded it into a chain of six stores across the Hud­

  son Valley and into Connecticut. He was a firm believer in customer service and a knowledgeable staff, and proudly rebuffed the larger na­

  tional chains who offered to buy him out every few years. Every Satur­

  day he would visit the five satellite stores, to check their books and troubleshoot. When Paul and I were younger, he would wake us up at first light and hustle us into his car to come along. Dobbs Ferry, Tarrytown, Valhalla, Stamford, and Fairfield. I’d sit in the back, my eyes still glazed with sleep, watching the sun come up behind the trees along the highway through the tinted windows of his secondhand Cadillac. Th e

  car smelled of pipe tobacco and the tape deck played a steady rotation of Simon and Garfunkel, Neil Diamond, Jackson Browne, and Peggy Lee. Every so often I’ll hear one of those songs, in an elevator or a wait­

  ing room, and it will take me right back to that car, lulled into semicon­

  sciousness by the soft thrum of the road seams, my father humming along to the music in his gravelly voice.

  Once a quarter he’d bring along Barney Cronish, his accountant. Paul hated it when Barney came, because he had to give up the front seat for him, and because Barney had to stop at every rest stop on the thruway, either to buy a coffee or piss out the last one. Barney also farted loudly and without shame, at which point Paul and I would crack our windows and stick our heads into the wind like a couple of dogs to es­

  cape the rancid, cabbage smell. Sometimes my father would press the window lock button in the front and play dumb while we suff ocated, which was the closest he came to joking around. Dad didn’t seem to know how to be around us when he wasn’t work­

  ing. He was great with us when we were small, would cradle us in his massive forearms or bounce us on his knee while humming Mo­

  zart . . . As toddlers, we would cling to his sausage fingers as he walked us down the block, and he would lie down with us at bedtime, often fall­

  ing asleep on the bed with us, until Mom came to get him. But he

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  seemed hopelessly bewildered by us once we got a little bit older. He didn’t understand our infatuation with television and video games, seemed bewildered by our able-bodied laziness, by our messy rooms and unmade beds, our longer hair and our silk-screened T-shirts. Th e

  older we got, the further he retreated into his work, his weekend papers, and his schnapps. Sometimes I think that having Phillip was my moth­

  er’s last-ditch effort to find her husband again. The hunter-green awnings of the shop, usually speckled with dried bird droppings and water stains, have recently been cleaned, and the windows, anticipating the fall season, are crammed with hockey, ski, and snowboard gear. The mannequin in the corner is wearing a goalie mask, and in the ominous flicker of the fluorescent light he looks like Jason, the serial killer from those Friday the 13th movies. Elmsbrook is the perfect town for a serial killer, and I mean that in the best possible way. It’s always the picturesque towns, with clean sidewalks and clock towers, where Jason and Freddy come to slaughter oversexed teenagers. Centre Street has a cobblestone pedestrian walkway with benches and a fountain, the stores have matching awnings, and the overall vibe is pleasant and well kept.

  And maybe because I’m thinking of serial killers, when Horry sud­

  denly knocks on my window, I jump in my seat. Or maybe it’s because he looks kind of scary. His long hair is held off his face by a white Nike headband with the price tag still attached, flapping against his forehead, and there’s a good inch of ash suspended at the tip of the cigarette wedged between his lips.

  “You scared me,” I say.

  “I have that effect on people.”

  I laugh, not because it’s funny, but to be polite. You can’t help but feel bad for Horry, but you’re supposed to treat him like anyone else, because he’s damaged but not an idiot, and he’ll sniff out your pity like a dog sniffs out fear.

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  “Shouldn’t you be at home, sitting Sheba?”

  “Shiva.”

  “Shiva is an Indian god, the one with six arms. Or maybe it’s four arms and two legs. I don’t know. Six limbs, maybe.”

  “Well, it also means ‘seven’ in Hebrew.”

  “Six limbs, seven days . . .” He pauses to ponder the potential theo­

  logical implications for a moment but reaches no conclusions other than now would be a good time to take another drag on his cigarette.

  “Well, shouldn’t you be there?”

  “Yes, I should,” I say. “How are things inside?”

  “Dead.” He shrugs. “You coming in?”

  “Nah. I just stopped by because your
mom thought you’d want a lift home.”

  “She sent you?”

  “She knew I was going out.”

  He shakes his head and grimaces. “I need to get my own place, like, yesterday.”

  “So why don’t you?”

  He taps his head. “Brain injury. There are things I can’t do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like remembering what the fuck it is I can’t do.” He opens the pas­

  senger door and throws himself down in the seat. “You’re not allowed to smoke in Mom’s car,” he says, blowing a ring.

  “I’m not. You are.”

  “I have plausible deniability.” He flicks his ash onto the fl oor mat.

  “You used to date Penelope Moore, didn’t you?”

  “Penny Moore. Yeah. We were friends. Whatever happened to her?”

  “She teaches ice skating over at the rink. The indoor one, where we played hockey.”

  “Kelton’s.”

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  “Right. I still skate there sometimes.”

  “You were a pretty good hockey player.”

  “No, you were a pretty good hockey player. I was a great hockey player.”

  “I never would have thought she’d still be living here.”

  “Why, because she doesn’t have a brain injury?”

  “No! Horry. Jesus! I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

  But he’s grinning at me through the haze of smoke that has fi lled the space between us. “I’m just messing with you, Judd. Lighten up.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I am already good and fucked, my brother from another mother.”

  “Wow. Penny Moore. What in the world made you think of Penny Moore?”

  “She’s in the store.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yeah. She works the register on weeknights. You should go in and say hello.”

  “Penny Moore,” I say. The name alone conjures up her wicked smile, the taste of her kiss. We once made a pact, Penny and I. I wonder if she still remembers.

  “She’d be happy to see you, I bet.”

  “Maybe some other time,” I say, starting the car.