This Is Where I Leave You

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 fi replace. 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. 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