This Is Where I Leave You

her wrist, his eyes darting back and forth across her chest like a tiny tennis match is being played across the line of her cleavage. He’s pulled his folding chair up close to her, and with Mom down in the shiva chair, he is perfectly positioned to ogle.
    “I’ve been through this, Hillary,” he says. His dark, bushy eyebrows call to mind political cartoons as they arch compassionately under his wiry silver hair. “When I lost Adele, the community was very supportive. Mort was wonderful. You remember, he came over and fixed the air conditioner during my shiva? All those people in the house, and the air handler crapped out.”
    “He knew machines,” Mom says.
    “Look at that,” Wendy whispers. “He’s staring at her breasts, and her head is practically between his knees.”
    “It’s just the angle,” I say. “These low chairs.”
    “These chairs are a practical joke. And Mom should wear less revealing shirts.”
    “She doesn’t own less revealing shirts.”
    “I feel like I’m watching the opening scene of an AARP porno,” Phillip says.
    Mr. Applebaum rubs Mom’s wrist. He’s the only visitor right now, and so he’s got her cornered. Not that she seems to mind the attention.
    “If you ever need to talk, Hill. Day or night. Just call, and I’ll be there.”
    “I bet he will,” Wendy says.
    “Just call my name,” Phillip sings in a head voice. “And I’ll be there.”
    “Thank you, Peter. I appreciate that.”
    “It can be very lonely.”
    “I don’t doubt it.”
    Applebaum sighs and looks down at her, reluctant to let go of her hand. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”
    “Okay.”
    He stands up and then pulls her up by her hand to clutch her in a full-bodied embrace. “You’re going to be fi ne, Hillary.”
    Mom pats his back while he holds her tight.
    “The old guy just copped a feel,” Paul says, joining in.
    “Give him a break,” I say. “They’ve known each other for years.”
    I remember Applebaum’s wife, Adele, a tall, vivacious woman with big teeth and a resounding laugh. She would grab my hair when I was a kid and say, “Oh, Hill, the girls are just going to go wild over this one!” Then she’d wink at me and say, “Look me up when you’re legal. We’ll run away together.” She started having strokes a few years ago. I remember him pushing her around at Paul’s wedding in a wheelchair. She could only smile with half her face and couldn’t reach my hair with her withered arm. I thought she may have winked at me, but it was hard to tell.
    Applebaum finally lets go of Mom and turns to face the rest of us.
    “You kids take care of your beautiful mother, okay?”
    “I believe he had an erection,” Wendy says once he’s gone.
    “Oh, stop it. He did not,” Mom says.
    “Pushing seventy and he’s still getting it up,” Phillip muses. “The man’s a keeper.”
    “You’re all being horrible. You’ve known Peter forever. He’s a fi ne man.”
    “That fine man was hitting on you.” Paul .
    “He was totally hitting on you.” Wendy.
    “He was most definitely not hitting on me,” Mom says, flushed with pleasure.
    Linda sticks her head in from the kitchen. “Is that horny old goat gone yet?”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mom says. “He was being compassionate.”
    “Not as compassionate as he’d like, I’m sure.”
    “So, he’s lonely. You and I, at least, should be sympathetic,” Mom says. “At our age, loneliness can seem so permanent.”
    “Ah ...Look at all the lonely people,” Phillip sings.
    “Well, he might have had the decency to wait until you were through sitting shiva before groping you like that, that’s all.”
    “He’s a tactile man. That’s just his way.”
    That’s just his way. Jen used to say that. Like the first time she met Wade, at the WIRX holiday party, where he couldn’t seem to stop rubbing her arms and touching her back as they talked. “That’s just his way,”
    she said, which was how she excused all manner of bad behavior except for mine. Once, when she was pissed at me, I went so far as to try it out as an argument for the defense. “That’s just my way,” I said. She smiled sweetly and told me to fuck off. God, I miss our fights. Linda is looking at Mom, shaking her head. “You don’t actually believe half the things you say, do you?”
    “I don’t know,” Mom says, sitting back in her chair. “I can be pretty convincing.”

Chapter 13
    2:30 p.m.
    The bank teller has a great