Джонатан Троппер - This Is Where I Leave You

“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.

Boner 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.