“Take the first scoop with the shovel upside down. This signifies reluctance. For the second scoop, turn the shovel right side up to indicate acceptance.”
“What?” I lean over to Carole. “How are we supposed to shovel dirt with the shovel upside down? This makes no fucking sense.” Dad shoots me a dirty look and elbows me lightly in the stomach. Carole looks straight ahead and pretends she doesn’t hear me. “Fine, whatever. I guess I will figure it out on my own,” I whisper under my breath.
According to the Rabbi, we are also not to hand the shovel off to the person in line behind us but place it back in the dirt because when you hand it to the next person in line, which seems to be the polite thing to do, you are handing them sorrow. Huh? What kind of nonsense is this now? This whole damn thing is sorrow.
The rabbi finishes the prayer, and the mourners slog into line to do the dirt on the coffin thing. The family goes first, but terror has cemented me to my chair now that the moment has come. Carole motions me to go. Dad gives me the look, but I can’t move. I’m frozen.
“I don’t want to do it.” The words rub like sandpaper in my throat.
“You have to,” Dad insists. And there they are, the first words he has spoken to me since Saturday. I burst into tears, and no one knows what to do.
Carole leans into me; her words are a whisper in my ear. “It’s okay, Little Bug, you don’t have to.” She motions Dad to go ahead and quickly follows him. Dad grasps the shovel, and dirt begins hitting the coffin.
Thud! Thud!
It’s too much. I can’t take it. The awful sound of dirt being thrown on top of Mom. I hate it. I despise it! I get up and run back to our car. PJ, who is standing in the way, way back holding an umbrella for Carole’s parents, sees me make my escape and runs after me. I try to open the car door, but it’s locked. Of course it’s locked! What am I thinking? Carole has the keys! So, I stand there getting soaked in the downpour that has chosen this moment to intensify. PJ throws his umbrella aside, wraps his arms around me, and holds me tight. We are both crying now. After a moment, he retrieves his umbrella and guides me over to his car. He opens the door, and I get inside. I know all eyes must be on me, fool that I am, but I don’t care.
In the Jewish tradition, you are supposed to observe shiva for a week. In our family, we are sitting Shiva Lite by only observing for two days and two nights. It’s meant to be a time of mourning to discuss the loss and accept comfort from family and friends. Mirrors and framed photographs are covered, and that’s what Carole, PJ, and I are currently doing as we prepare the apartment to receive guests. It’s good to be back home and to be dry. I don’t speak much, feeling foolish for how I behaved at the gravesite, but PJ and Carole make small talk.
“Carole, why are we covering the mirrors?” PJ asks.
“I was always told it’s so we don’t see the pain on our faces. I guess all these customs must seem odd to you, PJ.”
“A bit, I guess, but not that much. My family is Catholic, and we have our own version of traditions and guilt. We mostly go to Mass at Easter and Christmas. We’ve become less observant over the years.”
“And when we say sitting shiva, PJ, it refers to sitting on low stools. As you can see, there will be no low stools here for people to sit on, just our regular furniture and a few padded folding chairs Simon’s Aunt Sarah and Uncle Brian are bringing later.”
The doorbell rings, and Carole sends PJ to answer the door. He opens the door and three delivery guys, overloaded with several large brown bags and clear plastic platters of food, elbow their way into the apartment and ask where to put their goods.
“Oh, my!” Carole shrieks. “Do you think I ordered too much food? Here, this way.” She motions the men to the kitchen. “Please, put them in here. I’ve already cleared off the table and counters in anticipation of the delivery. Wow, I didn’t expect this much food. I don’t know what I was thinking. I hope you like bagels, PJ, and I sure hope you’re hungry!”
“Well, you are in luck, Carole.” He pats his belly. “I do love a good salt bagel with schmear and, as you can tell, I do love to eat!”
“I’m glad,” she says and ruffles the hair on PJ’s head. I could almost mistake this for a happy occasion, but unlike the mirrors, my eyes are not covered, and I can most definitely see the pain on Carole’s face.
PJ and I tear open the bags and snap off the plastic lids of the platters. The bounty includes all kinds of breads: pumpernickel (my personal favorite), rye with seeds, rye without seeds, and marble rye. There are endless bagels of every flavor imaginable and bowls of cream cheese and hummus. Tuna fish, egg, and other cold salads crowd the largest platters. Smaller platters are layered with perfectly sliced tomatoes, paper-thin red onions, and assorted cheeses along with a scattering of briny capers. A separate tray is pungent with lox and smoked white fish. I gag and push that one over to PJ to open.
“Yuck, you can deal with this one. It almost smells as bad as stinky tofu!”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yes, but at least it’s not gefilte fish. That’s the absolute worst!”
“What’s…gefilte fish?”
“Oh God, pray you never have to see it, or worse…eat it. It’s a culinary turd covered in goo. It’s disgusting!”
“A turd covered in goo. Well, that is something I will have to see for myself.”
PJ flashes that sweet smile of his at me and happily takes over unwrapping the smelly fish. As he peels the plastic wrap from the platter, I’m being unwrapped too, and out of the blue the ugly crying is back. Not again! I escape to my room, slam the door, and throw myself on my bed.
My door creaks open and PJ whispers, “Simon, can I come in?” The tears come harder, and I roll toward the wall. I can’t bear for him to see me. He shouldn’t have to see pain on my face. I’m so embarrassed. I sense PJ perch on the foot of my bed. He kicks off his shoes. To my surprise, he spoons in behind me, wrapping his arm across my chest, but the tears won’t stop. I shake, and he holds me tighter. I feel loved.
We must have fallen asleep because Carole is standing over us shaking us awake. PJ is still behind me, his breath warm on my neck.
“Simon, PJ, get up. Guests will be arriving any minute, and the Rabbi comes at seven o’clock to lead the prayer. Please, get up and make yourselves presentable.”
We take an awkward tumble out of bed, faces flushed, as if we had been caught doing something naughty, even though we were only napping.
