SEVEN NIGHTS OF SHIVA

There was a lot to learn when Grandpa died. “Baby,” that’s what Mom calls me even though I’m eight now. “You and Grandpa had a special bond.” Her bottom lip wiggled. “Loss is painful. I’m here if you want to process.”

So I decided not to talk again ’til I figured out the process.

There were seven nights of Shiva. Every night, people came in and out of our house, even the fat neighbor guy who calls me Scout. I didn’t know Grandpa had so many friends. It got really hot inside with all the talking and eating. That’s what happens at Shiva. They call it sitting Shiva, but almost everyone stands. There are prayers too, but only after sunset. Once everyone went home, my sister, Abby, and I would race upstairs. I won twice.

One night, Dad read from a book called The Prophet. Everyone turned to see the three of us kids on the steps. Josh and Abby look alike; Grandpa and I were the adopted ones. Josh goes to college now. He lives in an apartment that smells like dirty feet. Sometimes, Mom drops me off there and I bump fists with his roommate who has two buzzed lines on the side of his head. We sit on a puffy couch and they play Mario. Josh and his roommate whisper things like, “she had nice ticks.” Who would want ticks! Grandpa said ticks can kill you. Grandpa was the smartest person I'd ever met.

Another night, the kid across the street came over. “Sorry,” he said to Abby, then he turned to me. “You guys weren’t actually related, right?” His breath smelled like Fritos. Abby punched his arm. The lifeguard, who didn’t look like the lifeguard without her whistle, touched my back. I jumped. “Hey Malcolm, I want to apologize for the time I yelled at your grandpa.” Her hands shook so hard that a carrot flew off her plate. I nodded. That was a sad day. I lost my goggles after lessons and Grandpa drove Dad’s car into a tree-trunk by accident.

In the middle of the week, I sat with Josh on the back deck. “Heavy shit, huh?” Josh reached into his coat pocket. He took out Grandpa’s lighter and turned it on its side. “Romantic bastard.” I think it says For Rosemary on there, but Josh didn’t read it out loud. He flicked open the lid and spun the wheel ’til it turned neon blue. “Wanna try?”

I grabbed it so tight that it fell.

Josh stood to picked it up. He turned toward the table and emptied his pockets—keys and stuff. He sprinkled spices into a square paper and rolled it like Smarties. He put it on his lips and Grandpa’s lighter turned it orange. The cloudy smoke smelled like skunk. “Do you ever think, maybe,” Josh stared at Grandpa’s house in our backyard, “you reminded him of Vietnam?”

I shrugged. The moon was so bright we couldn’t see the stars.

When we went back inside, the lights were on in Dad’s office. Mom moved piles of papers across the floor. Dad hates mess. Mom says it’s ’cause he’s a Virgo. Dad says Mom says that ’cause she’s a Mess.

Grandpa used to ask me to read to him from his cyclo-pedia. “Slower,” he’d ask. I made up words. He didn’t notice. We took walks to the Marsh. He liked to see mustard flowers grow wild. He used to tell me about his time in the war. A place in Saigon with a piano that played itself. Women who danced to help men relax.

“Grandpa,” I asked, “is that where I came from?” I spoke extra loud when we walked along the freeway.

“We all come from somewhere, Malcolm. I come from a country that no longer exists.” “Grandpa,” I wanted him to keep talking, “did you know ears never stop growing?”

He laughed so hard that he coughed blood into his handkerchief. He put his hand on my shoulder. His voice cracked. “You have a good head on your shoulders, son.” When we got home, I studied the head on my shoulders in the mirror. The next day, after school, the bed Grandpa slept on had been folded and moved to the corner. He wasn’t in his house.

I wrote Josh a note. I asked if I could get two lines on the side of my head like his roommate. We did it together—right before the last night of Shiva.