The paper posted on the peeling elevator wall featured a portrait of an old man with large glasses and pointed patches of shadow on his chin. Beneath the picture was the name “Maxwell J. Rosenbaum.” Beneath that, taking up most of the white space, were the words, “In lieu of kugels and flowers, please consider making a donation in Max’s name to the American Gerbil Society (AGS).”
In the elevator, Eli stared at the portrait of the dead man. The poster had been given a kind of naïve arts-and-crafts embellishment, with a faux gold felt border that was beginning to mildew. Eli noticed the same trim looping around the top of the elevator, where the walls met the ceiling. It was the sort of elevator typically found in the aging coop buildings in the Bronx, Queens—those nondescript blocks of brick that were home to thousands and thousands of grandparents. In fact, Eli was there to visit his very own pair. He had allowed the guilt of not calling them to boil until it evaporated, charring the bottom of his conscience and leaving a burnt smell in his head. He knew the only way to clean it out would be to visit with them, if only for a half hour. He brought Patrick along for support and distraction.
Patrick was studying the dead man on the wall. “We should go. We should check this out.”
“What?”
“To the memorial service. Sheeva? Is that how you say it?”
Eli laughed. Patrick did this all the time, suggesting...
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