“And Margaret. She saw you, too.”
“Margaret?” Margaret was my Aunt Sheila and Uncle Kip’s kid. “When’d she see me?”
“Walking by the gift shop downstairs. I got her a job here earlier in the summer.”
“Huh.”
“Your spy network is impressive, Mrs. O’Malley,” Eugene said, his tone matter-of-fact. At first I thought maybe he was making a joke. But after I studied him, I realized his admiration was serious.
“Yeah, well, it helps that I’m related to half of Boston, and most of the police force, and all of the first responders.”
And half of the gangs, thieves, and drug dealers.
I was still studying Eugene, so I didn’t miss his microscopic smile at her response, nor did I miss how quickly his expression sobered, his eyes clouding with something like misery, his gaze still on Kat.
“Does Mrs. Zucker know you’re in town?” my mom asked. I could tell she was making chit-chat to fill the silence.
“Uh, no. Not yet.” I made a mental note to call the lady.
“When is the last time you talked to her?”
“Last week. But, I didn’t talk to her, I spoke to her plumber. She’s having problems with the upstairs bathroom.”
My mother gave me a sideways look. “You just had that fixed last winter.”
“Yeah, but now it’s a problem again.”
She grunted. “Maybe go over there this week and take a look yourself.”
I nodded at the wisdom of this, distracted by the image of Kat standing from her chair and covering her father’s hand with hers.
“How long did you know Zachariah Tyson?” I asked Eugene without thinking, suddenly curious.
“His whole life,” he responded flatly.
“What can we do?” My ma’s eyes remained on Kat while she addressed Eugene, sounding melancholy. “When is the funeral? Will it be in Boston?”
Eugene glanced at my mother. “It’ll take place late this afternoon, at the family cemetery. I’ve already arranged for a rabbi and wooden coffin.”
My mother moved her gaze to his, held it, and I recognized the look. She disapproved.
“So fast?”
“According to our custom, funerals typically take place within twenty-four hours after death, and burial immediately after.”
“He won’t be embalmed?” My mother looked confused. “What about a viewing?”
“No. He’ll be washed—again, according to custom—but not embalmed. And there will be no viewing.”
She sputtered for a minute, shaking her head. “What about people who need to travel? The rest of his family? They won’t get here in time.”
Eugene’s glare seemed to soften as he looked at her, the faint smile returning to his eyes. “Usually, after the funeral, there is a gathering at the home for additional mourners, which marks the beginning of shiva.”
“Shiva?”
“In Conservative Judaism—actually, in all Judaism—the week following the funeral is known as shiva. The family stays at home and receives visitors, who provide support and help them pray after their loss. But in this case, there is no one else. Just Kathleen, her husband, and me. There will be no gathering, and there will be no visitors.”
“No one? No mourners? No one wants to pay their last respects? Friends? Relatives? Coworkers? What about people from the synagogue?”
The older man contemplated her for a moment. “Zachariah removed himself from the Jewish community well before the Alzheimer’s took hold. Therefore, if there were people who wished to call on Kat this week, it wouldn’t be friends from the synagogue, there to provide support, bring food, or to pray with her and reflect on her father’s life. His world ceased to function that way a long time ago, Mrs. O’Malley.”
“His world?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry, did we get transported to Mars without my knowledge? Is this an alien spaceship?”
His eyes seemed to twinkle, but his tone was subdued as he said, “Upon his death, Zachariah Tyson was the thirtieth richest man in the world, with a fortune totaling over seventeen billion dollars.” The twinkle dimmed. His eyes lost focus, and then he moved his stare back to Kat where she stood next to her father’s bed, her arms wrapped around her middle. “When you have that much money, only your child mourns you.”
My mother, to the very best of her ability and with the help of Google, observed shiva for the next seven days. And everything was kosher. Everything. When we’d arrived home from the funeral, she was carrying bags of meat and cheese from the kosher grocer on Harvard St. as well as a Jewish-American cookbook.