condition, but it was hard to escape the fact that I felt at least partially responsible. Grandpa wouldn’t have any of that. In fact, he liked to say that I saved his life that day. I had my doubts. As though sensing that, Grandpa gave my shoulder an extra squeeze. I can’t tell you why, but that squeeze comforted me like nothing else could.
Myron had a rental car waiting. We drove to the graveyard in silence. Grandma and I sat in the back. She held my hand. She didn’t ask about my mother, though she had to know. I loved her for that.
When we reached the graveyard parking lot, I felt my entire body shudder. Myron turned off the car. We all stepped out of the car in the silence. The sun beat down upon us.
“It’s up the hill,” Myron said. “Maybe I can get you a wheelchair, Dad?”
Grandpa waved him off. “I’ll walk to my son’s grave.”
We made the trek in silence. Grandpa, leaning heavily on his cane, led the way. Grandma and I followed him. Myron brought up the back. As we neared my father’s burial spot, Myron caught up to me and asked, “You okay?”
“Fine,” I said, picking up my pace.
No headstone marked my father’s gravesite yet.
For a long time, no one spoke. The four of us just stood there. Cars from the adjacent highway zoomed by without a care, without the slightest concern that just yards away a devastated family grieved. Without warning Grandpa started reciting the Kaddish, the Hebrew prayer for the dead, from memory. We were not religious people, far from it, so I was a bit surprised. Some things, I guess, we do out of tradition, out of ritual, out of need.
“Yit’gadal v’yit’kadash sh’mei raba…”
Myron started to cry. He was like that-overly expressive-the kind of guy who cried at a greeting card commercial. I looked off and tried to keep my face steady. A strange feeling enveloped me. I didn’t believe Bat Lady, but today, standing by my beloved father’s grave, missing him so much I wanted to rip my own heart out, I was oddly unmoved. Why? Why, I asked myself, am I not totally devastated by my father’s final resting spot?
And a small voice in my head whispered,
With his hands clasped and his head lowered, Grandpa finished the long prayer with the words “Aleinu v’al kol Yis’ra’eil v’im’ru. Amen.”
Myron and Grandma joined in for that fourth and final amen, making the word sound more like “oh-main.” I stayed silent. For several minutes, no one moved. We were all lost in our own thoughts.
I flashed back to the first time I had been in this cemetery, at my father’s funeral, just me and my mom. Mom had been stoned to the point of oblivion. She made me promise that we wouldn’t tell anybody about Dad’s death because Uncle Myron would claim that she was an unfit parent and seek custody. I looked down at the small placard that was there until a gravestone would be ready. The placard had been there on that day too. BRAD BOLITAR, it read, in plain black ink on a white index card in a weather-protected plastic case.
After another silent minute had passed, Grandpa shook his head and said, “This should never be.” He stopped and looked up at the sky. “A father should never have to say the Kaddish for his son.”
With that, he started back down the path. Myron and Grandma followed. They looked back at me. I took a step closer to the loose dirt. My father, the man I had loved like no other, lay six feet below me.
I didn’t feel it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t so. I stared down now at the placard and didn’t move.
Behind me I heard Myron say, “Mickey?”
I didn’t reply or react because, well, I couldn’t. I was still staring at the placard, feeling my already teetering world spin me off my feet again. I saw Dad’s name. I saw the plain black ink on the white index card. But now I saw something else too. A drawing. The drawing was small and in the corner of the index card, but there was no mistaking what it was. An emblem of a colorful butterfly with what might have been animal eyes on the wings. I had seen it before-at Bat Lady’s house.
It was the same emblem as on those T-shirts in that old picture.
We said good-bye at the airport. Hugs and kisses were exchanged. Grandma said to both Myron and me, “You’ll come down for Thanksgiving.”
Grandma didn’t ask-she told, and I loved her for that. I regret that my grandparents hadn’t been a bigger part of my life until now, but Mom and Dad had their reasons, I guess.
My grandparents caught a plane back to Florida; Myron and I grabbed one half an hour later to Newark. The flight was full. Myron volunteered to take the middle seat. I had the window. We shoehorned ourselves into our seats. Coach seats are not designed for people our height. Two little old ladies sat in front of us. Their feet could barely touch the ground, but that didn’t stop them from reclining the seat with great strength into our knees. I spent the four hours with an old lady’s scalp in my face.
At one point during the flight, I almost asked Myron about what I’d seen at two A.M. I almost asked him who the raven-haired woman was and who Carrie was, but I didn’t because I knew that would lead to a longer conversation and I wasn’t really in the mood to open up.
After landing, we grabbed Myron’s car from long-term parking and started up the Garden State Parkway. Neither of us spoke for the first twenty minutes of the drive. When we passed our exit, I finally said something.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” Myron said.
Ten minutes later, we pulled into the strip mall lot. Myron put the car in park and smiled at me. I looked out the windshield, then back at Myron.
“You’re taking me for ice cream?”
“Come on,” Myron said.
“You’re kidding me, right?”
When we entered the SnowCap ice cream parlor, a woman in a wheelchair greeted us. She was probably in her early twenties and had this big, wonderful smile. “Hey, you’re back,” she said to Myron. “What can I get you?”
“Set up my nephew here with your SnowCap Melter. I need to talk to your father for a minute.”
“Sure thing. He’s in the back room.”
Myron left us. The woman in the wheelchair held out her hand. “I’m Kimberly.”
I shook it. “I’m Mickey.”
“Sit over there,” Kimberly said, gesturing to a chair. “I’ll whip you up a SnowCap Melter.”
The Melter was the approximate size and dimensions of a Volkswagen Bug. Kimberly wheeled it over with that big, lovely smile. I wondered why she was in the chair, but of course I’d never ask.
I looked at the huge plate of ice cream and toppings and whipped cream. “We’re supposed to eat this alone?”
She laughed. “We’ll do what we can.”
We dug in. I don’t want to exaggerate, but the SnowCap Melter was the greatest thing anyone has ever eaten in the history of the world. I started eating it so fast I feared getting one of those ice cream headaches. Kimberly was having fun watching me.
“What does Myron want with your father?” I asked her.
“I think that your uncle has realized a universal truth.”
“What’s that?”
Kimberly’s smile fled, and I swear I felt a cold breeze against my neck. “You do what you have to do to protect the young.”
“I’m not following.”
“You will.”
“What does that mean?”
Kimberly blinked, looked away. “Sixteen years ago, my older sister was murdered. She was only sixteen years old.”
I had no idea what to say to that. Finally I asked, “What does Myron have to do with that?”
“Not just Myron,” she said. “Your mother had something to do with it. So did your father.”
I put down the spoon. “I don’t understand any of this. Are you saying my parents hurt-”
“No!” She cut me off. “Your parents would never hurt anyone. Never.”
“How do you know my parents?”
“I don’t. But understand something now, Mickey. None of this is a coincidence.”
