Jews waste no time burying their dead.

My father died two days ago, on Friday, and if yesterday hadn’t been Shabbat, we would have found a way to bury him then. So we had to settle for today, even though it was Christmas Eve.

The funeral service at Lansky’s was mercifully short, as was the graveside ceremony at King David Memorial Gardens. The limo rides back and forth were uneventful. I shifted into detachment gear and rode the morning out, doing my best to support Aunt Shel while keeping my emotions locked down. I’d mourn by myself, later, in my own way.

Now we were in the City of Fairfax, sitting shiva at Aunt Shel’s house. Shiva was similar to an Irish wake, if you took away the body, the copious amounts of booze, the merriment, and stretched it to an excruciating seven days.

All afternoon, a steady stream of people laden with food stopped by to offer their condolences. Aunt Shel and I had set up camp in the living room and—thankfully—our “guests” had finally given us a few moments of peace so we could decompress. Next to me, Aunt Shel balanced a Chinette plate on her knees, heaped past capacity with a hodgepodge of homemade food. A turkey drumstick, some potato salad with pimentos, a scoop of some indistinguishable casserole. Her fifth or sixth hard-boiled egg of the day—I’d lost count.

She picked up the drumstick and the plate listed to her left. After rebalancing it, she pointed the oversized hunk of fowl at me. “Why don’t you get yourself a polke? It’s getting close to dinnertime.” A few dark crumbs of pumpernickel escaped her mouth. “And try some chocolate babka for dessert. It looked pretty good.”

I glanced at my watch: 4:30. “Thanks, Shel. I’ll get something in a few minutes.” I’d tried to eat something right after we returned from the cemetery, but couldn’t force much down. My body was still on West Coast time.

My pocket chirped. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aunt Shel frown, her entire face scrunching up in displeasure. I pulled out my phone, shielding it from her as best I could, and checked the number—Dani. I’d talk to her later. If I had my way, I’d never talk to her, but it wouldn’t be up to me, it rarely was. She’d left me a handful of messages since Friday, and I knew she wouldn’t stop until I called her back. Fidelity might not be Dani’s forte, but she was persistent. When it suited her, anyway. I stuffed the phone back into my pocket, not wanting to further upset Aunt Shel.

A neighbor of Aunt Shel’s took a seat next to us and started sobbing, a few tears leaving dark dots on the lapels of her navy suit. Aunt Shel rolled her eyes in my direction, set down her plate, and attended to her friend’s grief. I tuned them out, more than content to take a break from talking and escape into my own thoughts.

Aunt Shel had insisted we sit shiva at her house, which was good by me. She’d also wanted to sit for only three days instead of the traditional week—also good by me. If she’d proposed a single night, I would have gone for that too. Luckily, my family considered the rules and traditions of Judaism merely suggestions, adhered to, altered, or ignored however we saw fit. Which again, was good with me. I wasn’t much for carrying on antiquated customs, especially those I didn’t even understand.

I got the part about wearing a torn black ribbon pinned to my shirt. There had to be some way for strangers to know I was in mourning. But no one had given me a good reason why we had to cover the mirrors, or why visitors had to drench the front porch with water as they washed their hands before entering. And no one explained—to my satisfaction—why Aunt Shel and I had to sit on uncomfortable metal folding chairs with short legs that Lansky’s had sent over. We do it because that’s how it’s done, Aunt Shel had said, more than once. I chose not to point out any inconsistencies in her selective adoption of the shiva rules.

Another neighbor sidled up to join Aunt Shel’s conversation, and the tone of their voices lightened the more they talked. Earlier in the day, I’d caught a few snatches of other conversations, and they seemed to be divided fifty-fifty: half centered around mundane topics like mah jongg and books and pot roast, the other half concerned my father.

They talked about how much of a mensch he was. Told amusing stories, most of which I had a hard time believing. The tales of his kindness and generosity and benevolence seemed to grow as the day wore on.

With only one or two exceptions, each mention of my father’s largesse included a lengthy discourse on the new Handleman Library at the Hebrew Home. Everyone seemed to know about it but me. They all assured each other the upcoming dedication would take place on schedule. Abe would have wanted it that way. Every time they looked to me for answers, I kept my mouth shut and shrugged. Mr. Noncommittal, at your service.

I didn’t know the majority of the well-wishers beyond their names and faces. Assorted family friends and relatives—very distant relatives—paid their respects and left, some staying just a few minutes, others as long as they thought proper. The last time I’d seen most of them was two and a half years ago, when we sat shiva for Mom.

Erik and Katy had come directly from the cemetery and stayed for about an hour before they needed to get on the road to her mother’s for Christmas Eve supper. A couple of old high school poker buddies made an appearance, but seemed uncomfortable with the somber atmosphere and bolted quickly. Couldn’t really blame them. Listening to old Jews kvetch wasn’t very uplifting, and I certainly wasn’t good company.

I never thought sitting around listening to people say good things about my family could be so grueling.

Aunt Shel’s neighbors got up and said their goodbyes amidst a final burst of tears. Aunt Shel returned to her plate of food and spoke to me as if we’d been right in the middle of a conversation. “I’ve been telling him for years to move into a condo. Especially after Judy passed. Who needs the farkakte stairs?” She picked up her drumstick and waved it in the air like a conductor. “He should have listened to his older sister.” She jabbed the polke in my direction, and a little flap of turkey skin flopped back and forth.

“Yes, he should have.” I’d tried to persuade him to move, too, with the same amount of success. I nodded at the twenty or so people gathered in small groups in the living room and adjacent dining room. “Looks like he had a lot of friends.”

Aunt Shel set her turkey leg down and frowned at the choices on her plate. “This is nothing. If it wasn’t Christmas Eve, this place would be packed with goyim for three straight days. Wall-to-wall.” She took a bite out of an unnaturally green pickle spear. “Tuesday’s gonna be something all right.”

I could see where the birth of Jesus outranked the death of my father in most people’s eyes. “Well, we can sit for longer, if you want.” I didn’t, but I knew it was important for her to grieve properly. My father had been her closest confidante for the past fifteen years, ever since Uncle Don had his third—and final—heart attack.

She tsk-tsked me. “No. This is better for me. Don’t need all those people traipsing through here making a mess anyway. They can send us a card.” She busied herself with the food in her lap, done with me for the moment.

Throughout the day—at the funeral, in the procession, at the cemetery—I found my mind wandering back to the same questions. How had my father amassed such a fortune? And why hadn’t I known about it? Erik had said he’d done well in real estate, and not just on the selling end. He’d invested wisely and as the Northern Virginia suburbs had exploded, so had the value of his holdings. But you sure couldn’t tell it by how he dressed or what he drove or where he lived.

Erik had gone on to explain—in general terms—that my father had already set into motion some of his charity projects. I wished Erik had given me a few particulars, especially about the Handleman Library. Probably afraid of how I’d take it, my father a multi-millionaire, spreading cash around like grass seed, leaving his son out of the loop. Not for the first time in the past twenty-four hours, I pictured my father, martini glass in hand, lounging in a hot tub crammed to the gills with fifty-dollar bills. Utterly preposterous, but if you’d told me my father was worth multi-millions, I’d have said that was preposterous, too.

Across the room, the memorial candle on the fireplace mantel flickered as the front door opened. The sounds of a few more people trickling in floated through the air. I heard Lev Yurishenko before I saw him, his gruff, accented voice greeting people in the entryway. He’d been my father’s best friend for as long as I could remember. When I was a kid, the old immigrant always greeted me with the same words—“It’s your Uncle Lev, From Russia With Love”—right before he’d tousle my hair. Never liked it much. I think he got the message when I was about twelve and had grown taller than he was.

Lev had been the one to find my father when he came over for his weekly chess match; he’d been the one to call me Friday with the terrible news. Even though he was usually as stoic as a statue, the old goat must have been shocked when he looked through the front window and saw my father lying dead on the floor.

A moment later, he came striding toward us, heavy black overcoat still cinched at the neck, Lenin-style cap in place. In his left hand, he grasped a pair of worn leather gloves. As if he’d just stepped off the train from Minsk in pre-revolution Russia. He grabbed a nearby chair, dragged it in front of us, and eased himself down. Removed his cap. Hewing to the orthodox tradition in a shiva house, he waited for Shel or me to speak first.

Aunt Shel barely glanced up from her plate as she offered a slight nod in greeting.

“Hello, Lev,” I said, rising.

He motioned me back down. “Sit, sit.”

I had no desire to argue with Lev, so I sat. Even though I had six inches on him, I had to look up into his face, thanks to the shorty chairs. “I appreciate you coming back. But it wasn’t necessary.” He’d been at the funeral, of course, but he and his son Peter stayed in the background, not wanting to crowd us. After the cemetery, they’d stopped by for a little while, then excused themselves. I hadn’t expected to see Lev again until tomorrow.

“No thanks are needed. Abe was like my brother. I will miss him greatly.”

I nodded. “Is Peter here?”

Lev scowled. “No. He … he could not make it. He sends his best.”

“Okay.” I’d seen Peter two hours ago. He was entitled to a little break. What was it with fathers and their expectations?

Shel swallowed a mouthful of food. “Lev, did you get some rest this afternoon? Are you hungry?” I knew she’d miss mothering now that my father was gone.

“I am fine.” He shook his head, slowly, sadly. “Abe had beaten me in chess three straight weeks. I had a new gambit I wished to try on him.” He frowned. “I will have a difficult time finding another man who plays chess with so much passion as he did.”

After a few more minutes of chitchat, I got up to stretch my legs. Lev followed me into the kitchen. “Come,” he said, pulling me by my shirt into the corner, keeping my back to the other visitors buzzing around the congealing food spread out on the table. I looked down on him. Only about five-five or so, Lev maintained the bearing of a much taller, much tougher man. Maybe it was because he was always serious. I don’t remember him smiling since right before the last time he tousled my hair.

“What?”

He peered around me and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I am sorry. I do not wish to discuss this now, but I must. Please forgive me.”

“What is it?”

“Joshua, this is not a matter that should be discussed in a shiva house, but it cannot wait. It is too important. The weight has been crushing on my heart.” His accent thickened with every word. Two fingers still gripped my shirt.

“It’s okay, Lev. This,” I said, waving my hand in the air, “is mostly for Shel. She needs it. I’m not so frum. Say whatever’s on your mind.”

Lev took a deep breath and pulled me down closer so he could whisper in my ear. “Joshua, your father’s death was not accident. He was murdered.”