In the Jewish tradition, family members “sit shivah,” for the seven days following death, in the home of the deceased. Basically, you were to receive visitors, mourners, etcetera. It should have come as no surprise that Fried-man’s shivah universe involved neither sitting nor her home but, instead, screaming in the torture chamber. She “barked shivah.” As for the rest of us, we desperately wanted to join Bob. The judge had planned for a single day of mourning, one week after Bob passed away. She appointed me shivah coordinator (“Sheera, we rilly rilly have lots to do with shee-vah! Now get to it!”).

My job was to order the food and flowers and contact all friends, family, and colleagues. While the judge had minimal family and friends, unless you counted Roderick, her hairdresser, Bob apparently had gazillions (or about forty). Calling them all within a few days was a little tricky as a quantitative and qualitative matter, considering that I was still not allowed to use the phone. But I’d found a way around this little snafu. I moved Matthew to the back, where Pregnant Kate used to sit and where he could furtively go through Bob’s Rolodex.

Kate had left a week earlier, presumably to give birth. We still hadn’t heard from her. I had a feeling I’d never see or speak to her again, since she managed to evade my request for her contact information. I couldn’t blame her, though. I had no intention of leaving my forwarding address in chambers. Heck, I’d even considered joining the Witness Protection Program at the end of year. Maybe getting a time-share in Dick Cheney’s underground bunker. But there was no time for such considerations now; Sheera had a shee-vah to plan.

Medieval Roy was in charge of the flowers. Though he’d proven himself to be a disastrous green thumb during the year, flowers still seemed a safer bet than food. I’d heard enough stories about what he and his medieval comrades ate on the weekends. It wasn’t long ago, after all, that he said: “Hey, Sheila, Matt, did you guys know that for Dudley’s feasts in 1575, ten oxen were eaten each day?”

Desperately wanting to be a part of the judge’s personal life, Janet was overjoyed that I’d delegated the food to her. It was the least I could do. The menu so far: tongue, whitefish salad, pickled herring. I shuddered to think where the pickled fish would end up. Certainly not on Evan, who’d steadfastly refused to participate in anything funereal on the judge’s behalf.

It was day three of “sitting” shivah and already this sitting had elicited more screaming than all the other sittings combined. I’d just finished appeasing Roy after a “mean florist” yelled at him when Matthew’s phone rang. Since he was in the back trying to reach Uncle Henry and Cousin Mort, I answered. It was Heidi.