Killer

 

Recently, my sister tells a story I have never heard. She is six and I am a baby, and we are at our grandparents’ apartment in Brooklyn. Ellen makes me cry, maybe accidentally, maybe on purpose, and my grandfather reprimands her and becomes so agitated he has a heart attack and dies. He drops dead on the living room floor. My mother starts moving from room to room, unable to calm herself or take action. She unzips her dress. She is so confused, she removes her clothes. My mother and grandmother are crying and speaking Yiddish in hysterical blasts while my grandfather lies dead on the floor. Ellen and I are in Starbucks. She leans in and says, It is something I have always felt guilty about. She looks sad. I am excited. I am not someone people trust their secrets to. She remembers discussing the incident with our mother when Ellen was 50 and Toby 75. Toby said, What are you talking about? Ellen said, It happened. Don’t you remember? Toby’s eyes got that drifty, shy-or-crazy look. She said, I never wanted to think about it, so I put it out of my mind. I like the drama swirling around. It makes me feel inside. My mother loved her father. He was the one she loved, and Ellen killed him, so to speak. Or I did: small, invisible provocateur.