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“Okay,” he said. “That’s a semireasonable statement. I have some friends who’d do the same thing. So...we’re friends now?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Probably not, but I wanted to give you something, anyway, as an apology for my bad behavior the past few months. You know, the thing with the truck nuts and what not. So here.” She picked up a box that she’d set on the floor by the leather chair and thrust it into his hands. Then she picked up her jacket and started to leave the room.
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“I gave you the thing,” she said.
“You aren’t going to stay and watch me open it?”
“Is that something you’re into?” she asked.
“I...guess? I think so? Plus if it’s a bomb I want to make sure you get hit, too.”
“Good idea. But it’s not a bomb.”
“What is it?”
“Open it,” she said.
“Fine. I’m opening it.” He sat down in the chair and ripped the brown paper off the box and opened the lid. There was something wrapped in white tissue paper inside. Too big to be a throwing star. Too small to be a bomb. Unless it was a very small bomb.
Carefully he peeled back the tissue paper.
“It’s a candleholder,” he said, taking it out of the box.
“It’s a Hanukkiah,” she said.
“A what?”
“It’s like a menorah. You light the candles to celebrate Hanukkah. So... Happy Hanukkah.”
“I found out I was Jewish yesterday.”
“And today’s the first day of Hanukkah. I made it. The branches are ivy, see?”
She pointed at the eight branches that looked like normal candle arms until one looked closely and saw they were small and twisting vines of ivy.
“You made this?”
“Last night and today,” she said. “I didn’t have anything else to do. Wait. That’s mean. I had a lot to do, but I did that instead because it was important to me to give you a gift that was meaningful and took work. And it took a lot of work. Not a ton, because I’m good, but a lot. I hope you like it. I think it’s pretty.”
“It’s...wow. It’s beautiful.”
“I made it ivy because of your mom. I thought you should have something to connect you to her. My mom and I are really close. It’s awful you never got to know yours.”
Ian took a long breath and used the menorah to avoid looking at Flash. It was a work of art, this menorah. He didn’t know anything about them, how to use them, what they meant, but he knew it was special and that he was grateful to have it.
“Thank you,” he said, looking up at her at last.
“There are candles in the bottom of the box. Mrs. Scheinberg said you can only use the candles for the menorah. It’s part of the ritual. If you want to talk to her about Judaism or anything, she said you can call her or come visit. She’s supernice.”
“Who’s Mrs. Scheinberg?”
“She’s my eighty-eight-year-old downstairs neighbor. She’s Jewish. She’s also my best friend.”
“You have an eighty-eight-year-old best friend?”
She nodded.
