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today because I thought you were mature enough to handle it. I guess I was wrong.”
    “You are wrong. You think getting rid of all Grandpa’s stuff will make me forget him. But it won’t.”
    He threw up his hands. “You know what? I’m sick of fighting about it. Keep whatever you want.” He tossed a sheaf of yellowed papers at my feet. “Here’s an itemized schedule of deductions from the year Kennedy was assassinated. Go have it framed!”
    I kicked away the papers and walked out, slamming the door behind me, and then waited in the living room for him to come out and apologize. When I heard the shredder roar to life I knew he wasn’t going to, so I stomped across the house and locked myself in the bedroom. It smelled of stale air and shoe leather and my grandfather’s slightly sour cologne. I leaned against the wall, my eyes following a trail worn into the carpet between the door and the bed, where a rectangle of muted sun caught the edge of a box that poked out from beneath the bedspread. I went over and knelt down and pulled it out. It was the old cigar box, enveloped in dust—as if he’d left it there just for me to find.
    Inside were the photos I knew so well: the invisible boy, the levitating girl, the boulder lifter, the man with a face painted on the back of his head. They were brittle and peeling—smaller than I remembered, too—and looking at them now, as an almost adult, it struck me how blatant the fakery was. A little burning and dodging was probably all it took to make the “invisible” boy’s head disappear. The giant rock being hoisted by that suspiciously scrawny kid could have easily been made out of plaster or foam. But these observations were too subtle for a six-year-old, especially one who wanted to believe.
    Beneath those photos were five more that Grandpa Portman had never shown me. I wondered why, until I looked closer. Three were so obviously manipulated that even a kid would’ve seen through them: one was a laughable double exposure of a girl “trapped” in a bottle; another showed a “levitating” child, suspended by something hidden in the dark doorway behind her; the third was a dog with a boy’s face pasted crudely onto it. As if these weren’t bizarre enough, the last two were like something out of David Lynch’s nightmares: one was an unhappy young contortionist doing a frightening backbend; in the other a pair of freakish twins were dressed in the weirdest costumes I’d ever seen. Even my grandfather, who’d filled my head with stories of tentacle-tongued monsters, had realized images like these would give any kid bad dreams.

    Kneeling there on my grandfather’s dusty floor with those photos in my hands, I remembered how betrayed I’d felt the day I realized his stories weren’t true. Now the truth seemed obvious: his last words had been just another sleight of hand, and his last act was to infect me with nightmares and paranoid delusions that would take years of therapy and metabolism-wrecking medications to rout out.
    I closed the box and brought it into the living room, where my dad and Aunt Susie were emptying a drawer full of coupons, clipped but never used, into a ten-gallon trash bag.
    I offered up the box. They didn’t ask what was inside.
    *   *   *
    “So that’s it?” Dr. Golan said. “His death was meaningless?”
    I’d been lying on the couch watching a fish tank in the corner, its one golden prisoner swimming in lazy circles. “Unless you’ve got a better idea,” I said. “Some big theory about what it all means that you’ve haven’t told me. Otherwise ...”
    “What?”
    “Otherwise, this is just a waste of time.”
    He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to dispel a headache. “What your grandfather’s last words meant isn’t my conclusion to draw,” he said. “It’s what you think that matters.”
    “That is such psychobabble bullshit,” I spat. “It’s not what I think that matters; it’s