by Sarah Blau
I peer into Michal’s morose eyes and realize that if I’m not careful, I might end up like a frozen wax figurine, a dried-up old hag coated in epoxy for posterity. Even the lonely, desperate boys won’t want you.
Something inside me snaps. I whip a pen out of my bag and start doodling tefillin straps on Michal’s left arm. It’s a razor-point Pilot pen and I’m carving the black lines into her wax skin when one of the security guards decides this is a good time to see what’s going on at the other end of the pavilion (my end), so I skedaddle before I get to see whether Michal’s eyes are less gloomy now.
Efraim is all smiles when he greets me at the entrance to the auditorium.
When Eli called to say Efraim “absolutely can’t wait” to have me back at the museum, I found it hard to believe, but there he is, quivering and jubilant as a groom under the chuppah.
“Ah, the prodigal daughter!” he trumpets, and Shirley rolls her eyes behind his back. Sometimes I envy Efraim for his oafish tactlessness. Makes life a lot easier.
Shirley looks different, a kind of squished, more haggard version of herself, and I wonder if she’s made any progress with the sperm bank, or maybe even had the insemination, but I don’t smell any traces of hormones or new life.
Before I take a step towards her, Efraim pulls me aside.
“Guess what,” he says, even his beard bouncing with excitement.
“What.”
“‘Bible, Books and Beyond’! They want you!”
For a fleeting moment, I feel the pinprick of excitement. “Bible, Books and Beyond” is the most prestigious of all national Bible conferences, the holy grail for Bible lecturers – an annual, three-day event packed with lectures, concerts and various “attractions.” I always turned my nose up at the conference for being “commercialized to the point of charging admission.” Deep down I knew though the real reason was that I’d never been invited to take part, and I’d already given up any hope of ever being invited, but here it is, the moment has come.
“What do they want me to talk about?” I ask, but mid-question I realize what the answer’s going to be.
“The childfree women of the Bible, of course,” Efraim informs me with that harmless-uncle tone of his, but behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes narrow, gearing up for war.
“And this lecture needs to be ready when exactly?”
“It’s not just a lecture, it’s going to be with live music, a finalist from last season’s ‘Israeli Idol,’ that girl with the short hair!”
“When?” I repeat the question.
“Next week.”
“Wow, do they always organize their impressive conferences so quickly?” I play dumb, but Efraim is smart enough not to answer, and lets me finish, “Or am I a last-minute substitute for a lecture they actually scheduled long ago?”
I ask that last question so loudly that a few heads turn in our direction. They know.
“Well, of course you’re standing in for someone,” Efraim replies, “and it’s a terrific opportunity for you!”
“And for the museum,” I add. “So who am I standing in for?”
Who do you think?
“Dina Kaminer,” he replies plainly, smiling as if that’s the best thing about the invitation, and then, without missing a beat or batting an eye, he adds, “And I already told them you’d do it.” Once again, I see the advantage of his emotional obliviousness, how easy his life must be.
“Excuse me?”
“Sheila, you have to do it. It could really bump you up the ladder!”
I start mumbling something about how it doesn’t feel right, and Dina!, and that it would be insensitive, and what would everyone say, and Dina!, and how could I even consider such a thing, and Dina!, and when he takes a step closer and grabs my hand, I feel his fingernails digging into my skin.
“This is a golden opportunity for you,” he whispers and leans even closer, his face inches from mine, “and I won’t let you pass on it, capisce?”
How did you become such a loser?
“I know you’ve been waiting a long time for this opportunity, so here is, it finally came; now don’t let it slip by!” The subtext assails my ears: don’t let this slip by as well, loser.
He finally releases me from his clasp, but the fingernail marks will stay with me for the rest of the day.
The commotion on the other side of the door lets me know my group has arrived.
Efraim smiles at me. “See? You got a special group, so you won’t let all the fame go to your head.”
I want to tell him just where he can shove all that fame, but I hear the sound of a chair being thrown and a panicked scream outside, and I take a deep breath and steel myself for a bumpy ride.
Because “special” is our euphemism for any group whose members meet the definition of challenged – from the ADHD kids to the developmentally handicapped.
I usually enjoy being their instructor. They don’t try to impress anyone with wisecracks and stale witticisms, they don’t usually demand anything of me and the instruction usually amounts to a few short educational videos and a quick stroll through the wax pavilion. But it does require an extra security guard in the pavilion, because the kids usually ignore our warnings and touch, poke and pinch the figurines. I always get the feeling that the figurines tense up whenever a “special” group arrives, apart from our mother Leah, who just gives them her patient, hollow look.
I venture into the foyer armed with my most professional smile, and who do I see there, standing by a loud group of kids and their chaperoning special ed assistant? The queen of make-up don’ts, Taliunger, her face plied with cakey foundation, blinking with a surprise that matches my own. That’s what you think.
“Tali! What a surprise!” I drag out the words.
“Yes, yes, it certainly is,” she blurts but quickly pulls herself together, “so this is your kingdom?”
And she holds her hand out with that sweeping gesture as if she’s in her private living room, the tiny empress’s magisterial wave, painted fingernails sparkling. But this time I’m the empress.
I wave the assistant over and together we start seating the children in front of the screen. Some of them sit down obediently while others refuse and burst into loud squeals of protest. I wonder why Taliunger came with them, and as if reading my mind, she says, “I’m just filling in for one of the instructors, only for today. I’m a counsellor, not some instructor.”
My comeback is an uncontrollable outburst, “I’m starring at next week’s Bible conference, it’s going to be me and a super-famous singer. I’m not at liberty to say who yet, but let’s just say jaws are going to drop. Should I get you and Neria tickets?”
Her tiny body tenses, and I wonder if it’s because of the mystery musician or the way I dragged out that Neria, as if savouring the name on my tongue.
I sweep my eyes over the kids to make sure they’re all sitting comfortably for the opening movie, and my gaze lingers on a girl who, for some reason, is still standing. She’s an itty-bitty thing, sweet and owlish, with pigtails and glasses with lenses like bottle bottoms. I gently help her to sit, and she extends a tiny finger and shows me a fresh scratch. “Meir did that to me,” she purrs. Her speech is garbled and she repeats the sentence several times until I manage to parse the words.
“That’s not nice of him at all!” I say, and she smiles at me, flashing Bazooka pink gums. I can’t make out how old she is. Seven? Eight? She looks like an underbaked baby, and her birdlike features and sugary smile tug at my heart.
The lights are switched off and the movie begins. We always choose the same video for “special” groups, “The Fathers and the Mothers.” It’s a cartoon musical, not exactly thought-provoking, but it does the job. Nine times out of ten, it keeps the kids quiet and glued to the screen.
Tali and I lean against the wall at the far end of the dark room. To anyone looking from the outside, we probably seem like two chummy instructors, but no one’s looking. We’re both sta
ring at the screen without blinking, inhaling and exhaling the same sour air, while in the video, our mother Sarah starts torturing Hagar. The animator chose to draw Sarah as a ghoulish hag with hook nose. A childless shrew. It’s only after she has Yitzhak that the animator will magically smooth out her wrinkles and she’ll go back to being the pleasant, loving woman she once was.
Taliunger leans closer to me.
“I’d appreciate it if you backed off Neria,” she says.
“What?” It takes me a moment to understand what she said, as if the words were in a foreign language.
“You heard me. And don’t come over to our house again,” she replies, emphasizing the our.
With vindictive relish, I recall Neria’s text. It took me some time to answer, and after quite a few carefully worded messages which I deleted, restored and deleted again, I sent: We’re cool, Neria.
A simple, elegant answer. We’re good. From my experience, the more stoic you pretend to be, the harder they chase you, so my reply wasn’t exactly driven by benevolence, and no, we’re not cool, Neria.
“Better focus on your glamorous job,” Taliunger whispers to me, so close I can feel her greasy make-up smudging my ear, “since, really, that’s the only thing you’ve got.”
Her straightforwardness surprises me. This is not how I remembered her. Dina was the straight shooter among us, and Taliunger a stealthier, back-stabbing type. But I guess motherhood forces you to look life in the face, and not waste time with detours.
To tell you the truth, it’s one of the things that always scared me, the changes your kids force on you, changes of the most profound kind, far-reaching kind, drastic changes in your behaviour and attitude.
What can I tell you? Even if you’re not that great, it doesn’t mean you’re willing to change.
Still with our backs to the wall, we’re staring straight ahead as Abraham banishes Hagar to the desert, see? He’s willing to sacrifice his other son too.
“Just for the record, my job is just as glamorous as yours,” I whisper to Taliunger, “and the invite to the conference still stands.”
“Unfortunately, it’s right when I’m putting the kids to sleep,” she replies.
A part of me is slightly disappointed with her answer, That’s your comeback, really? The kids’ bedtime?
I look at the weary, aching Sarah, and even though I’ve seen this movie dozens of times, my heart sinks. Because no matter how full her life is, so much living and doing alongside her husband, it’s not enough for her, and for the first time, I can’t help but wonder whether all my living and doing is enough for me.
The note with the “Israeli Idol” finalist is pulsing in my hand. Thrump! Thrump!
Thank God, the movie’s over. I can’t bear to stand next to Taliunger even one more minute, and the feeling seems to be mutual, because once the lights are flicked back on, we each dart to opposite ends of the auditorium.
Now we’re walking the kids in single (and crooked) file to the wax pavilion, and I wave the extra guard over to join us. I feel like I’m on autopilot, reciting the safety procedures, lecturing about the figurines, saying all the right words but with a heavy, cloudy mind.
Suddenly I hear the guard shouting, “What did you do?” with unbridled aggression.
I rush across the auditorium, in the direction of the Michal figure, who’s sitting there with her frozen gaze, my “tefillin” burning into her arm, and next to her stands the sweet, pigtailed owl holding a pen, her tiny body shaking.
“I just drew a flower next to the scratch,” she stutters and extends her arm innocently, showing me the tiny flower doodled next to her red scratch. Unfortunately, she drew it with the same pen I used to scribble the tefillin on Michal.
“Tamara!” Despite her petite size, Taliunger seems to tower over the owl like a gloomy presence. “What did you do?! Bad girl! Bad!”
And you’re a bad, bad counsellor, I want to say but don’t, and just when I’m about to intervene, the special ed assistant appears with the chief security guard, an older man with a raging red face, and they’re all closing in on Tamara, who’s curling into herself, trembling and blubbering, “No… I didn’t… not me…”
“Don’t lie, Tamara!”
Taliunger is much angrier than is warranted by such a minor event, Where’s all this anger coming from? How old is this anger? But unfortunately, she’s not the only one – they’re all glowering at Tamara with daunting disapproval, and my heart goes out to the little girl whose pigtails are fluttering with fear, but I can’t utter a single word.
Well, speak up!
I can’t do it.
Speak up!
I can’t.
Speak!
Can’t.
Even Michal is staring at me with her cold eyes, What are you waiting for? Go on! Help your little girl!
But that’s just it. Tamara isn’t my little girl. I have no doubt that if she were, I’d find it in me to confess, right away, without blinking. Because that’s what your kids make you do; they make you forget about yourself, about your habits, your fears, the many moments of shame and avoidance that have shaped you into who you are. Your kids will make you stretch the limits of your selflessness beyond recognition.
And that I just can’t do. Can’t.
Gloom lingers like a fog over the house.
I spend the entire evening sitting and staring at the walls, feeling depleted. The note with the “Idol” finalist’s phone number is neatly folded in my hand, but I can’t move, let alone speak. Tamara’s tiny, insulted owlish face is floating before me. Who wants a hug? Who wants a cuddle?
I’m still wall-watching when my phone bleeps with an incoming message. It’s a picture sent from an unknown caller, and I zoom in and see a blue, contorted face. A few moment pass until I realize it’s a picture of a drowned witch, with weights tied to her ankles and a rope coiled around her entire body, only her hair loose, unspooling like ribbons in the water. Her dead eyes are looking straight at me. It’s me.
22
NO, IT’S NOT ME, CAN’T BE.
Of course not, you were never a real witch, no matter how hard you tried.
I hold the phone up and eye the picture. It’s a painting. Whoever sent it obviously put in some serious effort. The resemblance is there, mostly around the jawline, and the thin hair floating around. Maybe something in the shape of our mouths. But the face in the painting is bloated and ugly. The face of a witch who failed the test.
With a detachment that surprises me, I continue to study the painting. It’s clearly a scene depicting the infamous “swimming test” from the Middle Ages, and even though I can’t determine the exact period, there’s something familiar about it; it rings a muffled but important bell, remember! But I can’t.
The swimming test was simple and cruel: if you were charged with witchcraft, you were bound with ropes, walked to the nearest river and tossed in.
If you somehow managed not to drown, well then, you’re a witch destined to burn at the stake. But if you sank like a stone? It’s a shame, of course, but at least it proves you’re not guilty.
And what about you, Sheila, guilty or innocent?
I stay up all night, my phone burning in my hand like a lump of coal. I study the painting from every angle, this presumably being the first contact the killer has made with me, and I feel like I’m whispering an old incantation. The painting is threatening and mocking me at the same time, it was sent to remind me of something, something from ages ago… but what?
I mull over the entire chain of events, picking it apart from the moment it all began, from the moment Dina was murdered and things started spiralling. But was Dina’s murder really the beginning? Think, woman! Was it ground zero? Is it possible that this thing started long before that? Maybe, say, when four young women met on the grassy mound behind the campus cafeteria, long, long ago?
Hercule Poirot always said you have to look for the starting point – there’s one moment when it all began, and once
you identify it, you’re halfway there. That’s all very nice, Hercule, but what is that moment?
Deep down, you already know.
The drowned witch is flashing me her eternal, submerged smile, and something flickers and flutters at the edge of my consciousness, a niggling memory, fighting to reach the surface. It has something to do with Dina, I know it, something that was said, or wasn’t said, during that last visit. That something is right there, waiting, lurking.
Go back to the starting point, the moment it all began, Poirot’s words echo in my mind all night. He never had kids, nor did Miss Marple; their lives were more than full without them. Maybe that’s the reason they became detectives, not to leave your own traces, but to track the traces left by someone else.
I’m sitting in my living room, staring at the painting, the dead witch silently staring back at me as the minutes turn into hours.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
Micha’s reaction comes as a surprise, and not a pleasant one.
Oh, come on, when has he ever pleasantly surprised you? It’s been a few days since we last met, a few days in which he hasn’t contacted me, and the look he gives me when I show him the picture is the condescending amusement of a man who was waiting for this moment, a look that says, I knew she’d find some cockamamie excuse to see me again, this is the best she could come up with?
He asks a bunch of questions with that half-mocking gaze and offhanded tone, and slowly but surely it sinks in: no, he doesn’t believe me.
“You’re acting as if I sent that photo to myself.” I can’t hold back.
“I didn’t say that.”
You don’t need to, your tone is doing it for you.
“So why aren’t you rushing to find out who sent it?”
“It’s not that simple. We’d need to get a court order for the phone company, and then have people assigned to it, and our security department is pretty much two cops. You see, this isn’t high up on the priority list, so it’ll take them time to—”
