After she went home, I was left with my thoughts. I was like a page that had been erased—the imprints of the letters still remained. Now I would have to find out for myself what the traces of letters and words meant.
6
The night began as usual. I brushed my teeth, took a shower, and brushed my hair. Before getting into bed in my underwear, I made sure the doors were locked and the window locks were in place. Since I have been on my own, I’ve turned the locking of the doors into a routine.
My bed has been the same bed since childhood. Same with the sheets. My father believed that as long as an object fulfills its role, there is no reason to replace it with a new one.
As I had in my childhood, I left one light on. The death of my parents had caused me to regress to old habits. The books that prepared me for high school finals leaned tiredly on the shelf, their accumulated dust showing that they had outgrown their usefulness. The rug, once the color of cream, is now faded and gray with dirt. It fit in with the rest of the furniture in the room. The appearance of the room itself was confusing: it had signs both of a young girl and an adolescent. There were no signs of femininity. George had told me that my father talked about me as if I was still a girl. Perhaps he really did refuse to admit that I had grown up. Even after my college matriculation, he still invited me to sit with him on the rug and put airplanes together. Sometimes he would scold me like a little girl. And me? I went right along, never objecting, postponing my plans in order to comply with his whims. Up until his death, apathy and passivity were the main characters in my life. There was nothing in my life that I was proud of doing—nothing. A terrible sense of frustration engulfed me.
Suddenly I felt that I wasn’t alone. Something moved across the door from right to left. Sitting down on my bed in a panic, I didn’t know what to do or how to react—something was moving around the house, something whose presence I had no control over. I couldn’t hear any noise, but the strange presence was making sounds inside my head.
I rocked back and forth in my bed, hoping the repetitive motion would calm me down. My eyes were fixed on the doorway, and once again it crossed, this time from left to right. A scream escaped me—“Daddy!” I grabbed the pillow and covered my face with it. I wanted him so badly right that second. What am I going to do? Call for help? Get up and run from the house? My body froze. It was completely silent all around me.
I took the pillow off my face and waited. Time passed, but nothing happened. The house was still quiet. Huddled in my bed with my legs tucked under, between the pillow and my body, I don’t know how much time passed—but it was passing very slowly. Hours had gone by; my eyes wanted to close, but I fought the exhaustion. Is that a sound coming from the living room? I was afraid to get up. I was a scared little girl who needed a grownup to calm her down. But there was no grownup to be found.
The beginning signs of dawn crept through the slats in my bedroom shutters. The sun began to cast its rays signaling the dawn. Morning had arrived. My eyelids refused to open. With great effort, I opened my eyes and discovered it was already the middle of the day. I looked around. Every object was in its place. Everything looked familiar. I walked barefoot out of the room, slowly. My heart pounded at the memory of the night before. I checked the hallway, which was partly in darkness and partly lit; the lit part came from the direction of the living room. Nothing was out of place, and everything looked normal. Was I going crazy?
I wanted so badly to tell someone about what was going on, but nobody would believe me. I could imagine the reactions. “You are in mourning. You haven’t returned to your old self yet. People who are grieving imagine all kinds of things.” And maybe I really am imagining it all. I mean, there is no logic in ghosts roaming my house. But still…
I arrived at the office a bit late. I could feel Donna, my boss, staring at me. Everyone at work had been very considerate since the death of my parents, but I knew that it would end at some point. My mood encouraged people to keep their distance from me. In some way, this arrangement suited me just fine. I wasn’t in the mood to speak to anyone, to explain or apologize for my behavior. But the distance also increased my feeling of loneliness and even perpetuated it.
“Are you through feeling sorry for yourself?” I suddenly heard someone say.
“What?” I answered, surprised.
“I asked if you were through feeling sorry for yourself, because if you aren’t, maybe we could bring a bed into the office and you could be depressed and work at the same time,” said Donna.
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t know if she was angry or just joking.
“Eva, you have to snap out of it. Not because of work—mostly for yourself. If you don’t do something, you might sink into a deep depression, and your chances of pulling yourself out of it will be slim. If you don’t smile a bit, then I guess I’ll have to open up a psychiatric ward in the office. Your mood is affecting us all.”
The shock was so great that I still couldn’t speak.
“A different expression, please.” That was a command.
I sat up straight in my chair.
“Take a deep breath,” said Donna. “Good, now let it out in one long exhale. Great. Again. Now start moving the muscles in your face. Your mouth too. Stretch your lips. Good. Again. You see? It’s not that hard. Practice it at home in front of the mirror and you’ll see that you’re prettier when your mouth is stretched and your teeth peek through your lips.” Slowly but surely, as she was talking, she walked away from my desk. Her butt moved defiantly from side to side and the heels of her shoes clicked steadily. The sound receded into the distance.
Upon reaching home that night, I went straight to the mirror in my bedroom and looked at myself, something I hadn’t done in a long time—really looked at myself. My eyes began at the top of my head, covered with a mane of blonde hair, down to my large round blue eyes. A nose not too big and not too small graced the middle of my face and my pink lips were too full, in my opinion. The wide shirt I was wearing hid the outline of my body. I threw it on the floor, and my eyes took in my chest covered by an old-fashioned and unremarkable bra. My breasts were medium sized and pear-shaped. I removed the bra and let it fall like a leaf to the floor.
It was the first time I had ever examined my body like this. Embarrassment washed over me. I looked down at my toes and could feel my heart pounding. I felt like there were two Evas fighting each other inside me. One was embarrassed and terrified, and the other was bolder, pushing forward, wanting to discover, touch.
My hands lifted up of their own accord and touched my erect nipples. My body took on a life of its own. I became frightened, a new feeling for me. I unbuttoned my trousers and took them off. I stood in my too-large nude-colored underwear. My hips were narrow and grew wider at my thighs. The last item to remove proved too difficult for me. I also didn’t see the point in taking off my panties. Standing there almost completely naked, my eyes scrutinized my body without restraint. A strange aroma spread across the room and mixed in with the presence of an unfamiliar body. My buttocks contracted instinctively and my thighs closed. Heat emanated from my groin area and shame clutched me like an armored plate.
My eyes never moved from the reflection. Is that me standing there in my underwear? I thought to myself, experiencing for the first time in my life—a girl over twenty years old—what girls experience years earlier. My hands flew to my panties and took them off. I now stood there completely naked, exposed and vulnerable, facing myself. I couldn’t take my eyes off the mirror. I stood like that for a long time, introducing myself to my body that had, until then, been a mystery to me, until the room grew dark and my figure grew dim in the surrounding darkness.
That night I experienced the same feeling. I touched my body that was foreign to me. My hands felt every inch, touched, pinched, and rubbed until my body grew stiff with overwhelming pleasure. Something inside me let go, like liquid spraying out of an open bottle.
7
The next day, when I g
ot to the office, I sat down in my chair. When I lifted my head, I caught Donna looking at me. She didn’t say anything at first, just watched me closely. Then she asked, “What happened to you?”
“What happened to me?” I asked, somewhat puzzled.
“Something is different about you today,” she said thoughtfully, looking directly into my eyes.
I gave her a penetrating look.
“OK,” she said. “Duche wants us to send them the protocol from yesterday’s meeting. Could you take care of it?”
I nodded my head. She turned away from me, her bottom wiggling as she walked away from my desk.
I drove home slowly. When I reached my street, I could see that the pleasant weather had drawn people out of their houses. The neighbor’s children were playing in the yard, spraying water on each other from a sprinkler spinning slowly around the grass. I could see Sarah across the street sitting on her porch with a drink in her hand. When she saw me, she waved hello and sent me a warm smile.
I parked in the driveway and, as usual, went over to the mailbox to collect the letters. I waved back to Sarah and went inside the house. I hung the car keys on their usual place and casually tossed the mail down on the little table.
In one hand was my cup of hot coffee, and in the other, I scooped up the letters from the table. I sat down in our old rocking chair on the porch and began to go over the mail—the electric bill, the telephone bill (which was lower than normal), and a colorful flyer advertising a roofing service. The last envelope came from a company in Chicago whose name was unfamiliar to me. Turning the envelope over to see if it was intended for me, the name printed on the other side jumped out at me: Sonia Schwartz. I felt like I was suffocating. That name was haunting me.
With shaky hands, I tore open the envelope. Inside was a check for thirty dollars, together with a typed letter.
Dear Mrs. Schwartz,
We apologize for the delay in sending the reimbursement for your purchase of the single bed, Model OR2614.
Our company is closing its doors after thirty years of continuous service. We have always been proud of our loyalty to our customers and our professional integrity. As part of the closing process, we have reviewed our outstanding debts to our loyal customers. We found that you are entitled to a refund of thirty dollars.
We have enclosed this amount together with this letter.
Sincerely yours,
Shlomo Cohen
General Manager
Sonia Schwartz. Who is this woman who has invaded my life, and like a sly fox, found my home in strange and unusual ways? I decided to take action. I went inside and dialed information, asking the operator for a telephone number for Sonia Schwartz at our address. A few seconds passed before the operator said, in a businesslike voice, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t have that name at the address you indicated. You have a nice day.”
I continued to hold the telephone for a long time—until I heard the dial tone. When I returned to the porch, Roy was sitting in the rocking chair holding the letter in his hands. I snatched it away from him. “What are you doing?” I asked in annoyance.
“I heard you were on the phone, so I waited patiently.” Roy answered.
I sat down across from him.
“Did something happen?” he asked.
“Nothing happened,” I answered angrily.
“Are you mad at me?”
“No. What are you talking about? Why would I be mad at you?”
“I don’t know, but you sound angry.”
“I’m not angry,” I answered angrily.
“Eva…”
“WHAT!”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.” Roy didn’t react. “I really don’t know,” I sighed. Roy was still silent. “People are trying to find some woman here at my house, and I have no idea who she is.” I told him the whole story from the beginning.
“That is strange,” he said.
“Yeah,” I answered.
Suddenly he got up from the rocking chair. “It must be someone who lived here before you,” he said.
I looked at him for a moment, and a huge smile spread across my face.
I said, “You’re right. Why didn’t I think of that? It’s so obvious. Although… I called to find out if she’s listed at this address and was told she wasn’t.”
Roy continued to stand in front of me with his eyes locked onto mine. “She must have changed her address,” he said. His hand brushed back his hair as it always did when he was thinking about something.
“How would you like to try and find her?” he asked finally.
“What for?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe so you can give her the money and the special bracelet you found… I don’t know. Or maybe just to do something good…for the adventure…”
Life in our small town lacked any promise and was sometimes discouraging. We avoided thinking about the future because to us it looked exactly like the present. Those who dared to dream did so with the belief that they would leave one day. I never imagined myself anywhere else. In some strange way, I liked it here.
“You’re completely crazy!” I said to Roy, but inside I knew that his offer excited me; it was something to put a little variety in these gray and boring days.
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes were still locked on mine.
“Roy…”
“Eva…”
“OK, let’s play detectives.”
We made a date to meet after work. Roy worked at the regional prison, situated some fifteen miles north of the city. He belonged to the intelligence unit of the Prison Authority. If there was suspicion of illegal activities on the part of the prisoners or the staff, he went and stayed there to try to identify and expose these activities. I was among the few that knew about his real job. Other people thought he belonged to the rehabilitation unit of the prison and was responsible for initiating rehabilitation programs for the prisoners. His job description allowed him to wander the halls of the prison freely, talk with prisoners and staff, and to evaluate what was going on inside its walls. Sometimes he was sent to other prisons in the state, though these were usually located a few hours from the area.
Roy suggested we go to the municipality offices and find out who the previous owners of the house were. We only had an hour before the offices would close their doors for the day. We asked the information clerk where we should go regarding our matter and she suggested we go to the tax department. There was one clerk at the tax department; every few seconds she shot a glance at the clock on the wall in front of her. Silver rings covered most of her fingers and she had on red and yellow nail polish. A colorful handkerchief collected her dark hair. When we sat down in front of her, she let out a long sigh without lifting her head and asked, “How can I help?”
Roy cleared his throat and then she turned to look at us. Now we could see her black eyes, with no makeup but beautiful nonetheless.
“We’re looking for someone who used to live at 12 Marker Street,” I began.
“What for, if I may ask?” she asked.
“I live there now, and every once in a while, I receive letters for her… I want to send her these letters and this check that came yesterday.”
The word “check” succeeded in raising some interest on her part.
“Ahh… Identification, please,” she muttered.
“I don’t know her ID number.”
The haughty woman let out a long breath full of contempt and said, “Yours… your identification.”
I held out the document.
“Are you Eva Brown, 12 Marker Street?” she asked in an official voice.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Father John, mother Maria?”
“Yes…they passed away…”
She looked at me and went back to looking at the screen in front of her.
“What name are you looking for?”
“Sonia Schwartz,” we answered together and smiled at each other.
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“Sonia Schwartz… Sonia Schwartz,” she murmured and her sharp nails clicked on the keyboard.
“No… no Sonia and no Schwartz ever lived at that house.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
The clerk lifted her eyes, looked me over, nodded her proud head, and said, “Yes, young lady, I am most certainly sure of what I just said. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to close up the office and get myself out of here.”
She got up, covered the computer, turned off the light in the room, and walked out. Roy and I got up quickly and hurried to leave before the door closed on us.
We sat on a bench outside the building, disappointed, and tried to figure out what to do. For a brief moment, we had been the stars of a movie that gave us hope for a bit of adventure.
We sat in silence.
Then Roy said, “Let’s continue.”
“Roy, come on, we’re not detectives. We’re just a couple of people who are bored and looking for some action in our lives.”
“Exactly,” he said. “We’re looking for something interesting, and that something just came up.”
“You’re dreaming.”
“Eva, this woman, whoever she is, is entitled to receive her mail. Maybe that phone call asking for her is really important to her; maybe she’s going to inherit millions; maybe they wanted to inform her that someone important died, maybe…maybe… I don’t know… Maybe you know her.”
I sat quietly. What he said made sense, even if I had the feeling he wasn’t telling the whole truth; behind the reasons he listed was another reason. But he was right that this adventure might put a little variety into our otherwise routine lives. If searching for this previous owner keeps me busy and gets me out of the house, then why not.
“OK, let’s go for it.” I gave in.
Life in a Box Page 4
