Light Years

by Tammar Stein

  “Wait,” I said. “Do I know you?”

  “No, you don’t know me.”

  Had I misunderstood his stare? I felt heat blooming up my face. Well, this was embarrassing. “Sorry, I thought you looked familiar.”

  “You think we all look alike, don’t you?” he said. “Like dogs.”

  “What?” I would have taken a step back, except I was already up against the wall in the narrow corridor. “No. I saw you staring at me—” And then I knew who he was. He was the creepy guy from the bus. It was that look in his eye that reminded me, that same look of hate and disgust and fascination.

  “Maybe I spit in your water,” he said. “The way you Jews spit on me.” It was dark in the narrow corridor. I felt claustrophobic. He couldn’t be older than seventeen, didn’t outweigh me by more than ten pounds. But my palms were clammy, my mouth dry.

  “You didn’t.” I felt sick.

  He smiled. “You’re right. I didn’t. Not in yours.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you respected an Arab lady on the bus that night. Most of you think we are the dirt that you wipe from your shoes at the end of the day. You live in the houses we build, you eat the food we grow, but you give us nothing for it. Where are the Palestinian shopping malls? Where are the Palestinian highways and hospitals?” He took a step toward me. “You have everything and we have nothing. You kill us every day. You think that can last? You think we will allow it? We will take what is ours. And then you will have nothing and we will just laugh when you beg us.”

  A waiter pushed past us to the kitchen and glared at the Palestinian.

  “There are people out there waiting for their water,” he said. “Stop wasting time. Get to work.”

  I felt like I was waking up from a nightmare, disoriented and scared.

  The Palestinian glared at the waiter once his back was turned. Then he left without another word to me.

  I walked back to our table, eyeing all the people in the courtyard who were drinking water, laughing, relaxing. When our food finally came, I toyed with it but didn’t eat.

  “This is wonderful,” Françoise raved. “Lovely, just lovely.”

  I smiled, but I couldn’t bring myself to taste it. The glistening oil on the roasted vegetables, the clumped mounds of feta cheese looked unappetizing and all I could picture was a long string of spit running from the boy’s mouth to my plate.

  When he finally came to clear our table, he smiled when he saw my full plate. I looked away and wouldn’t look back until he left.

  I tried to stay rational about this. Maybe he was just trying to gross me out. Maybe it was all talk. Then again, I saw that look in his eyes, that glitter of hate and malice. I completely shut out Hen’s meaningless chatter, tried to ignore Françoise’s stupid questions about how many taxicabs there were in Tel Aviv and how many restaurants served bread (because she had heard that Jews didn’t eat bread).

  I was trying to think. What should I do? The shitty smell of pecorino was still wafting through the air, and every once in a while I’d catch the scent. I caught Hen’s eye and she just shrugged, game face on, in the zone, ready for anything. Finally lunch was over and, after Hen stepped on my foot under the table, I promised I’d meet them for dinner. As soon as they left, I went to find the manager.

  I found him in a small back room and waited for him to get off the phone.

  “I’m not sure that this is important, but I think you need to know that one of the busboys told me he spits in the water.” My foot was tapping almost uncontrollably. I still hadn’t fully decided if this was the right thing to do or a mistake.

  The manager, a swarthy man in his thirties, wore a gold chain with CHAI on it, “life” in Hebrew. He turned and gave me his full attention.

  “Who? What?”

  I repeated myself. “I know it sounds strange, almost stupid. There’s something not right about him.” I hesitated. “He told me he hates Jews. He said something about taking everything back, making us pay.” I met his eyes and I think we must have had identical looks of dismay on our faces. “This is serious, right?” I asked.

  The day before, there had been a bombing in Petach Tikva.

  “You’re telling the truth.” I wasn’t sure if he was asking. I nodded.

  “I’m a soldier. This is my favorite café. I would never make up something like this.”

  He rubbed a hand across his face, then raked both hands through his hair. He cursed.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll take care of it. You did the right thing, kid. You just can’t be too careful, right?”

  I described the busboy as well as I could. The manager wanted me to point him out.

  “If it’s the kid I think you mean, he’s only been working here for a couple of months. I’m going to kill the guy who recommended him. But come, point him out.”

  I felt bad. I was getting this kid fired. He might be the only one earning a paycheck in his family, he might never get a job again. God, was this the right thing to do? And then, as we stood off in one corner, watching the restaurant, I saw him refill someone’s water and I pointed to him.

  “That’s him. The one pouring water.”

  As if he felt my eyes on him, he turned and looked right at me. My finger was still extended, and my blood ran cold. His eyes narrowed. I dropped my arm.

  The manager put a warm, heavy hand on the back of my neck. I jumped as if I had been shot.

  “I have to leave,” I said. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “He won’t be coming back here again.”

  I nodded and left, almost running, just wanting to get away from there. I spent the rest of the day feeling uneasy. I called Hen on her cell phone and told her I wasn’t going to meet them for dinner. I went to work and just tried to forget the whole thing.

  That night, I called Dov. I told him about Françoise and the pecorino and we both laughed.

  “There’s a meteor shower Friday. Want to go see it?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said. I heard a smile in his voice and my toes curled. “But do you think it’s safe, or should I bring some sardines to keep the thieves away?”

  “Don’t you dare,” I laughed. “I’ve had enough stinky companions this week.”

  “All right, you win. The anchovies stay at home, but just this once.”

  That sick, guilty, uneasy feeling that had been with me all day slowly dissipated. I wished Dov was here with me, not just a voice on the line. I could almost touch that soft patch of skin by the corner of his eye, the rough stubble on his cheeks.

  “I miss you,” I said. “I can’t wait to see you.”

  I decided not to tell him about the busboy. It was over. He was a freaky guy. I’d told the manager. The manager had surely fired him. That was it, end of story. There was no reason to rehash it. It wasn’t something I was proud of.

  “Good night, Maya,” he said. I shivered because I loved the way his voice sounded when he said my name. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Sleep well,” I said. “Dream of me.”

  That Friday, I laid out a blanket on the beach and we lay sprawled on our backs for an hour before the show began. I pointed out the constellations and told him their names. For the next two hours, debris left from the path of an ancient comet incinerated in fireworks. The tiny glowing particles streaked across the sky.

  “Comets leave a trail of dust and grains of rock behind them as they fly by,” I told him. “Like Hansel and Gretel in the woods. The comet leaves a path that marks its way in the sky. It follows the same path endlessly. Eternally. Circling around and around in its orbit for all time. And we just crossed through its path, and our atmosphere is burning up its markers.”

  He rolled from his back to his side and touched my face.

  “So we’re like the birds that ate the crumbs. Now the comet can’t find its way home again?”

  “Nah, this is just a tiny part of its orbit. It still knows the way.”

  “You’re
so smart.”

  I smiled but kept my eyes on the quiet sky, scanning it for more shooting stars.

  “You remind me of a cat.”

  That got my attention. I looked at him. “Thanks a lot. How flattering.”

  “It’s your eyes,” he said. My sarcasm never did bother him. “They’re a funny color. I’ve never seen anyone with eyes like that, except my mom’s old cat.”

  I smacked him on the shoulder.

  “Wait,” he laughed. “Before you attack, hear me out.”

  “This had better be good.”

  “Her cat was pure black, not a spot of color anywhere, and very skinny.” He rolled over and pinned me in the sand, meteors forgotten. “But her eyes were green and yellow.” He lowered his head until our noses almost touched. “Like yours. They glowed in the dark.” Supporting his weight on one elbow, hips still heavy on mine, he traced the outline of my eyes with one finger. I closed them and felt a butterfly-light caress on my eyelashes and around my eyes.

  “I was creeping through the living room when I was a kid and I felt someone watching me. I turned around and saw two glowing eyes on top of the television. I nearly passed out.”

  I laughed.

  He brushed hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear. “But this cat was amazing. The most mysterious cat alive. She would disappear for days and then just show up again. We could never figure out where she went or how she got out in the first place. And then one day, when she had gotten old and slow and hardly went out anymore at all, she disappeared. We searched everywhere, put up posters, but we never saw her again.” I kept my eyes closed and I could feel him watching me. “Sometimes I think I found her again when I’m with you.” He eased himself down and cradled my face between his two hands. “And I keep thinking you’re going to disappear.”

  Chapter Nine

  VIRGINIA

  “You want to know what it’s like to live in Israel? It means checking out every person that comes on the bus. It means eyeing the bags lying on the floor at their feet, the shape of their jackets, the way their eyes scan the horizon.”

  It was late, and Payton and I both had had too much to drink. She sat on her bed and I sat on mine and I was thinking that if I were still in Israel, we’d both be sitting on the same bed. No one touched other people here, there was always a certain distance, even among friends.

  “I got off a bus once because I was convinced one of the guys was a bomber.” I was still in high school and I remember being almost frozen with fear, my racing heart. I was going to die. I had to get off. That moment of hesitation: Should I tell everyone else? But in the end, only I got off and the bus drove away and didn’t explode. I walked twenty blocks in the shimmering June heat feeling foolish and shaky.

  “You can’t indulge your fears. You have to learn to ignore them, to be fatalistic. Or you’d never do anything. Never get out of bed, never go to work, never go out to see your friends, never leave your house.” That was the power the bombers had. It wasn’t just the body count that mattered. It was the fear that grew in everyone’s heart that was so devastating.

  That’s actually what everyone said to me before I came here. They all said I just had to get on the bus again and trust, if not in God, then in the laws of statistics. Go to a café and enjoy a cup of coffee, a slice of cake, watching people hurry by. I would be fine. Don’t let the bomber get you too.

  But I couldn’t do it. My aunt, my mother, and my dad basically dragged me out to dinner one night. I broke out in a cold sweat and refused to get out of the car. I saw danger everywhere. My instincts screamed that everyone looked suspicious. On some level, I knew I couldn’t trust my instincts, but I wouldn’t get out of the car. Hen kept urging me to move, just one foot out, then the other, and everything would be fine. My dad started yelling at her to stop pushing. She screamed at him to stop coddling me. My mom and I were both crying. Finally they gave up and we drove home again. It wasn’t long after that night that I decided to leave Israel.

  Payton sighed.

  “It’s so sad,” she said. “I can’t imagine living like that.”

  I shrugged. “You get used to anything. Besides, it’s not like we have a choice.”

  Two empty bottles of cheap strawberry-flavored wine lay on their sides on the floor. Payton eyed them with distrust. We’d been drinking for about two hours and snacking on leftover candy from a party down the hall. I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten started talking about Israel. It was the first time I’d really said anything about it to her. I had a pleasant buzzing in my head, and I fell silent, listening to it.

  “I don’t think that—” She stopped for a moment, as if listening to some inner voice. A wet-sounding belch suddenly erupted from deep inside her and I started laughing. Then I noticed that her face had turned colors. “I don’t feel so good,” she said, a hand pressed to her stomach.

  “Are you going to be sick?”

  “I don’t think so.” She took an unsteady breath. “But maybe.”

  The heaves started and I scrambled off my bed, grabbed her arm, and hustled her over to the bathroom.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “You don’t need to do this.” Then with a loud retch that echoed off the tiled bathroom wall, she dropped to her knees and vomited a massive amount of pinkish liquid mixed with half-digested chocolate and pretzels. I held her hair back off her face and neck. She retched until nothing came out but long, silvery lines of spit.

  When most of the dry heaves had stopped, I wet a handful of paper towels and laid them on the back of her neck like my mother always did for me. Payton’s face was red, and the violent retching had forced tears from her eyes.

  “Leave me alone,” she moaned, resting her head on the toilet seat. “I’m gonna die now.”

  “You’re not dying,” I said. “And I’m not leaving you.”

  I handed her a tissue, and she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “Let’s get you up,” I said, helping her stand. “Come on, let’s go back to our room.”

  I flushed the toilet and then helped her over to the sink, where I made her wash her face and rinse out her mouth. We walked slowly back to the room and I got her into bed. She curled up on her side, hugging a pillow to her belly. I laid more cold towels on her temple and the back of her neck.

  “That feels good,” she said.

  I turned off the lights.

  “Thanks, Maya.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I made my way over to my bed and lay on it, not bothering to change out of my sweatpants into pajamas. It was quiet for a few moments, and I was sure that Payton had drifted off to sleep.

  “Maya?”

  “Yes, Payton. I’m here.”

  “I’m so glad we’re roommates,” she said, her voice blurred with alcohol and sleep.

  “Me too.” Then I was silent, barely able to make her out in the soft darkness, the fan in the window making its usual white-noise hum.

  “Payton,” I finally said, wondering if she was still awake.

  “Mmm?”

  “Why haven’t you ever asked me about what happened in Israel?”

  I thought I heard a soft laugh in the darkness.

  “Didn’t you know? In the South, we don’t ask you why you’ve got a white elephant in your living room.”

  “What white elephant?”

  “Exactly.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “When you feel like telling me, you will. Until then, it’s not my place to pry.”

  “Oh.”

  I heard the covers rustle as she shifted and snuggled deeper into her bed. “Good night, Maya.”

  “Good night.”

  My white elephant stood in the middle of the room, huge, silent, and impossible for me to ignore.

  Chapter Ten

  ISRAEL

  I was heading into my last summer in the military and the heat started early and viciously. February and March had both been unusually hot and dry. By April, temperatures were soaring. Newspapers
forecast a major drought. Politicians debated the costs of more desalinization plants to turn seawater to drinking water. Hot debates about the cost and benefits filled the papers, droned on television. Tempers flared quickly and malignantly, traffic snarls escalating into shouting and honking skirmishes.

  I would collapse on my bed in the afternoon after work, drained from the hot bus ride home. The sun was intense, baking everything until the dirt cracked and flowers withered and died. I stopped wearing metal barrettes to hold my hair after I blistered my finger touching one. No matter how much I drank, I couldn’t seem to stay hydrated, and the lines at the ice cream shop and juice stands were annoyingly long and pushy.

  There was a sharp increase in traffic accidents, and the tempers of people without air-conditioning in their cars often snapped at the slightest provocation. Amid this bout of national goodwill, there was a spate of terrorist bombings. Most of them were in the territories and Jerusalem, but two were in Tel Aviv.

  Everyone wanted to know what I planned to do after my service ended in June. I had applied for study in the United States months before and had just received an acceptance letter from the University of Virginia. I applied there after seeing the Rotunda in a friend’s architecture textbook that cataloged one hundred of the most beautiful buildings in the world. After I’d gone online and seen that the school was well ranked and had an astronomy program, I decided, on a whim, to apply.

  My aunt was purely against it.

  “There are plenty of excellent universities here,” Hen said. “And if you plan to live in Israel, you need to make your contacts here, not in the United States. It’s all about who you know. That’s how you get the good jobs. Don’t waste this opportunity. It’ll be much harder to succeed if you don’t stay here.”

  My friends were making plans. Daphna wanted to travel through Thailand, maybe backpack in India, and have adventures that sounded great after tedious office work. Irit told me she and Leah were going to take a two-month trip through Europe. She invited me to come with them. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t want aimless travel, I didn’t want to sleep in youth hostels or sell cheap jewelry on city streets. I wanted to really become a part of another culture, for my time there to have meaning.