The Tenth Song

by Ragen, Naomi

  “Kayla? How kind of you to call, and to be worried about waking me,” he said, his words clipped, his tone thick with sarcasm. “No, I wasn’t sleeping. Unlike you, I have courses to study for, and a bar exam in my future.”

  There was a silence as loud and heavy as a bomb blast.

  “Kayla, are you still there?

  “Yes.”

  “HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!” he suddenly shouted.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Seth—I’m so lost. I don’t know what to do.”

  “That’s obvious,” he said coldly.

  Her eyes stung with tears. “This call was a mistake. I’ll let you go.”

  “No. You don’t get to hang up on me! Do you have a clue as to what you’ve done? That law firm in New York you blew off is one of the top firms in the country! Do you think jobs like that grow on trees?”

  “Believe me, they weren’t going to hire me anyway.”

  “Oh, so now you’re a prophet!”

  “Just let me explain what happened . . .”

  “Did you even care how that was going to make me look? I have friends at that firm! Do you know how many phone calls I got? You left me to clean up after you. And on top of that, you never even bothered to call me and let me know.”

  “So that’s what you’re angry about? Making you look bad in front of your legal cronies. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. What do you want me to say?”

  “Oh no. You don’t get to rewrite this story. You just disappeared. What was I supposed to think? I was frantic! I thought you were going to be one of those New York Post ‘Harvard coed raped and murdered’ page-one stories. You were furious at me when I suggested we distance ourselves from your father’s problems, then you take off halfway around the world without a word to anyone! Where has all your much-vaunted concern for your dear old dad suddenly gone?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she repeated helplessly. “You’re right.”

  “We have—or should I say had?—a life planned out, a life we’ve both worked very hard for. I know I have. And, unlike you, I have student loans to pay off. You won’t get a job at all if you don’t come back immediately and finish the term. We always planned on two incomes. We need two incomes.”

  “Seth,” she interrupted him, “if I don’t graduate, and I don’t become a lawyer, and my family is ruined, and my father is convicted, will you still love me?”

  “DON’T YOU DARE CHANGE THE SUBJECT! I am not prepared to waste my time holding your hand so you can indulge your ‘poor little me’ fantasies.”

  She sobbed softly into the phone.

  “Kayla? Don’t . . .” His tone softened. “Please, please, just come home. We can figure this out together.”

  “Seth, I . . . don’t know. I can’t. Not yet. Try to understand.”

  “No. I will never understand how you could do such a thing. But I can forgive, if you just take the next plane home. Good-bye, Kayla.”

  She heard a dial tone. He had hung up.

  What am I going to do, what am I going to do? she thought, cradling her head in her hands.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” the nurse asked.

  “Fine, I just have to go now.” She got up. Keep focused, some still-rational part of her brain kicked in. Live one day at a time. One hour at a time. She looked at her watch. She needed to go back and check out. She needed to figure out some way to live.

  She ran up the hotel steps to her room, then stuffed her dirty clothes into her backpack. The leather briefcase was lying on the floor. She opened it, riffling through her day planner, course notes, articles from The Wall Street Journal. And then her fingers closed over the slick pages of the magazine she had been handed by the smirking secretary while she was waiting to be interviewed, opened to the article that had sent her to the airport to catch a plane. She stuffed it into her backpack, swallowing hard, leaving the rest behind. Of one thing she was absolutely sure: That part of her life was over.

  11

  She needed clothes, she thought. But even that small decision seemed to demand some existential reckoning. For the first time in her life, she realized, she had no idea what she should be wearing or what she was supposed to look like. I can wear anything I want, she thought. No one knows me. I’m not trying to prove anything. But what did she want to wear? She could not remember the last time she had asked herself this question. A twinge of controlled panic touched her heart.

  She wound up buying sweatpants and hoodies, and a few cotton tees, clothing inappropriate for all occasions except perhaps jogging, which she had no intention of doing. But they were inexpensive and practical and made her feel thrifty. It was also, she admitted, a kind of camouflage. She would look like every other foreigner backpacking her way around the world except for the expensive camel-hair coat from Nordstrom, sole remnant of her former life.

  “Here,” she said, slipping it off her shoulders and placing it around the back of the first beggar woman she encountered.

  “God bless you,” the woman called out to her, clutching it in her bony hand.

  In an army-navy store, she bought an ugly green army-issue jacket called a dubon. She looked at herself in the mirror, satisfied. All she needed was a few more changes of underwear, and she’d be prepared for anything her new life might throw at her.

  There it was, the ancient stone wall built around the Old City. Her heart beat a little faster as she saw Christian pilgrims crowding through the darkened stone archway that led inside. Is that what I am, she thought, a pilgrim? Or just another sightseer? Or maybe—she stared at the long-haired, bearded backpackers dressed in the colorful light cotton garments of India—a seeker of truth, searching for a new way to live?

  She followed the crowd, a piece of cork floating on a floodtide, streaming through the dark, narrow walkways that led through the bustling Arab souk.

  “Souvenirs?” Arab men in kaffiyehs fingering worry beads called out to her, holding up olivewood carvings of camels and spangled head scarves.

  She shook her head, avoiding eye contact, keeping her eyes down, and flowing forward with a mindless eagerness to reach some unknown goal. She was struck with a sudden fear. How did she know she wasn’t going to land in some hostile Arab neighborhood? She peered down all the forks in the winding passageways, left turns and right turns into still-narrower alleyways.

  “Excuse me,” she asked one of the young Israeli soldiers stationed all along the route, “which way to the Wall?” finally defining her goal.

  As she followed his directions, the narrow alleyways eventually gave way to staircases and newer homes; cleaner, whiter stones. She was in Jewish territory now, she realized with relief. The Jewish Quarter. Suddenly, all at once, she was confronted by the stunning panorama of the Wall, and the golden-domed mosque above it.

  It should take my breath away, she thought, wondering why it didn’t. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe it was confusion. But she didn’t feel tired, or confused, she realized. She felt nothing, nothing at all. Could it be I have nothing left inside me, no attachments, no knowledge, no sentiments? That I’ve managed to put all that behind me as well? And was that a good thing, or not?

  She walked slowly down the hundreds of steps that would lead her to the most sacred site in the Jewish world. Reaching the bottom, she saw everyone putting their backpacks and purses through an X-ray machine. Guarded by soldiers, they then walked through metal detectors. No one seemed to think this was strange. People just did it automatically, as if being surrounded by Uzi-wielding guards and subjected to intrusive searches was normal. But it was, wasn’t it? All over the world, millions of people now submitted to being frisked and taking off their shoes because a few madmen had destroyed human trust. It wasn’t just people that terrorists killed. It was the fabric of civilized human interaction. Everyone lived in fear.

  There was the women’s section of the Kotel, closed off by metal barriers from the men’s. “I’m not married, so I don’t have to cover my hair,” she remembered, preparin
g herself for the inspection of the pious women gatekeepers who controlled the flow to the holy site. She suddenly realized how much she wanted to be allowed inside to touch the huge, ancient stones.

  She skirted her way around the blind retreat of pious women who refused out of reverence to turn their backs on the holy site. She searched for an opening in the crowded front row near the Wall. But it was packed, women of all ages swaying and weeping or silently mouthing the sacred words of Hebrew prayers read from worn, yellowing prayer books. These were the regulars, she thought, matronly women of various ages in the same uptight uniform of the fanatically brainwashed: long sleeves, dull, loose-fitting, ankle-sweeping skirts, and wigs or scarves or hats. They had staked out the choicest spots. Behind them were the bareheaded tourists like herself, with makeshift outfits to approximate modesty, keeping vigil until a spot opened up in the front row.

  The young girl in front of her kissed her prayer book, then stepped backward, retreating. Kayla stepped forward hurriedly, taking her place. She reached out, touching the sacred stones, eyeing the tiny bits of crumpled paper jammed into every crevice, each one a heartfelt request.

  Resting her forehead against the stones, made smooth by millennia of human caresses and heartfelt tears, she realized she didn’t know what to pray for. I can’t pray that Dad is innocent. That would be like a pregnant woman praying for her fetus to be a boy or a girl. It was what it was. It couldn’t be undone, she told herself, clenching her fists in frustration and beating them against the hard stones in helpless fury, unable to find the words. Murmurs of shocked disapproval rose up around her. She dropped her arms, ashamed. God, show me the way; I am so lost, she finally prayed silently, her lips resting on the cold stone. She lowered her head, backing away.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  She was standing at the periphery where men and women mingled, readying herself for the walk back into the city and the search for a better cheap hotel. She turned around. It was a young bearded man with a large black hat and a black suit holding a large, heavy book.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your thoughts, but you seem tired and upset. I work at a women’s study center not far from here. You could have a hot meal and a place to sleep. And if you’d like to attend some lectures you might find interesting tomorrow, you’d be most welcome. Of course, our hospitality is free. You are Jewish, aren’t you? We are not missionaries,” he added solemnly.

  “Free, do you say?” Kayla answered, shaking her head. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  He seemed puzzled. “Like our father Abraham, our tent is open on all four sides to invite in strangers.”

  “To invite them in, but letting them out is another story.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I know all about your ‘study centers.’ First it’s a hot meal and a bed, then some lectures. A lot of lectures. And then, eventually, you’ll tell me what to eat, and how to dress, and what to think, convincing me it’s all my own idea. And when I finally live up to your expectations, Yentl the matchmaker will find some ex-druggie who has seen the light to live off my earnings forever. And then there’ll be the children, six of them, one after the other, with runny noses living in poverty-stricken ignorance. No thanks. I’ll get a hotel room.”

  She heard laughter and turned around. A woman of indeterminate age, with long dark hair, wearing a skirt with pants underneath, Indian-style, was applauding.

  “I’m sure that they don’t hear that very often. You were a sight to behold, my dear.”

  When Kayla turned back, he had disappeared. She felt strangely apologetic. “I was pretty harsh. I’m sure he meant well. I guess I’m just tired.”

  “You look ready to drop,” the woman agreed sympathetically. “Are you visiting, touring?”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “I see. I was in a similar boat when I came. I was newly divorced. I felt lost. But it all worked out so well.”

  Kayla looked at her. She seemed normal, intelligent, not poor, and not a religious fanatic. “What did you wind up doing?”

  “I have a degree in archaeology from Oxford. Someone told me about this dig in the Judean desert. They were hiring archaeologists. The money was good, and the work fascinating. I’ve been there ever since.”

  “I don’t have any skills. I’m a law school dropout. Harvard.”

  “We can always use some unskilled workers on the dig. They pay minimum wage, but the food is plentiful and the accommodations free.”

  “I don’t know if I’m really qualified . . .”

  She laughed. “Do you remember kindergarten? Working in a sandbox with your shovel, then sifting the dirt?”

  She smiled. “I suppose so.”

  “That’s all the qualifications you need. We have quite a few people like you there. One is an architect from Stanford. We even have a young doctor. It will be an adventure, I can promise you that.”

  “Do you think they’d hire me?”

  “I am sure of it. A few people left just last week, and we are really shorthanded. My name is Judith, by the way.”

  “Hi. I’m Kayla.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Well, I just checked out of this fleabag on Ben Yehuda Street . . . I guess I don’t really know.”

  “Well, I’m about to drive back to the dig. You’re welcome to come with me and try it out for a few days. If nothing more, it’ll be an adventure.”

  Kayla hesitated. Her former self would have never considered getting into a car with a stranger. But this seemed like a new universe. Looking back at the Wall, she wondered if God was already beginning to answer her prayers.

  12

  “You’re not a smoker, are you?” Kayla asked with forced casualness, breathing in the rancid upholstery, wondering who she was sitting next to.

  Judith laughed. “Goodness no! I’m one of those grow-your-own-tomatoes-in-organically-composted-pesticide-free-soil people. A tree hugger. I rescued this car from its abusive former owner. But still, the scent lingers on.”

  “Where, exactly, are we headed?”

  “What, getting nervous? Already?” Judith gave her a sideways glance of amusement. “I promise you, it’s a phone call away from numerous taxi services, who will be only too thrilled to overcharge you mercilessly and take you back into civilization. There are also public buses wandering down the road when the mood strikes them. But you won’t want to leave. At least, I didn’t.”

  “Oh, I’m not nervous at all,” Kayla lied, embarrassed at being so transparent. “I just wondered about the route you were taking.”

  “If you reach over into that side pocket on the door, you’ll find a map. Just open it to page 123. Ein Gedi.”

  Kayla fumbled through the pages. It was in the desert, near the Dead Sea. She glanced out the window. They were already out of traffic, going down a highway bordered on both sides by small Arab villages. As they rode, the intermittent patches of green disappeared, overwhelmed by sand dunes pockmarked by the dark growth of tiny plants.

  “The hills look like they have acne,” Kayla quipped.

  “There is still enough water here for little bursts of vegetation. But with the way this drought is going, soon, there won’t even be that.”

  “This is really very kind of you, Judith,” Kayla said. “I mean, you are taking a chance on a stranger. You don’t know anything about me.”

  “That’s true. But I sensed we’ve both been on a similar journey.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  She shrugged. “I think your defensiveness speaks for itself.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess I am just keyed up. Tired.”

  “Hopeless?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “It takes one to know one. You’ve got some practical clothes with you, yes?”

  “Yes. I bought what they call ‘trenning.’ It took me a while to figure out that was an English word and it meant ‘training’ exercise pants and hoodies. I just didn’t have time to change.”<
br />
  “And the jacket. It’s military, no?”

  “I gave the coat that went with this suit—when it’s ironed, that is—to a woman who seemed to appreciate it. But I think this jacket might be way too warm for the desert.”

  “Ho, you have no idea! The evenings are freezing. Believe me, you’ll need it.” Judith glanced over, taking in Kayla’s outfit. “And you’re okay with it? This wardrobe transition? You don’t mind?”

  “I actually can’t wait to change out of this,” Kayla said sincerely.

  “Really? I made the transition from dress-for-success to dress-for-happiness only after about six months. You did it spectacularly fast. My compliments! I guess I waited because I didn’t want to burn my bridges.”

  “My bridges went up in spectacular flames without my even being involved,” Kayla answered bitterly.

  There was a short silence. “That’s hard. Want to talk about it?”

  Kayla shook her head. “But I’d love to hear your story. That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Everyone I know is sick to death of hearing about this.”

  “Well, only if you don’t feel I’d be prying . . .”

  “Such an American term: ‘prying.’ We are all so closed, so ashamed. To make a real connection with another human being feels like a crime. We’re criminals with crowbars if we’re interested in what’s going on inside someone else’s life.”

  “Well, I don’t know . . . I just meant . . . we don’t know each other . . .”

  “Some people you get to know really quickly, while others—you can even marry them and live with them for ten years and never know a single thing about them.”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  Judith nodded. “I was brought up in London. East Kensington. My parents own a grocery store—like Margaret Thatcher’s parents! They also scrimped and saved. I was sent to public schools—for you Americans that’s the equivalent of a private school. They—and I along with them—were determined that I get into Oxford or Cambridge. And I did. But then, in the middle of my freshman year, I started having these tummyaches. I thought it was just tension. I took antacids, painkillers, all this bloody over-the-counter rubbish, but the pains just got worse and worse. Finally, the NHS decided to do some CAT scans. They found a malignant tumor in my womb.”