by Bethany Ball
Who is watching the boys? Shira asks.
Carolyn smiles tightly. They are watching themselves.
Together they have a list of stores to find and a map. They open their computers and send emails and check Facebook statuses. Shira sends Joseph an email. She thinks to call him at his father’s, but she will have to purchase a phone card. She will try to remember to do that tomorrow. They roll another joint. They add tobacco from the American Spirit cigarettes. They shower and dress in fresh clothing. They apply lipstick. Ayelet marks on the map the stores on their list.
Shira takes her bag into the bathroom. She sits on the toilet and pees. She doesn’t want to spend too much money. She keeps to a strict allowance she has set for herself most weeks, but Asaf has been requesting more and more money for his causes.
Ayelet dozes on the sofa. Motek, she says with half-closed eyes, here we are in Los Angeles, California.
The city of angels, Shira says.
There are noises out in the hallway. A shriek and a laugh from neighbors or thieves or rapists. The light has changed outside. Their patio door opens onto the blue AstroTurf of the pool. Suddenly everything looks seedy and sinister. This is Los Angeles and they are two young and attractive women. They are quite stoned. They discuss whether to stay inside or venture out. They decide they are too tired and too stoned to leave anyway. It is four o’clock in the afternoon Los Angeles time when Ayelet falls asleep, sitting up on the couch, her mouth falling open and revealing her bucked teeth, the only thing about Ayelet that isn’t pretty.
Shira checks emails on her laptop and sends one to Joseph, who has said he is very happy but misses her. He reminds her of the Lego he wants. The Minecraft one.
She misses Joseph so much she feels an acute pain in the bone between her breasts. She clutches at her throat and quells maternal panic, thinking: He is better there. With his father, the new wife, siblings. A real family. She thinks of Carolyn’s comment, about never leaving her children.
That bitch, Shira thinks.
Joseph finishes his schnitzel from the brasserie and dumps the greasy paper and packaging into the garbage. It has been three days since his mother left, and the garbage is piling up and beginning to smell bad. The sun streams into the kitchen. There are ants on the counter going after crumbs.
The phone rings and Joseph runs to pick it up.
Allo! Yakov Solomon shouts into the phone. Saba Yakov is hard of hearing.
Hello, Saba.
Tell me, yeled. Where is your mother?
She is in America, Saba. Don’t you remember?
Remember? Of course I remember! I want to see what you know! When is she coming back?
I don’t know. She said she was coming back yesterday or maybe tomorrow. I don’t know.
Unexpectedly tears come to Joseph’s eyes. Saba does not ask why Joseph is there alone.
You eating good? Yakov Solomon asks.
Yes.
Good! Tell your mother to call me when she gets back. Be good. Don’t let the lions eat you.
Okay, Saba.
You know, I once killed a bear! I grabbed him by the ears with my bare hands and—
Yes. You told me that.
You’re a good boy. You know that?
Yes, Saba.
You know who’s bad?
Who, Saba?
The dogs are bad! For not eating you! Goodbye, yeled!
Bye, Saba.
Joseph hears in the distance the call to prayer.
He spends the next several hours creating a battleship out of his bunk bed and blankets, eating potato chips and cookies straight from their bags, and typing English words like “breast” and “vagina” into Google to see what comes up. He watches a soccer game on television. Liverpool against Madrid.
At eleven, he locks the terrace door. He double-checks the front door of the apartment.
Joseph climbs into his top bunk and reflects on his situation. Maybe it is dangerous to stay alone in an apartment when you are only eleven years old.
But then again, this is not America.
Shira grows bored with Ayelet in the hotel room. It’s full of shopping bags. They’ve spent three days running up and down Melrose. They try on all their clothing in front of the mirror on the back of the bedroom door.
In three days, they are due to leave, back to Jerusalem. What will they do in the meantime?
Shira has a flash of understanding. She is in a constant state of wanting. Shira wants what she wants and she buys it. She takes it back to the hotel, a dress, a shirt, a bag, everything bought on sale. A great bargain. The relief from the wanting wears off the moment the garment hits the floor, discarded. On to the next!
Is there something Shira could buy that would eradicate all the wanting? That is the thing she wants most of all, whatever it is.
Ayelet produces a tiny bag of cocaine she bought from a salesman at Barneys.
They snort the cocaine on Ayelet’s pocket mirror. This revives Ayelet for an hour or so. She tells Shira she is fucking her veterinarian and that they fuck on the examining table.
Ayelet, that is disgusting.
Ayelet blinks back at her. She nods her head slowly and says in a rush, You are right, of course, it is disgusting.
How is the sex? Shira asks.
Fantastic. Ayelet sinks into the couch, the mirror balanced on her lap. Fantastic.
Ayelet switches back to marijuana and turns on the television. Ayelet watches all the new episodes of Weeds, Californication, as well as Game of Thrones and Destiny, a show that was big in Israel and has come over to the United States.
An old boyfriend of Shira’s was a producer on Weeds. Shira had met him on set, years ago when the show was new. She had a small role as a drug addict from Encino.
There is a rumor her ex is still in Los Angeles.
He might be in London.
Perhaps, Shira says, it would be nice to have a boyfriend she didn’t have to pay to keep around. One successful in his own right and her own age.
Ayelet agrees with her. The cocaine has worn off and Ayelet is now so stoned her eyes have settled into permanent slits. When she wants to open her eyes, she raises her eyebrows instead.
Shira finds her ex-boyfriend’s profile on Facebook and sends a friend request. On his profile are links to American articles praising his television show. Fans post their praise. Now and again, he responds. Shira scrolls through his page until finally she comes to the end and then she scrolls back up.
He is as handsome as when she knew him, twenty years ago.
But it is a professional shot.
If she squints and looks closely, she can see the signs of a receding hairline. The glimmer of a bald spot. And also his teeth really aren’t that great. She is surprised he has not had them capped. She runs her tongue over her smooth, white-capped teeth.
Shira leaves Ayelet and the room. She walks out of the sliding glass doors to the patio and pool beyond. It is warm out, with that ever-present Los Angeles chill in the air. The sun is different in LA than it is in Jerusalem. It is more golden and more optimistic. Her credit card no longer works. She calls the bank in Israel using a calling card but the banks are closed. It is a holiday. They’ll open again on Sunday. Where has her money gone? Has Asaf emptied that account? He does have her bank card. She’ll have to move money from one investment to another. Certainly by tomorrow her check from her last acting gig will clear and the account will be replenished.
She thinks about visiting Marc and his family. She could take an Uber to Santa Monica. He could lend her money.
But she can’t face her brother or Carolyn or their three perfect children. She misses Joseph. She promises to herself she will be extra kind to him when she gets back. She will be more patient with him. She is a good mom, she tells herself. When she gets home she will be even bett
er.
On his third day alone, Joseph comes home from school after soccer practice. Mattan comes home with him. First, they create an elaborate video using the last four Lego sets his mother bought him: one from Tel Aviv, one from New York, one from Amsterdam, and one from the Malcha Mall in Jerusalem. Unfortunately, they are all different sets. It’s not easy coming up with a scenario, but Joseph and Mattan manage. Better to be like his cousin Izaac, in America, who has four or five sets from each series and an entire room in the basement devoted to Lego setups. They use the program his father gave him to make an animated movie with his Legos. When they’re finished they post the results to their YouTube channel. Joseph sends emails with a link to the YouTube video to everyone he knows. He sends a long email to his mother. Is there a chance you could come home earlier? he asks. Please? I have a game tomorrow. It is a big game, Ima, can you maybe come?
At dinnertime, Mattan goes home.
Joseph picks up the phone to call the restaurant. There is a knock at the door. He sets the phone down.
It must be his savta or saba or maybe his uncle Guy Gever, who is setting up some kind of art show nearby. He stepped on the balata some time ago and started to play with sticks and bushes and called it art. Everyone knows the legend of the balata, the crack in the pavement somewhere in the kibbutz. If you step on the balata, you go mad. Joseph is very careful not to step on cracks in the kibbutz.
Or maybe his father has remembered this was the week Joseph was supposed to stay with him.
It could be Mohammed who has promised he’ll come and teach him poker one day.
Or perhaps Mattan has forgotten something?
Joseph knows one thing: Unless he knows who is behind it, he mustn’t open the door. That is the rule.
Joseph quietly pulls up a chair. He peers through the peephole but sees no one. He hears a scrape at the door. A slight thud. A shuffle. A voice.
Joseph. Joseph, are you there?
It’s a man’s voice and Joseph doesn’t recognize it.
Joseph tiptoes to his bedroom and climbs the ladder to the top bunk. He pulls the covers over his head. He thinks of those children in the Shoah hiding in cellars and haystacks. The stone walls of the apartment are too thick for him to hear if the voice is still calling him. It is just seven o’clock, and Joseph is hungry.
After a long while, he falls asleep.
When he wakes again it is very late. It is well past midnight. Joseph is starving and there is nothing to eat. The brasserie is closed. The most he can hope for is to walk over to the pizzeria and get himself a cheese slice topped with boiled eggs—his favorite. But he is afraid to leave the apartment.
Joseph feels sorry for himself. He begins to cry. Maybe he will go to his father’s apartment. He can take a taxi there.
Under his bed, Joseph spots a ten-shekel coin. He ties up his shoelaces and opens the front door.
There are emails, text messages, and finally phone conversations. Shira and her ex-boyfriend Michael arrange to meet.
Ma kara? What happened to you? Michael is saying to Shira. They sit in the Ivy. He had picked Shira up in a car so fancy, so small and sporty and with the most beautiful tan leather seats, that it made Shira’s teeth ache with longing. He hadn’t wanted to go to the Ivy but Shira had insisted. Come on, he says. The Ivy? Hadshote etmol. Old news. But Shira read about it in Vogue and she wants to see it in person.
What has happened to you? Michael continues. You are a little fat. It’s not very attractive. But I like the bolt-ons. Shira looks perplexed. Michael cups his hands to his own fit chest. She notices that he has waxed or shaved his chest. No tufts of hair peeking up around his now smooth collarbone. They look marvelous, he says.
He is still good-looking. He is so good-looking.
Nu? he says. Did I hurt your feelings? You used to be so much fun. You used to laugh at everything I said. Remember the concerts? The ecstasy? The raves? He smirks and winks. The sex?
Bevadai! she says. She is trying to keep things light.
I read the blogs about Avi Strauss. Your son looks just like him.
He is not Avi’s son.
At tzodeket. Right. Michael smiles, a little maliciously. Your son looks just like a Strauss. Do you remember I used to work for Avi Strauss? On my last show. When I was still acting and before he started that political show. You remember. I saw him around town, in Hollywood, before he died. I think he was writing scripts for porn films. Michael smirks again. When he smirks he looks like a ferret.
I remember everything, Shira says.
They leave the restaurant and wait for the valet to bring his car.
He tells her he wants to show her his place.
You’ll like it, he says.
The apartment is an industrial loft in downtown Los Angeles. Michael pulls her through the living room to the bedroom. The floors are made of concrete.
He whispers, Maybe we can make a baby, huh? Would you like to make a baby with me?
It is a funny way to seduce. She’s always wanted a second baby. Where is Joseph right now? She knows but doesn’t want to know that Michael is lying. She’d like to believe he could fall in love with her. She closes her eyes and believes it.
He takes a long time, pounding away at her inefficiently. They finish. He picks up a small, white object. An electric cigarette. He puts it in his mouth and now, thinks Shira, he really looks like a faggot. Shira sits up and leans back on her elbows. The loft is spectacular. The windows are floor-to-ceiling tiny beveled glass. The light comes in and splashes color all over the gray rooms. Everything in the apartment is gray but the light. Shira pulls the blanket up over her shoulders and covers her breasts. There are no pictures on the walls.
She takes a drag off his electric cigarette.
He says, Why don’t you stay here and let me help you get into shape? What are you living off there in haaretz? Burekasim and glidot? Too much hummus and pitot? I read about that thirty-year-old kid, Boulboulim, you are fucking in the gossip blogs. That situation is doing you no favors, I assure you. It only ages you by contrast. Come stay with me. It will be like a rehab. A spa. We’ll get you into fighting shape again.
Fuck you, she says. I can’t leave my son. You don’t know anything about kids, she says.
Why not? I have a child.
Where?
In New York. I see her once a month.
Pfft.
All right then, Shiri. Tell me what it is you want?
What does Shira want? A meal, a man, a diversion, a mirror, some stroking. She’d like a large glass of red wine. She’d like a spliff. A real cigarette. She’d like more money. She’d like love. Someone her own age. To be young again. It doesn’t do well to say what she wants.
I have everything I want, she says.
Streetlights through the jeweled glass of the loft’s windows. Shira rummages through her bag and lights a cigarette. It is almost morning. She feels hungry and ancient. The salad from the Ivy had not filled her up. She longed for bread, for pitot and cheese and a glass or two of wine. But she is determined to go back home fitter and thinner than when she left. She sits up in bed and feels her breasts and her soft, fat stomach against the tops of her thighs. Michael is in AA and doesn’t have any wine or marijuana or any food at all. There is a can of Diet Coke in the fridge and nothing more. She searches in vain through her purse for a Xanax. Michael orders in bagels and lox. Shira’s hand snakes down to her belly. Ugh, she thinks. Bagels are the worst kind of carbs. But she is starving and wolfs down the bagel and reaches for a second. You need to stay here in Los Angeles, baby, he says. I can introduce you to my trainer. Maybe tomorrow we could do a SoulCycle class. Should I make a reservation? Shira shakes her head, no. I’m on vacation, she says. They have sex again.
She fakes all her orgasms.
In bed he’s not as good as Asaf Boulboulim. Michael has alrea
dy become too American, imagining he is the best lover in the world without doing a damned thing.
Still, she could live here. She could be happy here. She can feel what it would be like to live in that big empty apartment, so much bigger than her place in Jerusalem. She could have Joseph come on holidays. . . .
Can I make a phone call? she asks Michael. To Israel.
Sure, he says.
It’s five o’clock in the afternoon in Jerusalem. Shira dials the number of her ex-boyfriend, Joseph’s father.
Can I talk to Joseph please? she asks her ex-boyfriend’s new wife.
He’s not here, the new wife says coldly.
Are you sure?
Of course, she says. Our week is next week. I keep up with my children. Why? Where are you?
Her chest constricts and the salmon, cream cheese, and starch turn cold in her stomach. Never mind, she says.
Shira hangs up the phone.
She wails into her cupped hands, Where is Joseph?
Hello, Joseph.
Joseph cries out and tries to shut the door. A soldier jams his rifle between the door and the frame.
The phone is ringing.
Joseph stands stunned. He leans with all his weight against the door. He begins to scheme. He thinks he could slip past the soldier and grab his slice of pizza. He is still so very hungry. And maybe he will, yes, maybe now he will go to his father’s house—in the Old City. He’ll walk there if he has to. If this were Minecraft, he would create a portal. It would open up beneath his feet and deliver him to safety. To food, warmth, shelter.
Joseph, the soldier says on the other side of the door. I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t you know me? I am your brother, Gabriel Strauss.
Chapter 5
Little Blue Flowers
Carolyn was stoned, alone and stretched naked across the bed. Her eyes burned. She balanced her laptop on her belly and Googled “weed and skin damage.”
Voices from downstairs floated through the floorboards. Carolyn’s father had just arrived from Ohio. The children were protesting their baths and bed.
