by Bethany Ball
Sam stumbles out of the car after the oldest. Izaac’s eyes are narrowed into angry slits. He’s already clamped his headphones over his ears. Carolyn knows he knows what’s going on, but she can’t seem to say anything to him about it. Sam holds Carolyn’s hand. He is the sweetest of the three boys, the most innocent. More innocent even than his little brother. Mommy, Sam says, why does Dror say we need to be protected?
Mmmhmm, Carolyn says, and thinks: Maybe, just maybe, the children don’t need to be protected. Maybe they shouldn’t be protected.
Carolyn bends down and whispers in his ear, Never mind, darling. He’s talking nonsense.
He’s talking shtuyot? Sam asks.
Yes, she says, and she smiles. Such a smart boy. Shtuyot, indeed.
Children survive so much worse, Carolyn thinks.
The children order pastries. Carolyn orders a café hafuch, Two shots, please. She’s regretting taking the Valium and the Ambien. It spreads through her body, slowly poisoning her. Always this: first the burning and then the peace. Her little one has left his uncle and comes to her. The middle child holds onto her other arm. In twenty minutes, God willing, she’ll be okay. Sleeping pills are like a big wave. You can let it knock you down and drag you under or you can ride it out. If you ride it out, it will not knock you down. The coffee helps. As much as Israel is hard, the coffee and food are delicious. The first time she ever smelled a cucumber was in Israel. Dror orders sandwiches for them both. He folds his arms high on his chest, like Yakov would have, and waits. After a moment more, it registers with Carolyn that she must pay. She has money from an old account she’d kept in her maiden name, from her first job in the city. She pulls out a debit card. This money was meant for emergencies.
Wasn’t that the real injustice in this world? To have more than one needed?
She can hardly look at Dror now, she is so full of contempt. For the way he told his parents about Marc’s situation. Carolyn had heard how he’d burst in with his terrible smile. What? he’d said to Yakov and Vivienne, you sit so calm and comfortable? Haven’t you seen the news? Haven’t you read the newspaper? Your son sits in jail! His company in shambles! His bank accounts cleared out!
She can just imagine it.
Vivienne had called Carolyn, crying and panicked. So panicked she’d started hyperventilating. Vivienne, Vivienne, Carolyn had said. It’s okay. He’s okay. The lawyers will sort through everything. Al tidagi. Al tidagi. Don’t worry.
But did he do it?
Back in the car, Dror thinks he’s whispering. I met with Tomer Skymatsky, just before it happened. He wanted in on a real estate deal he’d heard I was doing. He came to Israel, for Pesach. Did you know? Then I heard later from Moti, an old friend of Tomer’s, that Tomer was running a gambling ring through Marc’s firm! Moti told me Tomer had fifty thousand dollars wrapped in tinfoil in his suitcase. Tomer was so nervous he accidentally checked his bags. He figured he’d be better off if the money was stolen by baggage handlers. He was really afraid of getting caught. Tomer’s been running money through the datiyim and through the firm for years. I think that fifty grand was his retirement money, or seed money for a new venture. Moti said Tomer’s in Eilat now.
None of this is true, Carolyn says, shaking her head.
What? You didn’t know? You think Marc didn’t know? Come on. Don’t be naïve! But don’t worry . . . I never told Yakov anything about what I know.
But you did.
He looks at her. Come on. You mad about that too? They deserved to know! Nathalie thought it was a good idea. What if Marc needed help or money?
Carolyn brings her hands to her temples. The Ambien has loosened its grip on her.
Marc would never take money from Yakov, she says. Nor would I.
Yeah, Dror snorts. I’ll bet.
Dror curses the traffic and Carolyn dozes with her head against the warm glass of the window.
Chapter 28
Marc and Maya by the Cypress Trees
They used to meet in the fields behind the row of cypress trees. Marc would bring an apple. When he came home on leave from the navy, they’d spend a few hours in the fields. They’d put down a quilt and make coffee on a small camping stove and smoke cigarettes. The apple would be warm from Marc’s cargo shorts pocket. Maya would kiss him chastely on the cheek and Marc would grab her and shove his tongue down her throat. He wasn’t subtle, Marc, at sixteen, and he wasn’t even the best lover she’d had. But Maya loved him. She was crazy for him. They used to meet after Shabbat dinner. She would bring the quilt from her bed and they would lie down on it.
The moon is full and Maya is taking a walk. She feels her old depression returning. Shai Skymatsky is one kibbutz over, drinking with his brothers. She’d begged off. She’s tired. The pregnancy and all. Truth is, she hasn’t been able to eat anything in days. The morning sickness has started. She thought she’d escaped it—she’s already in her sixteenth week. She’s not showing yet, except for a small belly.
She’s brought with her that same quilt she had as a teenager. The one she used to lie on with Marc Solomon. The smell of it pains her. She’d like to shove it in her mouth and eat it. She’d found the blanket in a closet underneath all the old mopping towels. She’d stuffed it into her fabric bag along with a bottle of beer. What’s one bottle of beer to a fetus the size of a fig? She pulls an apple from a tree. It is small, hard, and bitter.
She never imagined he’d be there, but there he is. Marc Solomon. Smoking a cigarette. He was one of the only boys who didn’t smoke in high school and didn’t take it up in the army. All his recent troubles. She wants to tell him to stop smoking, as though he still belongs to her. Her husband smokes, but he does it furtively because it bothers her. Ever since she got pregnant, seeing him smoke makes her more and more upset. Now Shai does it just before he jumps into the sea every evening at sunset. He throws the butt into the sand, then dives into the sea to wash the smell away. He swims far out from the shore, and this, too, worries Maya—that one day he will swim so far, he won’t make it back. Everything worries Maya these days. But at the same time, tentatively, almost secretively, she is happy and hopeful.
Marc Solomon has always smelled sweet, like he sweats sugar water. He sees her. She draws up beside him and gives him a small, furtive hug. Hello, he says, and hugs her back. Her parents hadn’t liked Marc. And Vivienne and Yakov had not liked Maya. There had never even been a goodbye. It was so long ago. She couldn’t quite remember everything. Only recently, she’d found him on Facebook and friended him. She’d spent a few minutes flipping through the posts, mostly his American wife’s. What a perfect life they had. Three perfect children. More American than Israeli. Then Shai had told her about Marc’s troubles. It seemed Shai’s brother had somehow been involved, although Shai refused to believe it. No one knew exactly how, and no one had spoken to Tomer Skymatsky in two years, not since he’d borrowed all that money from Shai and their mother for a real estate deal. Ganav ben ganav, they’d said about Tomer, arguably the smartest of the Skymatsky children. Thief, son of a thief. Too smart. For his father had also done bad things, and had run away to South Africa and was never seen again.
Maya and Marc say nothing. Peacocks cry out from the Valley. Maya wants to ask Marc if he’s done it, the thing, whatever it is, he’s been accused of back in the States. Gambling, was it? She feels certain, somehow, that he will tell her. And Marc wants to tell her how great she looks. How it’s impossible that after twenty years she looks exactly the same. Even her hairstyle hasn’t changed. Just past her shoulders, the same dark brown, the same wavy texture. Could it be that no time has passed?
Marc glances at her shoulder; her shirt hangs off it and he can see that the skin on her chest and neck is smooth and brown. He wants to reach out and touch her. She wants to ask him her questions but she doesn’t dare. The clouds part and the stars shine. The moon is near full and Marc clears his throat and
says, I didn’t do it. He says, I didn’t know anything about it. I didn’t know Shai’s little brother was a fucking bookie. Marc runs his hand through his hair. His still glorious hair. He’s haggard, sure, and older too, but he’s the same Marc. The same irrepressible kid who went into the army and got his ass kicked but won in the end, and went to America and got his ass kicked but won in the end, and then lost everything. He’s changed too. He’s broken and trembling and he reaches out to Maya and takes her hand, and Maya sees she hasn’t changed at all. She still wants what she’s not supposed to have. The bottomless wanting is what will ruin her in the end because bottomless wanting is like falling through a well. Everything one desires is a tenuous little shelf that only briefly breaks the fall. So Marc reaches for Maya and Maya reaches for Marc. She could love him. She closes her eyes in dread. How will she face Shai again? How will she ever look him in the eye? Marc is moving closer to her, he is slipping his arm around her waist.
But the beer is not sitting well in her stomach. Not at all. First comes the sweating. Then her stomach heaves. An odd croaking sound arises from her throat and Marc backs away, confused. The apple, saliva, and beer all shoot out of her mouth and onto the ground. There are flecks of vomit on Marc’s shoe. What the fuck? Marc says in English, and steps away. Infidelity should be clean. It should be easy. There shouldn’t be a single glitch that causes either party to say, Let’s call the whole thing off.
Marc turns and walks quickly away from Maya. Marc, who has never cheated on his wife, convinces himself nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing was going to happen. Nothing will ever happen. He walks quickly through the kibbutz, barely registering his surroundings, until he is running. His heart is bursting. Carolyn is waiting for him on the couch. I just woke up, she tells him. And she smiles.
Chapter 29
And Shira
Shira, in a fit of pique, has married her old boyfriend, the Buddhist, Asaf Boulboulim. Asaf Boulboulim, who’d once vowed never to marry. Michael, her boyfriend in Los Angeles, is furious. When she returns to LA, she will break up with Michael. Or perhaps when she sees Michael, she will want to break up with Asaf. Shira is tired of going back and forth to Los Angeles. Joseph is growing up. He won’t be in the house much longer. Already, since his bar mitzvah he seems to have less and less use for her.
It is a religious ceremony. The rabbi is Asaf’s family rabbi. He is a new Russian immigrant and claims to be the descendant of a great rabbi in Kiev, but no one believes him. People question if he is even really Jewish. They say the rabbi’s wedding pictures were taken in a cathedral.
Her sister, Keren, is a surprising ally. She comes with Guy Gever, who wears a kippa on his head. The women wear white. Joseph refuses to come. He has a girlfriend now and spends all his time at her house, near the Old City. He lives with his father now.
Shira is starring in a feature film with a wide release. An American film. Sean Penn is producing. She goes to Cannes on her own merit this year. And Sundance, and Venice too. Shira is ecstatically happy.
She doesn’t need Michael anymore. She has her own money. She invests forty thousand shekels in a vaping bar. It opens down the street from her apartment. She spends another twenty thousand shekels redoing her apartment. She gives up, for now, her dream of moving to Tel Aviv.
But Shira has just met a man of indeterminate age. He wears the hipster uniform of skintight pants that bag fetchingly around his crotch area and those Havaianas flip-flops that are so popular now. His sunglasses are real Ray-Bans, not knockoffs. Ray-Bans that in Israel can cost as much as one thousand shekels. But of course he bought them in New York. Yes, and he knows her brother too. Don’t tell Marc you know me, he tells her. We had an argument back in the States. He is looking for a place to stay and a bank account to hold his money.
Her new boyfriend fucks her in what was recently Asaf Boulboulim’s office. The lovers have taken all Asaf’s things—the saffron robes and sandalwood beads—and thrown them into boxes, which they placed on the street beside the cats and other garbage. He takes care to change the locks, and he does it himself—another skill he’d picked up in New York, where all the locksmiths are Israeli. Asaf pounds on the door while Shira is on her hands and knees on the living room floor and Tomer Skymatsky rocks behind her.
Tomer, Shira shouts, again and again. Tomer! Tomer!
Chapter 30
Vivienne
Vivienne gets used to Yakov’s passing. People speak more freely now about Yakov. She knows about his affairs. She knows now about Maya and the beautiful baby Maya has called Yakov. She thinks tenderly of Maya. Every once in a while, at the kol-bo, she sees Maya’s mother. There is no point in avoiding her. Vivienne has never liked her, has never had a conversation with her in her life. What could Yakov have ever seen in her? Maya’s mother. She must have been thrilled Yakov was interested in her. It was like an act of charity.
Once, Vivienne was the most beautiful woman in the kibbutz. It is only natural she should have competitors. It is only natural that women should want to topple her off the pedestal where once she reigned. Including Maya’s appallingly plain mother. A woman who let her daughter attempt suicide again and again until finally the kibbutz doctor had Maya committed. It was almost as though Maya’s mother, whose name Vivienne refused to say out loud, or even in her head, wanted to wipe Maya away like a stain. And such a lovely girl was Maya. Really, one of the loveliest girls in the kibbutz. Judging from the old photographs in the kibbutz archives, she took after Yakov’s mother, who’d died so young.
What a shame it was that Yakov had never seen his baby grandson, the tiny Yakov Skymatsky. And a shame that tiny Yakov Skymatsky had no father. His father drowned foolishly swimming one kilometer out to sea. Taken by a strong undercurrent, it was said. In the kibbutz they laughed and said Shai Skymatsky had run away, no doubt. Probably had swum out to Cyprus and was living out some island dream far away from responsibility, from fatherhood, from the reserves. But of course they only joked that way because of their heartbreak.
Meanwhile, Dror was in a fury trying to substantiate the rumors that money had gone to Maya’s child. They’d each received their share. Even Ziv. It wasn’t as much as they’d hoped. Had Maya received more? Ziv had not even bothered to come to the funeral, though deep down who could blame him? Dror had threatened to spend every shekel of his own money trying to get that money back. Had there been a DNA test? There should be a DNA test! Until then, Maya shouldn’t get anything.
But don’t be silly, Dror! Vivienne had said. Look at how much money you have. Don’t be so greedy. Let it go, already! And she has lost her husband!
With her money, Vivienne will take her friend Aliza to Prague. She’s always wanted to go. She and Aliza will travel first class. And she’ll buy herself a new Louis Vuitton bag from the fancy mall in Jerusalem. And maybe, if she has the energy, she’ll move away from this kibbutz. Move to Jerusalem where her sister lives, close to Shira and Joseph, or Tel Aviv. Maybe Los Angeles.
Or Paris.
She’d like to visit Ziv in Singapore.
Vivienne goes to the kitchen and pours herself a glass of water. There is a pair of Yakov’s spectacles at the far end of the countertop. Vivienne picks them up between two fingers and deposits them in the trash. She feels sprightly. She feels like dancing. She feels like the fifteen-year-old who left Algiers for the new country. She raises her glass and toasts the air.
L’JahHanim! she says.
To hell with them!
Chapter 31
Gever
They looked good. Guy Gever was very fit. He’d let his hair grow out from his usual army-style cut. It suited him. Marc’s hair was thinning, and he had lost weight too. Marc had taken up running at the advice of his doctors. He had traveled to all the major cities to run marathons. Next month, he would be in Boston.
Guy Gever stood at his stove molding the ktsitsot, the meatballs he’d made
from game his brothers shot the night before.
He turned to Marc Solomon. Still warm, he said, and laughed.
You look good, Guy, Marc said.
Yes, I do!
He’d recently made a mint. The paintball facility was a success. He paid a nominal fee to the kibbutz and the rest he kept for himself. But do you know who really looks good? Guy asked.
Nu? Marc said.
Your mother.
Yes? I was surprised she wasn’t here. She hadn’t even told me she was going to France. And she knew I was visiting, of course.
Just wait and you will really be surprised. What she tells you is not the whole truth. Only I know the truth. Yes. Your mother and I are good friends since Yakov died. Of course, I have always loved her. She supported me when no one else believed in me! And when Yakov died, I supported her emotionally. And yes, she is in France, but she is not with her sister. And she has money now. More than you can imagine. As you know, your father did not leave anyone very much. But guess where she is now?
Okay, Guy. So spill it. What is she doing?
Ha! Let me tell you! Did she ever tell you about a boyfriend she had in Algeria before she came to haaretz?
No, Marc said. He felt uneasy and shifted in his chair. He was also tired, jet-lagged from the journey. Keren came in through the sliding door and kissed him on both cheeks. She walked to Guy and embraced him. They stood there for a long moment. They had always been affectionate. Marc felt even more uncomfortable.
I’m going to take a shower, Keren said. Are you staying for dinner, motek?
Yes, he said. Of course.
Tov. Give me a minute to wash up.
Once Keren left, Guy poured two shots of vodka and brought them over to the sofas. Marc followed him there and settled into the deep cushions. I’ll tell you fast, Guy said. Before Keren comes out. It’s already very controversial, your mother. Everyone is very aggravated. But she just wants to be happy. You want her to be happy too, yes?
