A Love and Beyond

by Dan Sofer

Dave handed Mandy a glass of wine and raised his.

  “Here’s to us,” he said, his voice deep and compelling. His confident eyes caressed her face and said that he liked what he saw.

  She felt a flutter in her stomach. Wine teetered at the rim of her glass.

  “So,” Mandy said, recovering. A playful lilt had jumped into her voice. “Is this your plan? Lead a girl to an exotic restaurant in an Arab neighborhood and ply her with wine?”

  You’re flirting, Mands, and you haven’t even tasted the wine!

  Dave’s eyebrows hitched with amusement and mild concern.

  “I wouldn’t put you in any danger,” he said. “No need to play the hero.” He contemplated his wineglass. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Heroes are dead.”

  Goose bumps broke out over Mandy’s body. Her lungs refused to inflate. She was sure he could hear her pulsating heart.

  “What did you just say?” Mandy asked when she remembered how to breathe.

  “Hmm?”

  Mandy put down the glass.

  “That saying. Heroes are dead. How do you know that?”

  Had Nat primed Dave for the date? No. Not even Nat knew that one. It was a family motto. An heirloom. A secret handshake.

  “I don’t know,” Dave said, still contemplative. “I thought I made it up. But I may have heard it somewhere.”

  A haze of confusion like the white noise of an untuned television jumbled Mandy’s mind.

  Then it cleared.

  Everything was clear.

  Oh, God. So this is how it feels!

  She surrendered herself to Dave’s irresistible magnetic field. Her cheeks burned at her sudden urge to rip open his shirt, send the buttons flying, to run her fingers over the hard muscles of his abdomen and nestle in the warmth of his chest.

  He recited the blessing over wine, borey peri hagafen.

  She answered amen, reclaimed her wineglass, and gulped down half its contents.

  The girl in scarlet robes returned to the room, her eyes lowered.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Mandy replied.

  She settled her glass on the table and reached for a menu.

  Mandy was ready to order.

  Chapter 5

  A leather ball bounced over a white chalk line on a grassy field and into a net.

  Five thousand people jumped to their feet and roared.

  In the stands high above the field, Dave jumped with them. He had expected the Neanderthal in the yellow tank top beside him to mug him at some point during the ninety minutes, but now the giant grabbed Dave by the ears and kissed him on the forehead.

  Dave grinned at Mandy and shrugged.

  The Yellow Shirts had tied the score with five minutes left on the clock. Tension rippled through the hot summer’s night air. It was good to be alive.

  The crowd chanted slurs regarding the parentage of the White Shirts.

  “Seven years,” Dave shouted to Mandy. “I’ve lived here seven years and this is my first game.”

  Mandy shouted back, “I’m glad your first time was with me.” She winked at him.

  Dave jabbed a finger at her ribs but didn’t dare make physical contact.

  Instead, he helped himself to another handful of salted sunflower seeds from the jumbo bag in Mandy’s hand. Dave had mastered the technique. He held a shell between thumb and forefinger, splintered the casing with his incisors, and extracted the little gray seed with his tongue. A lot of work for a bellyful of birdfeed and salt-caked lips but a ritual was a ritual.

  Football and garinim, two of the many firsts Dave had notched up over the four months he and Mandy had dated.

  The night after their dinner in the City of David, he had taken her to the bowling alley in the Talpiot industrial zone and broken that elusive third date barrier.

  And never looked back.

  Museums and movies followed. Then a rock concert: Ben Draiman at the Yellow Submarine. After date number eleven, Dave stopped counting. They spent every spare moment together, usually at Mandy’s apartment, where her ever-present flatmates kept them out of trouble.

  Time flew by. On Purim, they had crashed a fancy dress party wearing matching cow suits. How had she persuaded him to do that?

  They parted company for the week of Passover to visit their families overseas. The distance had hurt. Dave, fearful of jinxing the relationship, breathed not a word to his parents and, strangely, his mother never inquired into his love life; although, during the long Pesach meals, whenever she looked at him a smug grin spread across her face and Dave suspected she had spies in Jerusalem.

  The football game ended in a tie. He and Mandy followed the crowd down the concrete steps and through the tunnels that led to the parking lot. She smiled blissfully at him as they walked, and bumped against him at every opportunity.

  Indeed, life had changed. Dave even looked different. He wore his hair swept back. No more nerdy parting. That had been Mandy’s idea. She had helped him select a new wardrobe of polo shirts and O-neck sweaters and donated his old button-downs.

  Dave had quit his job and signed with a smaller company more likely to offer advancement opportunities, again on Mandy’s advice. Tonight was Wednesday, which meant he had exactly three workdays left under a devastated Kermit the Frog.

  He unlocked his Ford hatchback and they joined the jam of cars between Teddy Stadium and Malcha Mall.

  He enjoyed their comfortable silences, although recently a large pink elephant had tiptoed in.

  Four months.

  Long enough to get to know a girl. Many of Dave’s friends had proposed in less. And Mandy had only two weeks left in Israel. Dave had the girl. The motive. The opportunity.

  What am I waiting for?

  Mandy said, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “Football? I actually enjoyed it. Ben will be shocked.”

  “Ben. Your friend at the City of David?”

  “The one and only.”

  Dave hadn’t seen Ben in months. He had suspended their weekly chevruta after date number three. Dating trumped Gemara.

  That was half the truth.

  The other half lay deep within the City of David.

  That fateful winter night at Ornan’s, four months earlier, something had shifted the balance of affection in Dave’s favor sharply and absolutely. Try as he might, he could not explain it away. Neither the atmosphere nor the food accounted for it. Not even the Pickup Artist’s Bible.

  Although he didn’t understand the mechanics, he did feel responsible. He had tricked Mandy. Taken advantage. Tampered with her destiny.

  One fine day, the spell would break. The piper would come knocking. Mysterious forces had given; mysterious forces would take away.

  And, considering his recent behavior, maybe Mandy wasn’t the only victim.

  One man stood at the center of the enigma and Dave had avoided him ever since. Ben seemed in no hurry to see Dave either.

  A car pulled up beside them at the traffic light. Four passengers dressed in yellow-and-black shirts and scarves hung out the windows, all catcalls and cheers. The driver drummed the horn.

  Dave answered with three short bursts.

  His internal critic scolded him.

  Very mature, Dave.

  Other girls he knew would have agreed. His mother, for one.

  But Mandy giggled. In her eyes, he could do no wrong.

  The light changed and he pulled away.

  “You and Ben go way back, don’t you?” Mandy asked

  “He was a year ahead of me in high school. We became friends in Yeshiva. I returned home to start my degree and Ben stayed on to study archaeology at Hebrew U. We bumped into each other when I made aliya. I’ve been trying to shake him off ever since.”

  Another giggle. “We should meet up with him.”

  Dave’s foot slipped onto the accelerator, spinning the wheels for a second.

  “What?”

  “I’d love to see the
City of David. Maybe Ben can show us around?” she said.

  “Sure.” He fixed his eyes on the road.

  Don’t fuss. She’ll probably forget. It’ll blow over.

  “How about Friday? We’re both free. Ruchama invited us for both meals this Shabbat, so we don’t have to cook.”

  Dave’s stomach squirmed. Ten ways to dodge the question came to mind, none of them honest.

  Bollocks!

  “Sounds good,” he said. His voice had climbed an octave.

  “Great. An archaeologist and an old friend. I’ve got a lot of questions for him.”

  Dave’s fist clenched on the wheel.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

  ***

  Mandy doodled in her notebook. Rabbi Jeremy’s voice carried her thoughts.

  Over the last four months, the biblical David had risen to prominence, fled attempts on his life by a deranged King Saul, and unified the tribes of Israel under his leadership.

  It was during this long-awaited period of calm that the new king faced his most difficult trial.

  “And so,” Rabbi Jeremy concluded, “Uriah had divorced Bathsheba before he set out for battle. David may have abused his power, but he had not committed adultery. As our Sages write: He who says David sinned is mistaken.”

  The rabbi beamed at the class. “Any questions?” His eyes drifted to Mandy.

  Mandy returned the smile and lowered her eyes. She did not raise her hand.

  The written text told only part of the story. The oral traditions of the rabbis lay between the lines.

  Mandy had traveled far since her first day at She’arim. Her impulsive rebellion had masked deep cuts in her soul. Frustration. Anger. Hurt.

  Healing had followed. The insights and introspection of her Torah study routine had helped. But mostly she thanked Dave.

  He had filled the void in her heart. He powered her newfound serenity.

  The girls split into study pairs.

  Esty’s eyes shone brighter than usual. Her smile threatened to burst her cheeks. Lately, she had skipped classes and Mandy had guessed something was up.

  “Mandy,” she gushed. Unable to find words, Esty placed her left hand on the desk. The gold band on her ring finger held a large, clear and colorless stone. “I wanted to tell you first.”

  Mandy hugged her. “Esty, mazal tov! That’s awesome!”

  “I know,” Esty said, her eyes tearing up. “His name is Shmuel. He’s at the Mir.”

  “Wow.” The Mir was an ultra-Orthodox yeshiva in Jerusalem’s Me’ah She’arim neighborhood.

  “It’s glass,” Esty whispered, referring to the stone. “Until we get on our feet.”

  The other girls quickly surrounded Esty and bombarded her with questions.

  No more studying for today.

  Mandy watched her twenty-year-old study partner glow. She felt no envy.

  Good for you, Esty.

  She looked at her notebook. Two words repeated down the page: Mandy Schwarz.

  The sun still hung high in the sky during the cab ride home that evening. Mandy plugged her earphones into her iPhone. Diana Ross sang “Upside Down.”

  Her playlist of eighties hits transported her to the happy years of her childhood. A thousand sunny days lay ahead, filled with trust in the goodness of life. Tragedy was a distant rumor. She’d thought she’d lost that feeling forever.

  The song ended and a dance rhythm of drum and piano thundered in her ears. Her favorite: Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out for a Hero.”

  Dave didn’t drive a fancy sports car. He didn’t fly his own helicopter. His family seemed well off but he was no billionaire. And he had his quirks. But he lived his ideals. He had moved to Israel alone, left behind a comfortable life. He resisted her attempts at holding hands with a quiet cowboy resolve and each day his inner hero shone brighter.

  Besides, according to the romance novels on Ruchama’s shelf, billionaires were a dime a dozen.

  The cab reached Mendele Street and Mandy paid the driver. Shani pushed through the door of the apartment building in tights and a loose tank top.

  “Hi, Mands,” she said. “You’re just in time to go shopping. Ruchama ran out of Rich’s Cream. Come along?”

  “Sure,” Mandy said and climbed out of the car.

  Ruchama cooked and calculated the expenses. Shani did the groceries. The girls split the Friday cleaning three ways.

  Mandy had never shopped with Shani before and it promised to be an interesting experience.

  “Hey,” Shani snapped at the cabby. “Move it along, pal.” The driver stopped staring and drove off.

  Shani beamed at Mandy. “Is my strap showing?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” The pink bra strap was hard to miss.

  “Good,” she said. “This way.”

  Shani turned left up Keren Hayesod.

  “Is Dave joining us for meals?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I don’t know what you see in him, Mands. You are so out of his league.”

  Mandy smiled. Shani had disliked Dave the moment she laid eyes on him, and, whether Shani loved or hated, her opinions were absolute. Mandy didn’t take it personally. Shani was looking out for her like a protective big sister.

  “Look at it this way,” Mandy said. “If it weren’t for Dave, I’d be leaving in two weeks.”

  Shani halted and grabbed Mandy by the hands. “You extended your ticket?”

  Mandy nodded. Shani hugged her. Mandy could hardly breathe. “It’s a year ticket anyway. I just haven’t booked the return leg.”

  Shani held Mandy at arm’s length. Her smile faded. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s been four months. If he hasn’t proposed by now, chances are he won’t. Trust me. Have you met his friends yet?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Mandy said, “we’re meeting his best friend tomorrow morning.”

  Shani pursed her lips. “Maybe he’s smarter than I thought. But if he doesn’t propose soon, I’ll shoot him. Now, Mandy, dear. Watch and learn.”

  Shani headed for the hole-in-a-wall convenience store on the corner of Sokolow Street. A Coca-Cola refrigerator stood beneath a jutting tin roof. The store was a long walk-in closet of cool storage and shelves packed to the ceiling. A hairy, overweight man slouched behind the counter in a dirty undershirt.

  “Mah inyanim, motek?” he said. What’s up, sweetie?

  Shani ignored him. She sashayed through the store, swinging her hips.

  Mandy waited at the entrance.

  Four months.

  That counted as a long-term relationship in these parts.

  Was Dave holding back?

  Shani reached for the sliding door of a low-lying cooler, bending at the waist, her shapely behind aimed at the counter. The storeowner patted his forehead with a greasy handkerchief.

  Mandy stifled her smile.

  Shani pulled a bag of breadcrumbs from a shelf and dropped it on the counter next to the carton of non-dairy cream.

  Something felt out of place. Shani wasn’t carrying a bag, and her tights hid nothing, not even a roll of bills.

  Mandy reached into her bag. “Let me get that.”

  “No, no,” said the man. He waved a beefy hand at her when he saw her purse.

  How did they always know she spoke English?

  The man placed the items in a white plastic bag but didn’t touch the till. “On da house,” he said. His smile was wide and yellow.

  Shani swung the bag over her shoulder and pranced out the store.

  “Bye, Yossi,” she said with a playful lilt in her voice.

  Mandy fell into step beside her. “Shani, you are one of a kind.”

  Shani winked. “God helps those who strut their stuff.”

  Mandy laughed.

  Shani had no fear. She always got what she wanted.

  Mandy bit her lip. With a bit of imagination, so could she.

  ***

  Jay pulled a black ski mask over his face and scaled the perimet
er fence. He dropped to other side, a black shadow in the night, and hunkered down on untrimmed grass. He located the Capewell grapple hook and ran his fingers over the braided length of the BlueWater Assaultline. Tactical teams used the black kernmantle rope for its high tensility and low visibility. The gear had always been far out of Jay’s budget.

  How times change, he thought.

  He lobbed the hook onto the roof of the three-story building. It held. He fed the rope through the harness of his black bodysuit and walked up the wall.

  The roof was wide and flat in the dim moonlight and dotted with the bulging rectangles of skylights and air-conditioning units. Jay felt a tug on the line: a sign for him to haul up the black duffel bag. John followed a minute later.

  The men worked wordlessly with the quick confidence bred by months of planning and surveillance. John carried the bag to the second skylight. Jay held the padlock straight while John applied the bolt cutter. After five seconds of strain, the shackle snapped.

  John secured the grapple hook around an angle clip that bolted an air conditioner to the roof, while Jay fed the Assaultline through the figure-eight descender on his harness.

  He studied his wristwatch.

  9:04 PM.

  Two minutes from now the guard would conclude his rounds, granting them sixty seconds of grace before the motion sensors activated.

  The Teacher had approved Jay’s shopping list without question. Despite appearances, the Sons of Light had come into money.

  The Sons of Light.

  He had known that destiny would draw him to distant lands and ancient secrets. His new brotherhood lived up to his every expectation. His initiation into The Way had not passed without difficulty. Handing over his worldly possessions was the easy bit, Jay and John having little left between them, but the regimen of ritual and study tried his patience. The vows of silence. Immersions in cold, purifying waters. The endless chanting of Psalms and Isaiah. Communal meals with their motley crew of new brothers. Jay suffered it all. The End of Days neared. When the Teacher finally revealed Jay to the world, the Sons of Light would be his personal guard. Thankfully, Jay and John spent most of their time away from the community called the Yachad, searching for scroll jars, then scouting their target. Planning. Training.

  John swung the skylight open on its hinges and dropped the end of the Assaultline into the darkness below.