The Ninth Day

by Ruth Tenzer Feldman

  When it was safe to face the mirror, I set my hair in the rollers I used to share with Dagmar until she let her hair go wild. Until she let everything else go wild, too, including her feelings for guys. She dismissed me as the last of the big-time virgins. Which I don’t see as so horrible. At least not for now.

  I snuggled into plaid flannel pajamas, bedded down with Jean Plaidy’s The Thistle and the Rose, and devoured another two chapters about medieval England and somebody else’s life. It would have been the perfect escape, except that I missed Sylvester, who wasn’t in his usual spot on the corner of my bed. I bobby-pinned the page and headed upstairs, figuring Sylvester might be stuck in Grandpa’s room.

  Grandpa’s door was closed. I heard his usual Tommy Dorsey big band music—and a woman’s deep alto voice: “You can wait no longer to fulfill your promise. She is needed elsewhere. A baby’s life is at stake. She must be able to come with me if she chooses.”

  My grandfather was probably playing a record and listening to Theatre Five on the radio at the same time. You never knew with him these days. At least he remembered to take his medications. Most of the time.

  I knocked.

  No answer.

  The doorknob didn’t turn. He’d locked himself in again.

  I knocked louder. “Guh-randpa, open the d-door.” I put my ear to the wood. All I could hear was music—”Stardust,” I think—and that woman’s voice, now almost a whisper: “It fills me with great pain to say this, but you must act quickly. You are nearing death, Ephraim.”

  Death? Ephraim? My heart beat a wild staccato tempo. Ephraim was my grandfather. Ephraim Jacobowitz. I pounded on the door.

  ”Guh-guh-randpa!”

  Sylvester yowled.

  Light flashed under the door, blasting my bare feet blue.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I raced to the kitchen for the small, flathead screwdriver I used when Grandpa got into this mess last September. I wiggled the blade into the slot in the doorknob, heard the pop, and rushed in.

  No woman. No record playing. No Theatre Five. Tommy Dorsey’s band blared on the radio. My grandfather sat on the edge of his bed, wiping his nose with the wrinkled handkerchief that lived in the pocket of the cardigan Grandma Miriam had knitted for him before I was born.

  Car headlights glinted off the mirror on Grandpa’s dresser. White lights, not blue. Had I really seen blue? And heard a woman’s voice?

  This must be how they start. I leaned against the door, suddenly dizzy. The doctors had warned me to expect flashbacks after an LSD trip, but they couldn’t say when these side effects might start. I’d been lucky so far.

  Not anymore. I managed to park the screwdriver on Grandpa’s dresser and stumble to the chair next to his bed.

  ”Here, sheyna maidl, for whatever is troubling you, a handkerchief always helps.”

  The room stopped spinning. I took the handkerchief from Grandpa’s outstretched hand. “Are y-you okay? W-was s-someone in here?”

  He bobbed his head, which I took to mean yes, but yes to what? I shouldn’t have asked him two questions at once.

  ”My Miriam of blessed memory ironed seven handkerchiefs for me every week, a fresh one for each day, even when she was busy at the print shop.” He patted my knee. “She still wonders why so many people call you Hope.”

  Poor Grandpa, still speaking to his dead wife. I rubbed the back of my neck. I could have explained for the gazillionth time that I go by my middle name because “Hope” doesn’t gag me as much as “Miriam” does, and it’s hard enough feeling stupid when you talk, but when you can’t even say your own name…Instead I asked, “W-was there a w-woman in your room?”

  ”Nu? A man is entitled to company in his own house. We listen to the radio after work. How else do we know what’s happening with our boys on the front line?”

  Sadness welled up inside. He didn’t used to be this way. I touched his hand, a collection of blue bruises under parchment skin. He was back in World War II again. Or World War I. Or Korea. He probably didn’t even know about Vietnam.

  ”Tomorrow after school you’ll take me to buy war bonds,” he said. “And I am counting on you to take care of my jade plant after I leave.” He pointed to the shiny waxy-leafed mini-tree overwhelming a porcelain pot on his desk. “Let the soil dry out first, and then water it well.”

  Tears ached in the back of my eyes. “You sh-shouldn’t l-lock yourself in. S-s-suppose you got ill or f-fell?”

  He scowled. “I never lock my door. Never.”

  ”But j-just now…”

  His face beamed. “Yes, just now we were talking about my jade plant. Stay,sheyna maidl. I have for you a Hanukkah present.”

  I tucked my hair behind my left ear and folded my hands in my lap. He stood, steadied himself, and then patted my head. “I have for you a gift from your grandmother, my Miriam of blessed memory.”

  I nodded. And waited. He stood over me, his hand still on my head. Moisture leaked from his nose. I smoothed the handkerchief and returned it to him.

  ”A gift,” I prompted.

  His forehead wrinkled in confusion, then relaxed. “Yes. Now where did I put it when I moved here?”

  He hadn’t seen it in six years? Why wait so long? “Y-your duh-resser?”

  ”Smart girl.”

  After I turned off the radio, we opened all the drawers and rifled through clothes, old papers, and a box of memorabilia. Whatever he was looking for wasn’t there. Still, I was feeling better—no more flashes of blue light or strange voices.

  I checked under his bed and rescued a faded black sock smothered in dust bunnies. That left Grandpa’s desk—nothing there—and then the closet. Grandpa asked me to take down the hatbox on the top shelf.

  I put the box on his bed and let him open the lid. He lifted out a gray fedora and stroked the brim, his eyes getting the blank stare that meant he was somewhere else. I concentrated on what had been folded in half under the fedora—a soft woolen bag, creamy white with embroidered flowers. It looked like a feminine version of the black velvet bag Grandpa used for his prayer shawl when he came to services to hear me sing in the temple choir.

  The prayer shawl inside was smaller than Grandpa’s prayer shawl and made from the same wool as the bag, with a white-on-white pattern. I laid it over his pillows and admired the beautiful embroidery that decorated the top edge—yellow and orange flowers, purple grapes with green vines, and crimson lettering.

  ”Guh-randpa?” I touched his sleeve.

  He stopped stroking the hat brim and looked at me, then at the prayer shawl. A smile creased his face. “You found her tallis,” he whispered.

  He traced the letters on the shawl with an arthritic finger.

  ”The writing is ancient Hebrew script, see? It is a passage from the Torah. Tzedek, tzedek tirdof. Justice, justice you shall pursue.”

  My grandfather refolded the shawl and placed it in my arms as if it were a newborn baby. “Here, sheyna maidl, this is my gift to you from your grandmother. She wants you to have it. She says it’s time.”

  Delighted, I swirled the shawl over my head and let it drape across my shoulders down to my knees. The short fringes on the ends and the longer ones at the corners were all white, except for one long thread—a vivid blue—in the left front corner.

  I reached for the blue thread.

  Grandpa lunged at me, his eyes wild with anger—or terror. He yanked the shawl from my shoulders. “No!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  What did I do wrong? I stood there speechless, my stomach churning.

  Grandpa’s hands shook as he put my grandmother’s prayer shawl back in the bag. “You must not wear this. Never. Don’t you let Dagmar wear it, either. I know she borrows clothes from you.” He grabbed my wrist. Hard. “This tallis will take you away. You hide it. Hide it good!”

  ”Guh-randpa,
you’re …you’re h-hurting m-me.”

  He let go of my wrist, muttered something in Yiddish, and started to whimper. I put my arms around him. When had he gotten this thin?

  Grandpa reached into his cardigan pocket. “For whatever is troubling you, a handkerchief always helps,” he told me again, wiping his nose. “A pressed handkerchief is better.”

  I raised my eyebrows and nodded in agreement.

  He looked at my bare feet. “Also slippers. Watch you shouldn’t catch cold. Now you must hide your gift. Your mother must never find out.”

  Really? Why not? I decided to wait to ask my grandfather until he was more coherent, and I humored him by putting the prayer shawl in one of the extra pillowcases we keep in his room.

  ”S-see,” I said. “It l-looks like l-laundry now.”

  ”No one must know of this tallis but you,” he warned.

  I promised I’d keep it safe, reminded him to leave his door unlocked, kissed him good night again, picked up the screwdriver, and told him I’d see him in the morning.

  ”From your mouth to God’s ear,” he said.

  Sylvester followed me into the kitchen, where I planned to finish the leftover pumpkin pie. Grandpa might think handkerchiefs are best for whatever troubles you, but I go for dessert.

  Parking the shawl-stuffed pillowcase on the counter, I walked toward the whatnot drawer to return the screwdriver. An ambulance siren blared outside. Once, and then again. Closer. I tightened my grip on the screwdriver.

  The right side of my face began to tingle, then burn. I stared at the screwdriver as the blade grew longer. Tiny teeth sprouted from the tip.

  Gasping for air, I tried to drop the screwdriver. The plastic handle fused with my flesh. Blood oozed from my fingertips.

  My heart pounded in my ears.

  And then the screwdriver turned back into a screwdriver. No teeth. No blood. I flung the damn thing on the floor, grabbed the kitchen counter, and closed my eyes.

  Big mistake.

  A man’s mouth floated in space, a zipper where his lips should be. His lips unzipped, and musical notes flew out of his mouth. The words stitches and ambulance twirled around his dance-floor tongue. One, two, three. One, two, three.

  ”No!” I jerked my eyelids open.

  One shuddering breath followed another. This must be a flashback. Instant hell.

  Struggling to gain control, I practiced the diaphragm breathing I’d learned in choral music class. Inhale. Slow release. Inhale. Slow release.

  The back door slammed, and I prayed for a miracle. My mother would crush me against her and announce, “Happy Hanukkah, sweetie. I’m home a few days early.” I’d settle for Dad. Even Dagmar.

  ”Cutsie pajamas,” Josh said. “They’d go great with bunny slippers. Any pie left? I’m starving.”

  ”I-I…”

  He tossed the car keys on the kitchen table and headed for the refrigerator.

  I steadied myself against the counter and watched Josh’s back as he claimed the pumpkin pie and a carton of milk. Inhale. Slow release.

  ”Mom should have ordered an extra pie.” He took a swig of milk from the carton, then finally turned and studied me like I was some stock market listing. “Hey, kiddo, you look kind of wobbly.”

  ”I-I j-just had a fuh-lash-b-back.”

  Josh’s look shifted into what seemed to promise genuine concern. “A flashback? You mean like a mini-LSD trip?”

  I hugged my chest and nodded.

  ”Is Dagmar here?”

  I shook my head.

  ”She is never here when she should be. Would she even think to leave you instructions or anything? No, of course not. So, now what am I supposed to do?”

  I wanted to grab him by his perfectly pressed shirt and yell, “You’re supposed to comfort to me, you idiot! You’re supposed to tell me everything will be fine.” Instead I shook my head again and took another deep breath. The screwdriver next to my bare feet stayed a screwdriver.

  ”I bet she’s out with those nutcases peddling their propaganda on campus. Free speech? That is such bull.” He pointed the milk carton at a chair. “You should sit down.”

  For once in your life you should shut up and hold me. The chair looked too far away. I clung to the counter.

  ”Okay, kiddo, but don’t blame me if you fall on your face.” He grabbed a fork from the dish drain and dug into the pie. “Don’t you think Mario Savio and his merry band of weirdos are making a big stink out of nothing? I mean, so what if the university declares another twenty-six feet of walkway off-limits to campaign tables and bans political speech on campus? The nutcases can go set up their signs and posters someplace else, right? This whole protest business is a complete crock.”

  Two seconds of silence.

  ”D-don’t t-t-tell D-Dad,” I managed. If he and Mom knew about my flashback, they’d never let me go away to the music festival.

  ”What? You think Dad is a Savio fan?”

  I tapped my head.

  ”Ah, your fried brain. Dagmar really messed you up this time.”

  Josh took another bite of pie.

  I bit my lip.

  ”So, tell me this. Dagmar says Mario stutters worse than you. And you stutter pretty bad, so he must really have a problem. Anyway, Dagmar says this guy doesn’t stutter when he’s speaking to a crowd. Like it’s a miracle or something. How’s that possible? Dagmar’s bullshitting me, right?”

  I glared at Josh. Why bother to explain that I had no idea Mario stuttered and that the students had every right to protest? I might even give up the music festival if I could find the guts to speak out like they were. It took only two steps to reach the pillowcase on the counter. Sylvester and I headed downstairs, leaving the screwdriver on the floor and my ass of a brother to his stupid pie.

  I unlatched my window—Dagmar’s favorite late-night entry—and told myself the flashback episode lasted only a few seconds. Everything was going to be okay. Maybe that was the only one I’d ever have. Maybe if I had told Josh to hug me and make me a cup of tea or something, he would have. Who are you kidding? Talk about bullshit.

  I opened the tallis bag and spread the prayer shawl across my chair. Grandpa’s gift was the one good thing about tonight.

  Sylvester arched his back and hissed.

  ”S-silly cat. Isn’t it gorgeous?” The words almost flowed. If only I could pretend everybody was my pet cat. I ran my hands through the long white threads hanging from each corner. And that single blue thread, too.

  Sylvester scratched my arm.

  ”Ow!” I picked him up mother-cat style by the nape of his neck. “W-what’s with you tonight, you cuh-razy beast?”

  He went limp. I tucked my hand under his bottom. “You’re b-banished until you can behave.” I put Sylvester in the hall leading to the bathroom and the workroom/garage, and started to close the door.

  That’s when I heard a woman’s voice behind me, coming from the direction of the open window. The voice I’d heard in Grandpa’s room.

  ”Miryam Tikvah, I come in peace.”

  My hand gripped the doorknob. Air rushed out of my chest. I forgot how to breathe.

  I should have run out through the garage. I don’t know why I didn’t.

  I closed the door and turned toward the voice.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She stood by my desk, holding out her hands and beckoning me to come closer. She looked about Dagmar’s age—bronze skin, gold-flecked hazel eyes highlighted with white eyebrows, and nearly invisible eyelashes. No make-up. No jewelry. She wore a floor-length beige wool robe and an ochre headscarf that hid most of her white hair. Maybe she was part of a cult. Maybe she was from some exotic country.

  Miryam Tikvah. How could she know my Hebrew name? And how had she opened the window and closed it so quietly? Maybe she wasn’t really there. Oh, G
od, not another flashback!

  I took a breath and stared at her, waiting for her to start glowing or turn into some bizarre creature.

  She didn’t change.

  Keeping her in my sight, I dug into the pile at the foot of Dagmar’s bed and closed my hand around one of Dagmar’s clogs. And I let it fly.

  She caught the clog a second before it would have slammed into her stomach. Her eyes widened in surprise. “I have done nothing to harm you. I come in peace. Why do you insult me with the throwing of a shoe?”

  I felt my shoulders relax. Better to be visited by a stranger than a flashback. “First of all, my name is Hope. Second, I threw the shoe to see if you were really here. And third, get out of my room.”

  The words gushed out of my mouth without a glitch. Weird.

  She sat on my bed, put Dagmar’s clog on the floor, folded her hands in her lap, and beamed at me. “Then I, too, shall call you by this name in your place and time. Hope.”

  I inched closer to the bedroom door, ready to escape. There was something really off about this girl. She was probably one of Dagmar’s friends, maybe someone from our temple, which was why she called me Miryam Tikvah. Her voice had a guttural quality to it. Israeli? She was probably stoned or worse—on LSD, which should be illegal in California but isn’t. Lysergic acid di-whatever. Since my first and only trip, I’d renamed it Lethal-Suicidal-Deadly.

  ”I’m going to bed now,” I said, pointing to my pajamas. “You’ll have to wait for Dagmar outside.” No stutter again, which sometimes happens when I am over-the-top angry. But I felt more frightened than angry, and fear usually makes it harder to push the words out. Crazy.

  ”I am not waiting for your sister Dagmar. I am waiting for you.” She reached toward the prayer shawl.

  ”Don’t touch that,” I managed to say loud and clear. Something was really bizarre with my speech. Not that I minded.

  The girl put her hands back in her lap. “This is a beautiful gift. I know it well. I, too, bear a gift, a guardian doll.” She reached into a small bag that hung from a belt around her waist. “Here,” she said, showing me some sort of odd fetish made with yarn and straw. “For you. For Hanukkah.”