The Death of Baseball

by Orlando Ortega-Medina

  “Thirty-nine years old,” Aunt Penina says, raising her fist to the ceiling. “My husband was only thirty-nine years old, and then he was gone. Someone has to pay.”

  “We’ve all been paying, Aunt Penina. Five years already. When’s it going to be enough?”

  Aunt Penina slaps the ironing board, making it jump. “When I say it’s enough.” She glares at Raphael. “In the meantime, you’ll behave yourself and do as you’re told, for once in your life.”

  “Aunt Penina, with respect, I’m here until I turn eighteen. After that, I’m gone. That’s one year. But while I’m here I refuse to live in a hell of your making just because you can’t accept it was Uncle Shimshon’s time to go.”

  “How dare you speak to me that way! I’m a grieving widow.”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Penina, but if you cross me or try to make my life here more difficult than it already is, I promise you’ll regret you ever laid eyes on me. I won’t warn you again.”

  Raphael turns his back on his aunt and walks out the front door of the apartment, hardly believing what he said to her, mopping the sweat from his face with a bandana.

  He crosses the car park, startling a small herd of foraging ibexes as he breezes past them on the way to some shops he saw when Yossi and he entered the town. He steps inside a hardware store and waits while a bony-chested, middle-aged salesman with thick black hair and leathery skin chats in a mix of French, Arabic, and broken Hebrew with a stout young man. After a while, Raphael raps his knuckles on the counter and addresses them in Hebrew.

  “Excuse me, gents. Good afternoon.”

  The two men stare at Raphael.

  “You’re Penina Dweck’s nephew, yes?” the salesman asks.

  “Guilty as charged,” Raphael says.

  “Ah, yes,” the younger man says. “We heard you were coming. From Assaf your cousin we heard this. Welcome to Mitzpe Ramon.”

  “How may we help you?” the salesman asks. “I’m Amir, by the way.”

  “And I’m Yona.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m looking for somewhere to pray Mincha. My aunt didn’t seem to know of any place.”

  Amir looks at his wristwatch. “There’s a group that gathers in the school cafeteria after lunch at around one thirty. They don’t always manage a minyan. If you hurry, you might make it.”

  “I’m going that way now,” Yona says, pulling out his keys. “I’ll give you a ride.”

  Raphael follows him out to his pickup. Yona pulls away from the hardware store and brings the truck around to head into town on the road running parallel to the edge of the makhtesh. As they pass Aunt Penina’s apartment block, he rolls down the window and holds out his arm in the direction of the open desert. “If you ask me,” he says, “the best place to pray is there, standing at the edge of the makhtesh, facing the desert as our ancestors did.”

  “Jerusalem’s that way,” Raphael says, pointing in the opposite direction. “We face the Kotel.”

  Yona lets out a laugh. “You can tell I don’t pray much.”

  “You know what?” Raphael says. “Just let me off here, please.”

  “But the school’s still blocks away at the end of the road,” Yona says, slowing down.

  “That’s OK,” Raphael says. “I like your idea better.”

  Raphael hops out of the truck, runs across the dirt, and scrambles onto the retaining wall overlooking the makhtesh. He catches his breath as he gazes out across the 500-metre deep chasm to the other side, which is over ten kilometres away, and at the expanse of purple, black, scarlet, and gold sand drifting between the jagged buttes spread out at his feet. In the distance, he can make out an empty, thin ribbon of road heading south toward Eilat and the Sinai beyond where Yossi and his tank brigade are training. The thought of Yossi evokes a deep feeling of loneliness in him.

  His hand automatically goes to his camera, and he calms himself by framing shots of the makhtesh and some of the random ibexes precariously navigating the sheer cliff side. Then he finishes his last roll of film snapping a few shots of the squatty houses and Quonset huts that make up his new hometown.

  Switching out his camera for his prayer book, he flips to the afternoon service, turns to face Jerusalem with the makhtesh at his back, and starts his recitation. As he prays, a scorching wind kicks up from the makhtesh, blowing dust everywhere. Raphael squints to keep the grit from getting into his eyes and speeds through the service, holding down his kippah to keep it from flying off. When he finishes, he glances in the direction of the concrete apartment blocks in the distance, where reality awaits him. Then, driven by the wind, he jogs back across the rock-strewn field and along the deserted street to Aunt Penina’s.

  When he walks through the front door, he finds Aunt Penina still ironing shirts. His twenty-three-year-old cousin, Assaf, is standing next to her, dressed in a khaki coloured Madei Aleph uniform of the IDF Medical Core, his cap folded and resting on his shoulder, held in place by an epaulette. They both look up at Raphael, which affords him the opportunity to examine Assaf’s angular, humourless face. His deep-set, dark eyes are framed by thick black eyebrows, and a three-day stubble darkens his strong jawline. His close-clipped hair adds to the severity of his look.

  “Hello, cousin,” Raphael says from the doorway.

  Assaf nods at him without a trace of emotion.

  Aunt Penina turns her attention back to the ironing board, and Raphael catches a vague hint of a smile on her face. Assaf strides past him and moves down the hallway. “Come with me.”

  Raphael follows him into the bedroom. His photographs are no longer on the wall, and his books are on the bottom shelf. Tomer’s things are back where they were when he arrived.

  “Don’t move things without asking,” Assaf says.

  “Where are my photos?”

  “In the drawer that I assigned to you.” Assaf taps the bottom drawer of the writing desk with his black boot.

  Raphael opens the drawer and pulls out the photos. He holds them up to Assaf. “The corners are ripped, achi.”

  “And?”

  “They weren’t ripped before.”

  “Listen, my friend,” Assaf says, using the English expression instead of the Hebrew word chaver and raising himself to his full height, “I want you to be clear on something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m the head of this household. The house rules are my rules. Anyone that lives here has to follow my rules. That includes you.”

  Raphael studies Assaf’s hard face. He senses behind those deep-set dark eyes a cauldron of intense emotion and a hint of danger held in check—just—by his years of training as an IDF commander. In that instant, Raphael realises that Assaf is not one to be crossed if he is going to survive the next year, even with Yossi’s support.

  “As long as I’m able to pray when I need to, eat what I can, read whatever books I want, sketch without being censored, and dress however I want, I’ll obey whatever house rules there are.”

  A bitter laugh escapes Assaf’s lips. He points at the ceiling. “By all means, pray to the empty sky whenever you like. And you can starve, as far as I’m concerned. As for the rest of it, I don’t care: draw, read, dress like a clown. But if I ask you to do something or not to do something, you must obey me, without question. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Agreed?”

  “Yes, agreed.”

  “Good. Now, take off your shirt.”

  “My shirt?”

  Assaf snaps his fingers at Raphael. “Enough with the questions. Let me see the bruise.”

  Raphael unsnaps his shirt and tosses it onto the bed. “Yossi told you.”

  Assaf looks closely at the bruise. Then he presses hard on it, causing Raphael to scream and pull away. “Hey, that hurts!” He rubs the throbbing area and glowers at Assaf.

  Assaf points at Raphael’s chest. “That was made by someone’s fist.”

  “What about it?”

  “You told my mother you fell i
n the dark.”

  “More like pushed.”

  “You were in a fight?”

  “Something like that.”

  “If she’d punched you a little harder, I would have recommended blood thinners just to be sure. But that’s not likely to clot. Leave it alone, and it should fade in two to four weeks.”

  “You said she.”

  “Judging from the diameter of the injured area, that was caused by a woman’s fist. Or a child’s. But a child wouldn’t have been able to reach that high, nor would a child have had the strength to inflict that level of injury. So, yes, she.”

  Raphael grabs his shirt and buttons it back up. “You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”

  Assaf checks the scratches on Raphael’s forehead and dresses them with supplies from his first aid kit.

  “If you’re going to get into fights here,” Assaf says as he packs away the supplies, “stick to fighting with men.”

  Raphael avoids looking directly at Assaf, who seems to know everything. He peers at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, pulling back his hair to examine his forehead.

  Assaf snatches a lock of Raphael’s hair. “It’s time to cut this hippie mop of yours.”

  “No way.” Raphael steps away. “I like my hair the way it is.”

  Assaf taps his index finger against Raphael’s forehead. “This is the first test of our agreement.” He pulls open the door, narrowly missing Raphael’s nose, and disappears into the hallway.

  Raphael steps into the hallway behind him, a smouldering anger intensifying inside as he watches his cousin’s retreating figure. After a moment, he sets his teeth and follows him out the door, feeling suddenly helpless and hating him with every ounce of his being.

  He spends the rest of the afternoon riding around with Assaf, first to Mitzpe Ramon’s only hair salon. A Moroccan barber passes his clippers over Raphael’s head, shearing off all his hair in less than three minutes. He swings Raphael’s chair around to face the mirror, and Raphael suppresses a scream when he sees his reflection, imagining himself a concentration camp victim, with Assaf the Nazi guard standing behind him smiling sadistically and nodding his approval.

  “Now you look like a proper Israeli,” Assaf says once they are back in the car and on their way to a general store, where Assaf picks up dry goods, cleaning supplies, and new underclothes.

  Lastly, they drive a half hour up the road to the meat supplier in Sde Boker. Assaf introduces Raphael to the butcher, a grizzled Yemeni in his fifties with shoulder-length sidelocks that remind Raphael of a pair of slinkies. He wears an embroidered felt kippah, and the elaborately-knotted fringes of his tallit katan poke through holes in the front of his blood-splattered apron. At Assaf’s prompting, the butcher reassures Raphael the meat he supplies is indeed kosher, but that he can’t afford to pay the inspection fee. Assaf then buys some chicken and a large pack of stewing lamb and shoves the bag of meat at Raphael.

  “Thanks for that, I guess,” Raphael says, breaking the silence halfway back to Mitzpe Ramon. “About the meat.”

  “You give a little; I’ll give a little,” Assaf responds. “That way, we’ll all get along just fine.”

  Raphael arches an eyebrow at Assaf. “If you say so.”

  Assaf looks at Raphael, his face darkening. “One more thing, cousin.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you ever threaten my mother again, I will break every bone in your body, drag you into the makhtesh, and bury you alive.”

  Chapter 11

  They find Tomer watching TV in the front room when they arrive home. He jumps off the sofa, runs over to Raphael, and gives him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. Assaf marches past them to the kitchen carrying a bag of groceries. Raphael wipes his face with the back of his hand and stares at his twelve-year-old cousin, who is dressed in a rumpled white button shirt and dark blue dress slacks. He is about two inches shorter than Raphael and around ten pounds heavier. His open, friendly face is round and pudgy, and his curly, dark hair is neatly trimmed. His skin is oddly pale for someone who lives in the middle of the desert, like the belly of a tortoise.

  Tomer takes Raphael’s hand and leads him to their shared bedroom. He plops next to him on the bottom bunk and rambles on excitedly, his eyes open with wonder at the sight of his American cousin sitting next to him.

  “We’re going to have so much fun,” Tomer says. “Do you like Matchboxes?” He jumps to his feet and retrieves one of the miniature cars from the bookshelf and holds it out to Raphael. “This one’s a vintage Corvette, my all-time favourite car.” He grabs another. “And this one’s a Ferrari. I can’t decide which one I like more.”

  Raphael takes the Corvette from Tomer and turns it over in his hand, then returns it to him. “Sorry, I’m not really into cars.”

  “That’s OK.” Tomer places them on the shelf and bounces back onto the bunk next to Raphael. “There’s loads of other stuff we can do, like feeding the ibexes and exploring and stuff, after the sun goes down a bit. I’m not allowed outside in the middle of the day on account of my sun allergy. But there’s loads we can do indoors, like watch TV and play board games and cards. Anyway, during term time we’ll be mostly in class during the week.”

  “You have a sun allergy?”

  “Yeah, I get a bad rash that turns into blisters if the sun shines straight onto my skin. So I have to wear hats and long sleeves and sun cream and mostly stay indoors until after the sun goes down. It can get super boring. But now that you’re here, we can do stuff together.”

  Raphael stands and looks at his younger cousin. “Most of what I like to do I do alone.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like reading and taking pictures and sketching stuff.” Raphael snatches his copy of A Clockwork Orange off the bottom shelf and hands it to Tomer. “This is my favourite book.”

  Tomer flips through the pages and hands it back to Raphael. “I can’t read English, sorry. What sorts of things do you draw?”

  “Things that scare people.” He pulls his sketchpad out of the bottom drawer and sits next to Tomer. “Like this, for example.” He shows Tomer a sketch of a dissected cat. Tomer wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “Or this one.” He shows Tomer a sketch of a cow giving birth to a boa constrictor, its face craned in the direction of the emerging snake and contorted in terror. Tomer pushes away the sketch and stands up.

  “Why don’t you draw normal stuff?”

  “What’s normal?”

  “You know, like landscapes, or buildings, or portraits of people doing boring stuff like sitting in chairs with their legs crossed, or whatever.” He points at the sketches in Raphael’s hands. “That stuff’s nasty.”

  Raphael shoves the sketchpad and a box of coloured pencils into his backpack. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll catch you later on.” He smiles at Tomer and pats him softly on the arm.

  “Where are you going?” Tomer asks, the corners of his mouth curling down.

  “I need to get out. I’m feeling a little cooped up in here.”

  “I didn’t say anything wrong, did I? If I did, I’m sorry.”

  “No, honestly, I just need to get out for a bit.”

  Tomer follows Raphael into the living room. Assaf and Aunt Penina are sitting at the dining table, deep in conversation.

  “Rafi’s going for a walk,” Tomer announces.

  “I’m serving dinner at six,” Aunt Penina says, directing her words at Raphael but looking at Assaf.

  “Make sure you’re here at five forty-five sharp,” Assaf says, pointing his finger at Raphael.

  Raphael checks his watch and flashes him a thumbs up, then runs out the door.

  Outside, the wind has subsided to the point that there is no movement of air. Heat radiates off the cement surfaces of the buildings and the asphalt of the car park. The glare of the massive afternoon sun prompts Raphael to slip on a pair of sunglasses. He lights up a Marlboro and takes a long drag that makes his chest h
urt. Opening his shirt, he checks the bruise, which is starting to turn greenish yellow at the edges, and he smoulders at the memory of Yossi prodding it under the pretext of a medical examination. “Screw him,” he says out loud, and, tossing aside the cigarette, jogs toward the makhtesh, dodging a small gathering of ibexes on his way.

  He climbs onto the wall, his legs dangling over the edge, and watches as the sun descends. The sight of the barren crater in the waning afternoon light evokes an empty feeling in him. He thinks about Yossi’s offer to take him into it to spend the night and feels torn between his desire to be alone with Yossi and his fear of the dark and the emptiness of the makhtesh.

  The orb of the sun spits out swirls of colour as it dips westward, painting the purpling sky with reds and oranges, and splashing the edges of the crater with an ever-changing palette. Raphael pulls out his pad and sketches furiously, trying to capture something of the devolving landscape as the colours intensify, and a warm wind kicks up from the desert floor. Glancing at his watch, he sees he has only five minutes to get home for dinner if he’s going to maintain the peace with Assaf. So he stuffs his pad into his backpack, takes one last lingering look at the makhtesh, and sprints back to the apartment.

  Aunt Penina serves chicken, rice, and boiled vegetables to Assaf and Tomer. She drops a plate in front of Raphael on which sits the cold liver steak he failed to eat at lunch; then she takes a seat at the table next to Assaf. Raphael glances at her and finds Assaf staring back at him. “You can finish that now,” Assaf says.

  Raphael looks down at the steak and fights the urge to shove it away, knowing that things could get much worse for him if he openly rebels against Assaf. After a moment, he utters a blessing over his meal, and eats it, ignoring the conversation between Aunt Penina and her sons. When he finishes, he thanks Aunt Penina, excuses himself from the table, and pads down the hall to his room, reciting Grace After Meals with a growing lump in his throat.