by Yael Hedaya
“What condition am I in?” She lit a cigarette and inhaled as if she hadn’t smoked for days.
“You’re not driving now. You need to unwind a little,” he explained patiently. “You can’t be in control the whole time. In fact, it’s pretty annoying, to tell you the truth.” He held up her hand to kiss it.
“What’s annoying?” she asked.
“That you won’t let me take care of you, that you’re unwilling to give up control even for a second.”
“I am willing,” she said, and tears ran down her cheek again. “I just don’t know how.”
“I’ll tell you, then. Just do nothing. We’re going home, and I’m going to make you something to eat. By the way, I brought you a sandwich, but I left it at your dad’s—I mean, in his room. It had cheese and pickles. I remembered how we talked about that once.” She smiled. “And unfortunately I can’t make you another one, because they only had one roll left at the store.”
“You took forever to get there,” she remembered, as if she had only just begun to reposition herself in time, like a traveler back from a trip overseas. “When did I talk to you at your mother’s?”
“Around two. But I told you. There was a traffic jam from Latrun all the way to La Guardia.”
“What happened?”
“I have no idea, but forget that; tell me about your day.”
But she couldn’t, because when he died, her father had taken with him the words describing his departure. She looked out the window, at bustling Ibn Gvirol, alive with a thousand kinds of lights, at the café dwellers crowding the outside tables, at the passersby quickly crossing the street, carrying their late-night shopping. She looked at Yonatan’s watch; it was almost nine, and for these people another normal day was just coming to an end. A young woman walking a dog bent over to pick up his poop, with a plastic bag covering her hand, and threw it into the trash can.
“That’s so good of her,” she heard Yonatan say. “A righteous woman in Sodom.”
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, although it was not Sodom on her mind but Tel Aviv. How normal it seemed now, how like itself, persevering in its collective disregard of private suffering. And yet it did not arouse anger but rather gratitude, for being a kind of deaf metronome, ticking quickly and cheerfully to the sounds of heavy music.
“Where were you when Rabin was murdered?” Yonatan asked, as they passed by the square where it had happened.
“On a blind date. And you?”
“At home with Dana. It was a year after Ilana died.”
“Where’s Dana?” She suddenly remembered her, as if there were some fixed order of activities that accompanied her return to the world: first air, then time, and eventually people.
“She’s at Tamar’s. She’s going on the trip tomorrow.”
“I know. Does she know what’s going on?”
“I didn’t actually see her today. I wanted to ask her to sleep over at Tamar’s because I didn’t know when we’d be back, but she’d already gone there this afternoon and left me a note. I talked to her before I came to the hospital and said we’d let her know what was happening.”
Again she saw Dana’s crushed look, their new friendship collapsing like the onion rings the girl broke up with her fork, and although a lead screen already stood between her and that fresh memory, new life was breathed into her guilt. Perhaps when she heard what had happened, Dana would forget the silly, unnecessary confession. Death was dramatic and impressive next to a vague future pregnancy.
“She looked a little uneasy yesterday, didn’t she?” he said, and honked angrily at a pizza-delivery guy on a Vespa who cut him off on the right.
“Dana?”
“Didn’t you notice? When you came back from that restaurant.”
“She always looks uneasy.” She hated herself.
“That’s true. How are you? Are you okay? I mean, I know you’re not but, you know, I’m just checking.”
“I’m okay right now. Didn’t you say you wanted me to unwind?”
“Yes,” he said, and gently nibbled her fingers, which he was holding in his hand. “But I want to manage your unwinding.” His teeth gave her a pleasant chill, different from the consolation of his hugs, a chill that teased her grieving body and whispered to it: You will have joys. And tears filled her eyes again.
They parked on the corner of their street, near Allenby, and she waited for him to say that he hated parking there because of the partiers; he was afraid they would break into the car or scratch it. Perhaps tonight he would forget to say what he always did when he begrudgingly parked on the corner, knowing it was too late to find any other spot. Perhaps this night was too big for trivial statements.
He turned the key in the ignition and turned the lights off. “I hate parking here.” She tried to smile but burst into tears. “What?” he said, alarmed, and then remembered that tonight she did not need a reason, and he turned to her and kissed her cheeks, his lips meeting hers from habit, not knowing if they were allowed, and she put hers against his.
This is part of the unwinding, she thought, letting it all blend: a little passion in the sorrow, secular tickles taunting jabs of sacred pain. Like a fastidious girl trying to separate different foods on her plate, looking fearfully at the piles threatening to touch each other, to contaminate each other, until she finally gave in and, with great relief, crushed everything with her fork; her tongue traveled in his mouth, and his tongue happily wound around it.
“I have a hard-on,” he said, when their lips unlocked. He smiled. “I’m sorry, I know that’s not appropriate now.”
Dana was leaving the building just as they arrived, wearing her new backpack. “I called the hospital,” she said excitedly. “First they wouldn’t tell me anything, but I lied.” She looked at Shira. “I told them I was his granddaughter, and then they told me he had died. It’s so awful.” She rushed over to Shira and wrapped her arms around her stomach. The backpack made her embrace clumsy, and Shira felt her tremble so she put her hand on the girl’s head and stroked it. “I’m so sorry,” Dana said. “Did he suffer?” She looked up at Shira with tearful eyes.
“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”
“Were you with him?” She took a step or two back, rearranged the straps on her shoulder, and heaved the heavy pack up higher on her back.
“Yes.”
Yonatan held her hand again.
“You mean, right until the end?” the girl asked, suddenly curious.
“Yes, I was with him when he died.”
“Then at least he wasn’t alone,” Dana said, and Shira nodded. “It’s good that you were with him.” She looked at her father, who smiled sadly at her. “It’s really good. That way, at least he knew he wasn’t dying alone.”
“Yes,” Shira said. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Of course he knew,” the girl decreed, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I know he did.”
“Where are you going?” Yonatan asked.
“To Tamar’s. It’s better if I sleep over there.”
“Are you sure?” Shira asked.
“Yes, so you can be alone for a while. We have to leave early anyway.”
“What time?” Yonatan asked.
“We have to be at school at six-thirty. I talked to Rona. She knows your father died; she’ll call later.”
“I’ll walk you there,” Yonatan said, and turned to Shira. “Is that okay? Will you be all right for a few minutes?”
“I don’t need an escort, it’s not that late,” Dana said.
“But it’s dark. I don’t want you walking on your own.”
“But Dad—”
“Go with her,” Shira said, and went toward the building. “I want to take a shower anyway.” Then she called after Dana, “Hey! You’re going to have fun on this trip, right?”
“I’ll do my best.” Dana smiled, and Shira wondered if she’d forgiven her.
“Promise?”
Dana nodded, and Shira
watched the two of them walk away.
How strange the apartment looked. The usual mess in the kitchen was different today: An open jar of pickles stood on the counter, and the cheese stuck out from its transparent package. She sniffed it out of habit, to make sure it hadn’t gone bad, and put it back in the fridge. She sat down and held a mug on the table that held a cloudy remainder of the morning’s coffee. She got up and filled the kettle and turned it on and went into the bedroom, where she looked at their bed, at the sheets and pillows that always found themselves tangled in one pile in the morning, and at the clothes he had put on before leaving, tossed on the floor. She sat down on the edge of the bed and took her sandals off and noticed her own clothes, what she’d put on after the call came—how irrelevant that phone call now seemed—an olive-colored T-shirt and broad black pants made of soft fabric, the same clothes she had worn yesterday and had left hanging in the bathroom because she wanted to wash them; what had stuck to them today could not be removed. She took these clothes off and put on her favorite T-shirt, with the faded coyote print, threw them into the laundry hamper, and then remembered the plastic bag that Yonatan held as he walked down the street with Dana, talking, and she felt a chill again and then the phone rang.
“Shira.” She heard Rona’s voice, molecules of condolence clinging together to form her name. “Shira. So it’s over, yes?”
Shira heard the TV on in the background, and the girls arguing about something. “Yes, it’s over.”
“It’s difficult, but I understand he didn’t suffer.”
“No, but I did.” She took a cigarette out of the pack on the living room table, and thought, How different the reporting of pain is from the pain itself, like two unrelated events.
“Do you want to come over?” Rona asked. “Yonatan just left to come back to you, but it only takes two minutes. Come over, both of you, I’ll make you some comfort food. There’s schnitzel and mashed potatoes, or maybe you’re not hungry.”
“I’m starved, but I don’t have the strength to leave the house.”
“I understand. Will you be able to sleep?”
“I hope so.”
“You should try, okay? The funeral is tomorrow?”
“Yes.” She sat down on the couch, suddenly weak.
“Yonatan said at three.”
“Yes, at three.”
“I’ll see you there, then. Should I come over in the morning, just to be with you for a while?”
“We’ll see. I’ll call you.”
“I’m taking the girls to school early, and then I’ll be home. Wait a minute, Tamar wants to talk to you.”
Then she heard Tamar’s sweet, childish voice. “I’m sorry about your dad, Shira.”
“Thanks. Have a great time on the trip, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And take care of Dana.”
“Okay.”
When she put the phone down, she heard Yonatan’s key in the door and the kettle switch flipped.
* * *
He was very quiet making spaghetti sauce, his movements efficient, his back turned to her, not revealing a good mood or a bad one. “They’re really excited, Tamar and Dana.” When she saw him dripping Tabasco into the bubbling tomato sauce, she remembered the first time they ate spaghetti together and how spicy it was, practically inedible, but so tasty. “Is there any Parmesan left?” he asked, with his head in the fridge.
“In a bag on the door,” she said, tired indifference filling her head. “What time is it?”
“Ten-fifteen or so.”
“It’s late.” She tried to picture the funeral, something she had imagined dozens of times over the last few months. “Which newspaper is the notice going to be in, in the end?” she asked, as if she hadn’t heard him dictate it over the phone only two hours ago.
“Yediot. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yes. How much did it cost?”
“Forget it. I paid with a credit card.”
“But how much did it cost?”
“It cost whatever it cost.”
“I’ll pay you back.” She looked down, and her eyes were heavy with tears again.
“Okay.” He squatted on his heels next to her, with his hands in her lap. “Is that what’s worrying you?”
She shook her head. “I’m crying so much now, I won’t have anything left for tomorrow.”
“And is that what’s worrying you? How you’ll be at the funeral?”
“No. No one will see me anyway, because there won’t be anyone there.”
“I’ll be there, but I don’t care how you are.”
“I’m dying to take a shower.”
“Go ahead.”
“Later, I don’t have the energy now.”
He put his head against her stomach, listening. “I can tell you haven’t had anything to eat all day.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He rubbed his nose against her belly button. “Sounds like a whole coop of angry chickens.”
Her father would have died in any case, whether or not she had found love, and she tried to imagine herself now sitting in the apartment on Borochov or a different apartment, wearing this T-shirt or a different one, cooking spaghetti for herself or something else, alone. She could not.
When she got into the shower, she soaped herself carefully, unsure of what she wanted to do: remove the layers of filth or keep hold of the remnants of smells she would never smell again. Through the open door, she heard Yonatan talking to his mother, and then he came in and said, “She insisted on coming to the funeral tomorrow. See? It won’t be just the two of us.”
“Rona’s also coming.”
“And Aunt Malka.”
He looked at himself in the mirror, holding his chin and turning his face from side to side. Then with a sudden thought, he quickly put his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. He hissed a curse and pulled out a mass of shredded paper.
“What happened?” she asked.
He said he forgot to take something out of his pocket before he threw his jeans into the washing machine yesterday. “An old painting of Dana’s I found when I cleaned out the car.”
“That’s too bad,” she said, and started washing her hair.
“Yes.” He thought about the picture drowning in the washing machine, being spun and wrung over and over again, then drying slowly on the line, crumb by crumb, in the back pocket of his jeans.
“Will she be mad?” Shira asked, and turned her back to him to adjust the shower head.
“No, she doesn’t even know about it. I wanted to surprise her. Well, I don’t know what I wanted, really. You have a great ass, did you know that?”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Me too.”
“I’ll convince you. But not now.”
“Convince me now.”
“No. When the shiva is over.”
“It’s over,” she said, and stood defiantly in the shower.
“Stop it,” he said, and started brushing his teeth. “Don’t tease me now. You’re in mourning and I’m horny.”
“Do you think I need to sit shiva?” She now stood beside him, wrapped in a towel.
“I don’t know. What would your father have wanted?”
“I have no idea. I don’t think it would have made much difference to him.”
“I don’t want you to sit shiva over me, by the way.” He spat into the sink.
“Why not?”
“Just because. I don’t want people traipsing all over the house.”
“Anyway, what gives you the right to die before I do?” she said, as she put her T-shirt back on.
“I’m older.”
“Your mother’s older than your father, and he died first.”
“That’s true. But it’s common knowledge: Men die first. Doesn’t matter how old they are.”
“Not in my dad’s case.”
“Not in mine either.”
Suddenly the talk of
death brought some joy into the bathroom and they lingered there, afraid to go out into the gloominess creeping through the rest of the apartment, sniffing the walls and furniture, digging into the dusty rug in the living room like a big dog looking for a spot to spend the night. “I’m not going to sit shiva,” she said, and took a box of cotton swabs out of the medicine cabinet. “Not in any official way, at least. I’ll grieve with myself. And with you.”
“That’s fine with me. Whatever you want.” He slowly flossed his teeth.
They spent awhile longer in the bathroom before going to bed, devoting too much time to trivial hygienic tasks, prolonging their shelter in this refuge full of steam and chatter and sweet soapy smells.
She fell asleep quickly, but woke up at five into a chill that at first seemed to have seeped into the room from her dream about morgues. They had gone to sleep on what felt like a summer night, but yesterday’s storm—it was now possible to think in terms of yesterday—had softened something in the air and broken the heat. She heard the pile of papers with her notes for the novel rustling on the desk beneath the open window, and was about to get up and make some coffee, as she always did out of some great urgency: to put an end to the negotiations her body had every morning with her brain, which was the early riser. But this morning she let her limbs win and kept lying on her side, her cheek against the pillow, her exposed toes rubbing against one another, tasting the cold. A pale light began to paint the room, softly unveiling furniture and objects: the white of the computer keyboard on the dark wooden surface of the table, the pink towel used last night to dry her hair, hanging on the back of a chair, the deep color of the armoire, its doors gaping from the opposite wall, the glimmer of the old bureau’s copper handles, the crisscrossed plastic cover of the air-conditioning outlet over Yonatan’s head, with dust bunnies stuck to the grooves, their color blending with the merciful democratic light and with the color of his hair, the floral sheet wrapped around his back and shoulders like a shawl, exposing his bare feet and the faded color of his underwear, gray like the light.
Her hand landed gently on the small of his back, waiting for the slightest motion, surprised but not completely, by his sleeping body. She rested her head on her other hand and looked at his two parts: his head, facing her, and his behind and legs facing the ceiling, a cheerful field of flowers between them. Her fingers fluttered over his skin. Her head was empty, a dump truck that had unloaded the verbal trash of yesterday and not yet stowed the new day’s language. His back tensed at her touch, and she heard him sigh with sleepy pleasure, and felt the warmth of his sigh on her face. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Go back to sleep,” she whispered. Even in his sleep, he thought to console her. She kept stroking his back, but now the flutter had become a caress, her head was reloaded, the words were lining up for morning inspection, so punctual, awaiting orders. She sighed, and he opened his eyes and asked what was wrong. “My stomach hurts. I’m getting my period.” He made a sympathetic sound and asked if she wanted a painkiller. “No, you sleep.” “What bad timing, to get your period today,” he murmured into his pillow. “Yes, go back to sleep.” He wrapped his arms around her, the lie curling up between them shyly, surprised at itself. Her hand wandered on his back, stopped briefly between his shoulder blades, touched the large mole, climbed to the back of his neck, burrowed through the roots of his hair, flowed back to the small of his back, and rested on his behind, which tensed up, waiting with an erection pushed against her stomach, to see where it would go now.