by Adiva Geffen
I stopped next to the guard booth, got out of my car, and headed straight to the biker.
“What do you think you’re doing, lady?” the guard shouted. “Get back in your car. There’s a traffic jam, can’t you see? Pull up and take your ticket like everyone else or move along.”
I paid no attention. Car horns started to blare. The guard continued to yell, the parking barrier went down, and the biker turned around and was gone in a second. I spotted him straddling his motorcycle and staring at me from behind the row of honking vehicles.
I got back in my car.
I parked the Kia and went into the shopping complex built to cater to the whims of all the happy, rich women who weren’t me. So, not me. I bypassed a store selling Egyptian cotton sheets and Indian silk scarves and entered Sisters, a sex store for liberated women who don’t blush at the sight of foot-long, purple silicone male members. I looked at a pair of pink furry handcuffs, and a saleswoman with a singular butt and ancient pimples from her teenage days came and offered them to me with an ear-to-ear smile. I nodded to myself while planning ahead. She swore the pink furry handcuffs were just the coolest thing. She’d tried them herself and they made her feel like heaven. She had a feeling they’d be just great for me too. Fearing I might change my mind, she hurried to release the handcuffs from their plastic prison and went over the instruction manual with me.
I refused the discreet black bag she offered, buried the handcuffs in my pocket, and left the store. I saw the biker at the other end of the open square, just as I thought I would. He was obviously looking for me. I recognized him by his walk. He climbed on his bike and got ready to start it. I got closer. He raised his head and saw me. I flashed an innocent smile. He smiled back. Mothers pushed baby strollers all around us. I got closer, and he didn’t move. He seemed surprised when I extended my hand and then, with a quick movement, cuffed his wrists with the pink furry handcuffs.
He looked at the handcuffs and started to laugh. I took off the helmet. Cooper. Just as I’d thought.
“Don’t you think that’s—”
“I don’t. And by the way, when did you become a stalker?”
“Dikla, I already told you, you have to give me a chance.”
“You’ve had more than enough chances.”
“Uncuff me, people are looking.”
“I’ve been told pink furry handcuffs are all the rage right now,” I said, and calmly walked on to my Kia, started it, and drove away.
I knew he was just the right amount of stunned. Let him go to the lady with the butt of the century at Sisters and share the mind-expanding handcuff experience with her. Perhaps she’d demonstrate a few options for him.
Sammy was right. A fun-filled day at the port was just what the doctor ordered.
◊◊◊
Back home, I started to feel restless again.
Why? This time the apartment door was locked, and no one jumped down the stairs at me, but still, I was worried. The prickling down my spine worsened without any apparent reason.
A moment after lying on the sofa, I heard scratching at the door, then the doorknob did a little pirouette, and my heart somersaulted. What now? Babysitter Cooper? Last night’s burglar?
More scraping. Good thing I’d locked it. I got up and went to the door.
“Who’s there?” I shouted.
“Hello, is this the Shoshkowitz family?”
I didn’t answer.
“Open up, you have a delivery.”
I hesitated for a moment. The voice sounded pleasant enough, but I’d had my fill of delivery guys. I opened the door a crack and stood behind the safety of the chain. The man in front of me looked about fifty, average height, straight hair, round face, long nose. That was all I could see. His eyes were lowered. A little old for a delivery guy. Something was off.
“I have a package for you.” His blue eyes now gave me a matter-of-fact look.
“Who sent you?”
“Yossi Deliveries — integrity and determination, nationwide deliveries.”
“Leave the package by the door.”
“Can’t. I need your signature.”
“Slide the paperwork under the door. I’ll sign.”
“Can’t, you need to check everything’s in one piece.”
“I’ll sign for it and take responsibility.”
“No good that way,” he said, took a business card from his pocket, and handed it to me through the crack. “I see that you’re suspicious, lady. That’s all right, can’t be too careful nowadays with all the strange people out and about, but you have nothing to worry about. I’ll just hand you the package and poof! I’ll be gone. Open up.”
The card looked all right. A pair of wings on a package and plenty of telephone numbers. I opened the door. Brown cotton pants and a blue shirt. When he came inside, I noticed he was dragging his right foot a little. For a moment, I felt embarrassed for making him wait, but then I noticed his hands were empty. No package. Not even an envelope. The walkie-talkie attached to his belt kept beeping.
“Wait a minute.” I tried to stop him, but he had already limped to my living room as if he lived there.
“Excuse me, what the hell are you—” I shouted.
“Dikla, why the anger? I’m just a messenger. They told me to come here and get something that belonged to the girl, whatsherface, who jumped.”
“Daria. Her name was Daria, not whatsherface.”
“Exactly, Daria. And there’s something of hers they asked me to get. Just give it to me and I’ll leave. Quick and painless.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
He ignored me, but I insisted. “Is it her mother?”
“‘They’ are people you really don’t want to mess with.”
“I’ll have to ask you to leave now, my husband should be here any minute, and he’s not as nice as I am,” I told him, not wanting him to think I was scared.
“Your husband? They didn’t tell me…” He was flustered briefly, then he pulled himself together. “He can come. I’m not making any trouble, am I? I’m just asking nicely that you give me everything that whatsherface Daria left behind. A book maybe, an envelope, a cookie. Anything, even if it doesn’t seem important, even a piece of paper, that’s all I’m asking for.”
“There’s nothing here. The police already took everything.”
“Police,” he snorted in contempt, “they never find anything.”
In order to make his point clearer, he started walking around my apartment, tossing the pillows, throwing the books from the shelves, opening the kitchen cabinets, and shaking the carpet, as if he’d decided to finish the helmeted burglar’s job.
I grabbed his hand and tried to stop him. He pushed me away. God, what else are you going to send me this week?
“Stop messing up my apartment.” I raised my voice, careful not to look frightened. “Now you’re going to leave, or I’m going to…” I screamed louder, hoping the neighbors would wake up, but he wasn’t disturbed. A petrifying smile crawled across his face just as the fear crawled up my spine.
“Why aren’t you being nice to me? I’m being nice, aren’t I? I’m not screaming at you. I’m just asking nicely.” He lowered his voice and whispered like a viper, “Here, look…Dikla Shoshkowitz. No husband, but there’s a father, Mr. Shoshkowitz — David, right? Decorator in Holon. We have the business address, the home address, there’s a nice office too, and there’s Ms. Sammy. We know everything we need to know, right? You’d better start thinking about where it is. You’d better start looking for it real hard. And when you find it, just call me and say, Mr. Delivery Guy, please come and get it. Then I come and get it. Simple, isn’t it?”
“Listen to me, Mr. Delivery Guy, you don’t know everything. I’ll be reporting your visit to Superintendent Bender, who’s a good friend of mine,” I told him, and my hand reached
for my phone.
“Ms. Shoshkowitz” — his voice turned threatening — “why are you calling the police?” He handed me a wrinkled page with some numbers scribbled on it. “Call these first.” He shook the paper and smiled like a hungry alligator. “You want to know what these numbers are? They all belong to people I’ve visited. Call them, talk to them. They’ll tell you what happens when I lose my patience.”
“I’m telling you she didn’t leave anything behind. Nothing.” I lost my patience and started to scream. “The police already messed up my room, and one of your friends was here yesterday and didn’t find anything.”
“I don’t think you’ve been paying attention to what I’ve been saying. Should I explain one more time? Should I?”
“If you’d only tell me what it is that everyone is looking for.”
“There you go, I talked some sense into your head after all. Why don’t you look for it? It’s your house, your office. Even if whatsherface left a match, or better yet, an envelope, we need it. Got it, Ms. Dikla?”
“Got it.”
He started limping to the door. Then he turned his eyes back to me and narrowed them into two thin lines, staring straight into my face. Not a muscle in his round face budged. “Find it and give it to us. Trust me, it’s for your own good. You’ve got our card.” An instant later, he vanished.
I hurried to lock the door, my hands shaking, the drumbeat of my heart thundering in my ears.
I poured myself some whiskey, my best friend at such moments. I drank a couple of glasses and waited for the golden liquid to trickle into my system and melt some of my panic.
What were they so desperate to find? Was that why Daria had vanished? What did she have that made every messenger and biker in town so excited? What had Daria left for me other than heartache and guilt?
I explored under the sofa and armchair cushions, I lifted the mattress, even searched the refrigerator. Nothing. What the hell were they looking for? I crawled on the floor, checked inside the toilet tank, then gave up and crashed on the armchair.
I sipped a third glass. The whiskey, God bless its Irish soul, began to work its magic, and the world turned into a beige blob that steadily beat and pulsated before my eyes.
Sammy. She was out having fun with the mourners. I needed Bender. No, I needed to talk to Nirit, the know-it-all cop. The case is closed, they said. Suicide, they said. Daria was already starting her last journey up the starry road leading into the heavens. I tried to get up and couldn’t. My legs had rooted themselves into the carpet. That’s it. Any remaining energy had been sucked out of me. It was all just too overwhelming. Then darkness came. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. A garden of blue roses, and the Queen of Hearts herself, about to cut off my head, Sammy’s head.. Dad’s…
“Dikla?”
Rustling sounds. Footsteps. Jiggling handle.
“Dikla.”
Someone was calling my name. No more Queen of Hearts, gone were the garden and the gardeners.
What now? Perhaps my ghoulish subconscious had decided to pay me a visit straight from nightmare land.
I couldn’t get up. Couldn’t face another messenger.
I thought I heard the door opening. I thought I saw a shadow walking into my living room.
“Open the door!” someone screamed, or maybe it was just my imagination. I didn’t raise my head, I just stared on. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to get up again. My feet weighed a ton. The floor was swaying. I felt the ceiling getting closer. Darkness.
21
“She’s all right,” I heard voices around me.
I opened my eyes and saw Cooper smiling at me. Again? How had he gotten in?
“What happened to her?” Yavin, the new neighbor. His pointer stood next to him and examined me curiously.
“She’s all right,” Cooper answered. “Everything’s all right.”
“Are you sure we don’t need to call an ambulance?”
“I’m sure. Thanks, man. I’ll take it from here.” They exchanged a friendly hug before saying goodbye. Sometimes I think every man in this country has been Cooper’s army buddy at one time or another.
I took slow, deep breaths until I felt calm again. I was all right.
One more minute. Two more minutes. Something cold was pressed against my lips. I took a sip then raised myself up. The floor was still swaying. Cooper helped me to my feet with a kind smile.
How much time had gone by? Nine months! Nine months since he’d vanished down an airport corridor on his way to India, tearful and excited, travel hungry, but missing me already. He had promised to call, write, come back to me quickly. He’d promised to keep loving me.
“Thanks,” I told him. The word was heavy on my tongue. “What happened to me?”
“You fainted. Your neighbor heard some out of the ordinary noises and called me. We go way back.”
“And you just happened to be in the neighborhood?”
He blushed. “Something like that. We had to break down the door. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it for you first thing in the morning.”
Honestly? He looked like a fine appetizer, his ass nice and tight in a pair of bright blue jeans, a black t-shirt stretched across his chest, arms tanned, eyes resting on my face, trying to reach me. God, I’ve missed him.
“Thanks, I’ll manage.”
“Can I ask what happened, my darling?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Yavin told me he heard screaming.”
“Everything is just fine,” I answered, unwilling to forgive him that easily.
He picked up the business card from the table. “Yossi Deliveries. Is that the guy who bothered you?”
“When will you stop bothering me, Cooper?”
“Never. Maybe it’s time you believe me. You and I just need to have a short conversation, and then everything will be—”
“Let me go, please. Right now, I don’t even have the energy to be angry at you. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next month, not today. I’m too tired.”
“Come.” He took me in his arms and helped me up, his gentle hand on the back of my neck, melting all my resistance.
He accompanied me to the bedroom, and a moment later I was under the covers. I thought he sat beside me. I thought he stroked my forehead, maybe even kissed it, as if I were his sick little girl.
I sank back into the rabbit hole, feeling his lips on my forehead, letting go. Don’t stop, Cooper, don’t stop.
And once again, a bright blue cloud swallowed me whole.
Don’t stop, Cooper.
22
I woke up in a room washed with light. Someone who looked like Sammy’s evil twin was nervously walking back and forth in my bedroom, making as much noise as possible.
This is only a dream, I told myself, turning over onto my other side, snuggling under my covers, and drifting back to sleep. But that evil Sammy clone just wouldn’t give up. She tore the sheet from my body and forced me to sit. “Get up, Shoshkowitz, we’ve got things to take care of.”
I tried to focus on her, but the room kept swirling round and round. Sammy? Here? How had she climbed all those stairs with her knee?
“Dikla, this is important.”
“What’s important is for me to get my beauty sleep.” I pushed her hand away, reclaimed my sheet, and snuggled back in bed.
Once again, she pulled the sheet away. “Shoshkowitz, this is serious. Do you remember the name of the journalist Ginger drove Pastor Raphael to see?”
“Nope.”
She pressed a cup of steaming coffee to my lips. “Do you remember the address?”
I took a sip. “Sirkin Street. Why?”
She brought the cup back to my lips. “Ehud something?”
“Ehud Gal.”
“I knew it,” she moaned. “Just take a look at this
.” She handed me a newspaper and pointed at a small item.
Another Victim of Violent Crime, the headline shouted. Journalist Ehud Gal was rushed to the hospital yesterday in critical condition, with multiple contusions. Gal, 35, was found injured in his apartment. An unidentified woman found Gal and called the police… Neighbors claim they didn’t hear anything… is in intensive care… police investigating… several possible leads…
“What do you have to say now, Shoshkowitz?”
“That it’s a good enough reason to wake me up. What’s your spider-sense saying?”
“That this is a pretty interesting coincidence.”
“Coincidence? I kept telling you something was rotten in the state of Yokneam. Now we need to go straight to the police and tell them everything we know!”
“And what exactly do we know that would make them reopen the case? What could we possibly tell them? That a troubled girl decided to take her own life? That there’s no evidence that she and Ehud Gal knew each other? You’re being naive, sweetie pie.”
“We know someone broke into my apartment and my car and—”
“You need a lot more than that — you need to put the pieces together, which means we’ve got work to do, lots of work. It’s time to get your royal ass out of bed.”
I got up and staggered my way to the shower.
Beneath the stream of hot water, I tried to sort out the pieces of the puzzle and determined that unfortunately Sammy was right. We didn’t have enough to make the police reopen the investigation. After all, they had determined it was a suicide.
When I got out of the shower, a wonderful smell wafted toward me from the direction of my ancient stove.
“I’m the world heavyweight shakshouka champion,” Sammy marveled at her own culinary skills and presented a spoonful of rich, red sauce to my mouth, trying to comfort me. “You’ve never tasted anything like it,” she promised. That was one of Sammy’s favorite sayings; she had never been one to be modest. She piled her glorious shakshouka on my plate. I had absolutely no idea how she had managed to turn the moldy bits and pieces in my refrigerator into a masterpiece. I suppose a real chef can always make a wonderful meal out of scraps and leftovers.