Rabbi Josh stopped by to check on Masada, who was already up, unpacking boxes of books. She was barefoot, in loose jeans and a white tank top, smelling of shampoo. She offered him her cheek.
“Good book.” He pointed to The Case for Israel by Allan Dershowitz.
“He got it all wrong.” Masada pulled a bunch of volumes from the open box and lined them on the shelf.
He noticed the circles under her eyes. “How did you sleep?”
She shrugged.
“Nightmares are common after a traumatic event.”
“You’re talking from personal experience?”
“I’ve worked with veterans.”
She stacked more books on the shelf. “Don’t psych me. I’m not one of those lunatic veteran the U.S. military is so good at producing.”
He knew she was referring to Al Zonshine, who had stalked her after her lecture at Temple Zion, having convinced himself that Masada was interested in him. It had taken the rabbi’s intervention and a threat of a restraining order to keep Al away. “Vietnam crippled a lot of souls,” Rabbi Josh said. “It’s not like serving in the Israeli army.”
“How do you know that?”
“Am I wrong?”
She grabbed her keys from the counter. “Let’s go for a drive.”
The garage was hot. Masada started the Corvette and turned up the AC.
“Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome,” Rabbi Josh said, “isn’t a cause for shame. Some people are fine for years, able to suppress the memories, live with an emotional time bomb. Then something happens.”
“Like a car flying into a ravine?” Masada pressed the gas, revving the engine.
“Or witnessing a violent suicide.” He glanced at her. “A new trauma saps the mental energy needed to contain the old trauma, which then explodes to the surface.”
“I left my ticking bombs in Israel.” She reversed out of the garage.
“Old traumas continue to tick even if we try to suppress them. They often manifest in vivid nightmares.”
Masada accelerated up the street, turning into Echo Canyon Road without slowing down. “You think I’m going crazy?”
Her tone confirmed he had touched a nerve. “Are you?”
Masada decelerated sharply to stop at a red light. “I’m not Al Zonshine.”
Rabbi Josh turned to her but said nothing. Her thinness extenuated the features of her face-a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a perfect jaw. He interlocked his fingers, keeping his hands in his lap, longing to touch her. “He is a member of my flock. I’ve tried to help him fight off his demons.”
“Unsuccessfully, it seems.”
“Has he bothered you again?”
“Not since the restraining order was issued.” Masada took off as the light changed, pushing the car hard. She downshifted, approaching a turn. “There’s a barf bag under the seat.”
“Thanks.” He laughed, realizing the drive was intended to test him.
“Did Raul like my Corvette?”
“He wants me to trade the Honda for one of these. I told him it’s unbecoming for a rabbi.”
Masada downshifted to pass a slower car and turned right on Camelback Road so fast that he had to grab the door handle to avoid falling on her. She laughed. “God, I love this car.”
“God loves you too.” He watched her shifting gears with a slender arm. The radio played, I’m a prisoner of your soul, a lifer in paper walls, plastered with your face, before you left this earth. He thought of Linda’s photos on his own walls, her clear eyes framed in carrot-red curls, a smile that was contagious even when he cried.
Masada lowered the volume on the radio. “A shekel for your thoughts.”
He hesitated. “I miss my wife.”
“Do you feel guilty about liking another woman?”
“Liking would have been fine. But when it’s more than liking-”
“Guilt is impractical. I prefer anger.” Masada pushed her hair behind her ears. “Aren’t you angry at whatever killed her?”
“I’m angry at myself.” Rabbi Josh sighed. “How about you?”
“It’s easy for me. I blame Israel for the deaths of my parents and brother.”
“Is that why you’re so eager to indict Israel?”
“Who else would pay Mahoney to sponsor a mutual defense act with Israel?”
“Christian fundamentalists? Jehovah’s Witnesses? Michael Jackson? The world is filled with misguided souls.”
“Only countries spend that kind of money on bribes, and Israel is the only country interested in legislation that would force our president to declare war on whoever attacks Israel.”
“And require Israel to fight against anyone attacking America.”
“Ha!”
“It’s convenient to only see the facts that support your theory.
Can’t you acknowledge the possibility it wasn’t Israel?” Rabbi Josh put his arm forward as the car came to a screeching halt at a red light. “That Fair Aid legislation is a terrible development.”
“Israel should have learned from the Pollard affair, the Abramoff and AIPAC scandals. Instead, they bribed Mahoney, and failed.”
“You say ‘Israel’ as if it’s a single entity that acts and speaks in one voice. You know how divided and conflicted Israel is, including the ever-changing coalition government. And even if one of Israel’s agencies did bribe Mahoney, should the whole Zionist enterprise suffer?”
“I don’t hear Israeli voices protesting the smear campaign against me.”
“What did you expect? They have to discredit you by showing that you have a score to settle.”
“You condone their tactics?” The light went green, and Masada threw the clutch, spinning the wheels until they caught traction, and the car bolted with a roar of its engine.
He tugged on the seatbelt, which hurt his shoulder. “The Fair Aid Act would cause suspension of military aid and a full-scale Senate investigation. One committee might spawn seven subcommittees, and so on. To discredit your accusations, the Israelis must discredit you. I’m sad to see them lie-”
“Who said they’re lying?”
The rabbi was stunned. “Did you really go to prison?”
She hit the brakes, stopping with a screech at the side of the road. “You have a problem with that?”
The hurt in her eyes shocked him more than the revelation of her past imprisonment. “I’m sorry that you suffered.”
She touched his face. “You’re too good.”
Facing her so closely, he saw specks of gold in the dark green of her eyes. He leaned closer, craving to taste her moist lips.
Masada retreated a bit, and in that sliver of time he glimpsed Linda’s face between them and turned away, coughing to hide a groan.
Elizabeth McPherson sat at the prosecution table. The arguments had been intense, but her meticulous preparations had paid off again. Judge Tolstoy Rashinski pounded his gavel. “This court hereby accepts Miss McPherson’s position that the Immigration Service proved that this couple’s marriage was a scheme to obtain a green card for the husband.”
Defense counsel stood up. “Your Honor, the evidence points that way, but now they are in love. Really!” He motioned at the dyed-blonde, skeletal woman and her Mexican husband. “It would be a crime to separate them just because of a technicality.”
“The law,” Elizabeth stood, “is not a technicality, and this case is not a romance novel. Immigration fraud requires deportation.”
The young woman suddenly spoke up. “But I’m pregnant.”
“The child’s welfare,” defense counsel declared, “takes precedent!”
“I object!” Elizabeth could not believe her ears. This pitiful flat-chested woman was pregnant?
But the judge had no choice. He sent the two lawyers, the court reporter, and the young woman to the ladies’ room, where she proved her condition by urinating on a store-bought pregnancy test.
Back in the courtroom, the judge glanced at the proof without touching it and brokered a compromise, which Elizabeth had to accept. Instead of deportation, which would make the Mexican ineligible forever, he would leave the United States voluntarily and apply again.
Judge Rashinski ordered him handed to the Border Patrol to be escorted across the border. While Elizabeth was packing up her papers, she saw the Mexican kneel before his purported wife and bury his face in her tummy.
Professor Levy Silver crossed Encanto Park in a measured stroll, the beret pulled down to his brow. He stopped to let an open train with squealing kids rumble across the path. Passing the pedal-boat rental dock, he approached the service shed by the shore of the lake. The combination of extreme heat and standing water made it hard to breathe, but he knew there was no risk of running into any acquaintances from Temple Zion.
The service shed sat on a concrete pad that jutted into the brown water. Silver stood at the edge, hands behind his back. He wondered whether fish survived in the thick broth that licked his shoes.
“Professor!”
Silver waved at the approaching pedal boat.
Rajid helped him into the boat and pedaled away from shore. His tanned legs moved smoothly, his muscles bulging under the white shorts. As always, the handler from Ramallah wore enough cologne to ward off the stench of the lake.
“Let me help you.” Silver’s shoes rested on the rubber pedals and joined the turning motion. He adjusted his beret and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“A fantastic day,” Rajid declared, “isn’t it?”
The handler was always cheerful, but the years had taught Silver to be wary of his temper. They met regularly on the first Tuesday of each month, though it was unclear how he was able to travel so freely. “Did you have a good flight?”
“As the Prophet said, Allah’s angels would fly from one end of the earth to the other, singing their Master’s praise.”
“On the River Jordan,” Silver sighed, “angels sing. In Arizona, they dehydrate.”
Rajid laughed as he pedaled the boat to the middle of the lake, where he slowed down. His perennial smile contrasted with the mirror shades on his eyes. He handed Silver a backpack. “Some dried figs and the best hashish. And cash for wrapping up the operation.”
Wrapping up? Silver shook his head. “This was the first phase. My work must continue.”
“You have done well. Humiliating the Zionists is a victory for Palestine.”
“Allah hu Akbar,” Silver said humbly.
“But we worry that the Jews might figure a way to turn the situation to their advantage.”
“Fear not. We shall soon celebrate their final doom.” Professor Silver took his feet off the pedals and rested his legs. “In time, we shall bring a truly final solution to what the Germans had accomplished in Europe.”
Rajid turned to him, the black shades reflecting Silver’s face. “But if the truth comes out, the Zionists would emerge stronger. The Americans hate dirty tricks-except their own.”
“I’m in control of the situation.” Silver removed his glasses. “However, I have a problem with my eye. I must go to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem. They invented a new treatment-”
“Jerusalem?” Rajid laughed. “You’re in America. Go to the doctor here.”
“Here one needs papers, Social Security, health insurance, mailing address. I don’t have any of those. I exist on a cash basis.”
Rajid found this even funnier. “Cash and carry!”
Silver didn’t see the humor. “The experimental treatment at Hadassah can save my vision. And, like any Jew, I can become an Israeli citizen overnight, entitled to free medical care.”
“Too risky.” Rajid pedaled a few rounds. “What about the photo montage we made for you? Mahfizie’s daughter can arrange American papers.”
“To enable me to travel, yes. But she can’t cure my eye!” Silver paused. “I’ll stay in Jerusalem only a few days.”
“Out of the question.” Rajid shifted in the seat, and the boat rocked, sending little ripples toward a grassy island. “You must remain here to tie up the loose ends.”
Silver wiped the back of his neck. “Listen, young man. I have done the impossible for Palestine. Soon the Israelis will be pulled off the American tit!”
“All the more reason,” Rajid said, smoothing his jelled hair, “not to jeopardize our achievement.”
The professor could not believe this was happening. “I have sacrificed one eye for Palestine. Without this treatment, I will lose the other. I must go to Jerusalem!”
“After you have tied up-”
“What do you want me to tie? Shoelaces? This was an intricate operation, which I devised, orchestrated, and executed. I deserve some gratitude!”
Rajid’s smile was gone.
The boat rose and sank with a slight swell.
Silver sensed that this man in shorts and running shoes was capable of violence. He regretted leaving the hunting knife in the car. He glanced at the shore and wondered if anyone would notice if Rajid held his head under the filthy water until he drowned. Silver sighed. “Pardon my frustration. Blindness is a terrifying prospect.”
Rajid nodded.
“You know that I devised the plan after years of studying history. The Jews in Germany were very strong-doctors, lawyers, business leaders-just like American Jews, but once the Germans were told that the Jews caused the economic problems of the Fatherland, there was hate wall-to-wall. And the world did not lift a finger to help the Jews. You should read my book about the Evian Conference.”
“I read it.”
“So you understand, yes? In order to destroy the Jews, we must first ensure that the world would not come to help them in Palestine.”
“Yes.”
“My plan is working! First, the bribe, and then the senator’s suicide, which has further inflamed Americans’ anger at Israel.” Silver pretended that this rocking boat was his classroom and that Rajid was one of his students. “Palestine could only be built on the ruins of Israel, and Israel could only be destroyed if America deserted her. And American politicians follow public opinion polls like dogs after the scent of a female in heat.”
Rajid resumed pedaling, turning the boat back toward the service shed. “The woman writer is very clever. If she can trace the money to us, everything you planned for the Jews would happen to us. You must remain here to monitor her.”
“She’s no risk.” Silver chuckled. “Masada tells me everything. I’m like a father to her.”
“And the crazy Jew? He could tell someone that you sent him with the money.”
“Al Zonshine? No chance.” Silver laughed, but his laughter rang hollow even to his own ears. “He’s convinced we are agents of Judah’s Fist, clandestine Jewish warriors, saving Israel by bribing Mahoney. He thinks she followed him and got it on video.”
“The video clip you gave her? That memory stick could prove your involvement.”
“I took it back and destroyed it,” Silver lied, pretending to throw it in the water. “Gone.”
The boat rocked on a shallow swell. “Sorry,” Rajid said, “but we spent a fortune on this operation. These two Jews must be watched carefully. There is too much risk.”
“Risk?” Silver wiped his face with his hands. “I once ran through the desert with blood pouring out of my left eye and tears pouring out of my right eye for my dead son. If not for the Bedouins who saved me, I’d be dead too. But here in Arizona?” He gestured at the park. “There’s no risk.”
The pedals stopped. Rajid looked away. He flexed his fingers.
Fearing Rajid would hit him in the face, Silver raised his left hand between them, feigning a slap at a fly.
Rajid cracked his intertwined fingers. “You are a hero, Abu Faddah. Your courage is inspiring. Your ability to assume a Jewish identity is nothing short of genius.” He resumed pedaling, making enough noise to prevent anyone from picking up their conversation remotely. “But you must prevent exposure by the writer or the crazy Jew.”
“You want me to kill them?” He held his breath, hoping for a nod.
Rajid sped up, his legs pumping rapidly, raising the noise of rushing water.
“I’m not too old to kill Jews!”
The young man glanced at him, his head tilted. “Killing is not a matter of age.”
“Discreet elimination would not draw any attention.”
“Too suspicious, both of them dying. You must monitor them for a few months.”
“I don’t have a few months. And everybody would assume the Israelis killed Masada El-Tal.”
“The Israeli government will never send agents to kill a Jew. If you were a real Jew, you’d know it.” Rajid laughed at his own cleverness.
“How am I to monitor them? Sit in a tree across the street with my monocular?”
“Think of something. You are a professor.”
They were halfway back, and Silver knew he must convince his handler now. “Let me go to Jerusalem. A few days won’t make a difference. Masada has no clue.”
“Don’t underestimate her ability.”
Silver thought of Masada, her green gaze focused with intensity. “I cannot accept blindness!”
“We are Fada’een!” Rajid’s angry words rolled with a strong Arabic accent. “We fight for Palestine until victory or death. Or blindness!”
The boat nudged the concrete at the service shed, which hid them from the rest of the park. Silver’s legs shook as he tried to stand. “How can I fight on if I’m blind?”
Rajid helped him onto the shore and kissed him on both cheeks. “Allah will show you the way.” He jumped back in the boat. “Good luck, Professor.”
Silver watched Rajid pedal off into the lake. “Tell them,” he yelled, “that I wish to discuss Phase Two!”
He sat down on the concrete, his back against the wood planks of the shed, removed his beret, and wiped the sweat from his head.
Al Zonshine appeared around the corner of the shed and asked, “What’s Phase Two?”
Elizabeth McPherson was covered in cold sweat. She leaned forward on the cheap bathroom counter, feeling sick. Was it this morning’s court loss? How could she predict such pregnancy trickery? She should file a supplemental demand for a paternity test!
A cramp sliced through Elizabeth’s abdomen, and she massaged it, feeling the undeniable swelling. Could it be Amebiasis again? The parasites had taken residence in her intestines back in the filthy refugee camp, but Dr. Gould had cured her years ago!
She glanced at her watch. 11:00 a.m. She would leave for the doctor’s office after the staff meeting. A tumor wouldn’t grow much more in a few hours.
Washing her hands in the sink, Elizabeth saw her pale face in the mirror and regretted rushing out of her office without her purse. She didn’t want to run into David in the hallway looking like this. Tilting her head from side to side, she fluffed her hair until it built some body. The black dress she had worn for the morning court hearing made her face look even paler. It felt tight around her chest, and she scooped her breasts in her hands, adjusting their position. She turned, examining her figure in profile. She was too short to carry excess weight, though David didn’t seem to mind.
A secretary entered, and Elizabeth left, hurrying down the hallway to her corner office. Before she could sit down, the phone rang. The director’s secretary said he wanted to see her.
One floor up, Allan Simpson greeted Elizabeth warmly. A career federal administrator with astute political instincts, he had treated her with abundant respect and never interfered with the legal department.
The director led her to the sitting area in the corner of his office, and they settled into two armchairs separated by a coffee table. He stretched his long legs, making himself comfortable. “Some committee in Washington decided to add a deputy director for coordination between us, the Border Patrol and the Customs Service in the southwest region.”
“I understand.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for-a chance to move up from legal to management. “The Border Patrol has grown quite imperial with all the quasi-military paraphernalia. We must hold them on a short leash.”
He smiled. “I want to appoint someone who can prevent budgetary shifts at our expense, protect our turf, but appear neutral.”
“You need a good lawyer.” Elizabeth could hardly hold back a cheer. The stars had aligned perfectly. “I’ve dealt with the complexities of the Patriot Act and the regulations setting up the Homeland Security Department. For example-”
“That’s why I called you.”
“I’m flattered.” Elizabeth realized her promotion would open up her current job for David. “My department should be in good shape-”
“I looked through the lawyers’ list to see who’s ripe for promotion.”
Elizabeth perked up. Simpson was a step ahead. He must have realized her first concern would be to find a good replacement for the chief counsel position. “David Goodyear is excellent, has a good mind, solid work ethics, and people skills. He’s ready for more responsibility, no question about it.”
“That’s what I like about you, Elizabeth.” Director Simpson stood up, offering his hand. “You understand how this business works.”
She scrambled to her feet, a bit surprised by how easy it was. “Should I mention it to him?”
The director led her to the door. “Let me do the honors.”
Back in her own office, she called David, who came over and closed the door. He towered over her as they hugged and kissed. He sat across the desk and slipped off his shoes. His legs reached under the desk, his feet touching her. “How do you feel?”
“My stomach is bothering me.”
His foot climbed the inside of her leg and tickled her thigh. “You should drink something warm.”
“You’re terrible!”
He laughed, his brown hair falling onto his boyish face. He jerked his head to one side, throwing off the hair. “Come on, Ellie, I can’t wait till tomorrow night.”
“Soon we’ll be living together, and you won’t have to wait.” He had promised to leave his wife when his daughter turned six. “You will chair the staff meeting today. It’s time the others saw you as a leader.” She pushed a pile of papers across the desk. “Here’s the material.”
“You’re the leader.”
“I’m grooming a successor. We can’t work in the same section after we’re married.” She pointed to the pile. “The agenda is on top, background and weekly reports underneath. You have thirty minutes to prepare.”
He browsed the list. “Piece of cake.” He got out of the chair. “This dress is wooph!”
She crossed the room, intending to open the door, but he caught up with her in two long strides and grabbed her from behind, his hands cupping her breasts. “They’re big!”
“David!” She was terrified someone would walk in.
His mouth closed on her ear and his tongue sent a buzz of pleasure through her body. She reached forward and locked the door. He rubbed against her buttocks. His right hand gave her breast another squeeze, dropped down, pulled up her dress, and reached into her underpants. He clung to her from behind, his left arm wrapped around her chest, his tongue in her ear, his bulge poking her behind. His finger entered her.
Elizabeth surrendered to his dominance, letting him bring her closer and closer to climax. “Bend over,” he whispered urgently.
“No!”
He leaned on her, his chest forcing her to bow.
“Not here!” She clenched his hand between her legs as his finger moved up and down, the pressure increasing, until she exploded, burying a scream in his arm.
Rabbi Josh wanted to explain himself. It’s been only five years since Linda died. But Masada seemed relieved the intimate moment had passed. She drove off, catching a yellow light, and turned left onto Forty-fourth Street. The Corvette hit a pothole and rattled noisily. “I don’t need a knight on a white horse,” she said. “If I wanted emotional entanglement to interfere with my work, I’d be married already.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said quietly.
“I investigate. I write. I publish and make a difference. That’s my life.”
Rabbi Josh looked at the passing views of homes and trees. “My psychology professor at Penn wrote a book titled Saying No To Marriage: Untrue Rationale, Unacknowledged Phobias, and Untreated Trauma. Eighty-three percent of his subjects took less than six months of therapy to realize that their reasons for avoiding matrimony were rooted in unresolved childhood trauma, festering guilt, or fear of repeated loss.”
Masada downshifted and hit the gas, speeding up. “Thanks for the therapy session.”
Sirens went off behind them. A police cruiser flew by and cut in, blocking their way.
Two officers approached the Corvette. Masada lowered her window.
“Step out of the car,” one officer said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Professor Silver’s eye stung. He blinked repeatedly to moisten it, marching through the park, Rajid’s bag of cash and hashish slung over his shoulder. Al Zonshine trailed him, panting. “Keeping secrets! Not fair! I’m entitled to participate!”
“Shush!” Silver was gripped by fear, not from this pathetic Jew, who obviously thought Silver had rendezvoused with a Judah’s Fist representative, but from Rajid and his suppressed violence.
“Let me meet them! Know stuff you don’t!”
Silver walked faster. If Rajid saw this, he would conclude that Abu Faddah had lost control of the operation. My reward will be a Palestinian bullet in the back of the head. Allah’s sense of humor!
“Slow down!” Al ran a few steps to catch up. “Give me another heart attack!”
Silver waved his hand. He got into his Cadillac, locked the doors, and started it. Air blew through the vents, hot at first, cooling down. His hands shook, and he had a hard time getting the drops into his right eye. He sat back, eyes closed, taking deep breaths.
When he drove off, Al’s white van appeared in his rearview mirror.
A half-hour later, down in Silver’s basement, they rolled joints and lit, smoking in silence. Al was slumped in the big chair, belly rising and falling with his draws.
The professor pointed with his joint. “Next time you sneak behind my back, I’ll have you expelled from Judah’s Fist.”
Al turned red. “Wanted to know, that’s all!”
“And I want to know what madness possessed me to risk my standing with the organization for you!”
“Meaning what?”
Silver drew in, enjoying the excellent weed, prolonging Al’s bewilderment.
Al sat at the edge of the sofa, watching him.
“As your commander, I recommended you for the second-highest decoration, previously awarded to only three members in the secret history of Judah’s Fist, all of them posthumously.”
“Really?”
“My recommendation was accepted in a secret meeting of the National Council.”
The Jew was buying this nonsense with wide eyes.
Standing up, Silver declared, “On behalf of the National Council of Judah’s Fist, in recognition of your exceptional courage and readiness to make the ultimate sacrifice, I hereby anoint you Member of the Order of Ben-Yair.” Silver pinned a tiny brass fist to Al’s shirt. “Mazel tov!”
Al couldn’t take his eyes off the small pin. “Thought they’d be angry with us, no? Meaning, after the bitch exposed the whole thing, all that money, wasted on Mahoney?” Between his pudgy face and bald head, the Jew now had the shape and color of a ripe eggplant.
“The National Council concluded, based on my input, that your courage should not be discounted on account of Masada El-Tal’s treason. I told them that you are a true believer, that you stand ready to make any sacrifice for the Jewish people.”
Al stood erect, as much as his belly allowed. “Five years in Nam, hell on earth, and they gave me nothing. Decorated Mahoney instead. Valor! Ha! Told me to keep mum about him.”
Rolling new joints, Professor Silver said, “You expect the goyim to decorate a Jew?”
They smoked together as comrades. Silver pretended not to notice how Al caressed the tiny brass fist on his chest. It had cost Silver two dollars in a Phoenix flea market.
“Tell me,” Al said, “what’s Phase Two?”
“Phase Two,” Silver blew out smoke, “is defeating the enemies of Israel in Washington and reviving the Mutual Defense Act. Our comrades are going to fix what Masada sabotaged.”
Al grinned. “Left her a tasty treat couple of hours ago. She’ll run in circles tonight.”
“We’re beyond that.” Silver stood up to signal the importance of what he was about to announce. “Yesterday the National Council tried and convicted her in absentia.” He paused for effect. “We were ordered to carry out the sentence.”
Al jumped to his feet. “Kill her?”
“It must look like an accident, though other traitors will know-and tremble!”
Al clenched a fist. “Got the perfect accident for her!”
“What?”
“Tell you?” Al shook a finger. “Can you spare a pillowcase?”
Professor Silver paused. “A pillowcase?”
Masada sat stoically while the officer wrote her a ticket for speeding. When she turned on the engine, the cold AC made her realize she was wet with sweat. Before she could do it herself, Rabbi Josh took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her forehead.
“I worry about you,” he said.
“A worried optimist? It’s the ultimate oxymoron.” She had a hard time hiding the tremor in her voice, surrendering to his touch as he wiped her temples and her neck. “If you love Israel so much,” she said, “why don’t you move there?”
“I’d love to make aliyah.”
“Who’s stopping you?”
Rabbi Josh put away his handkerchief. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me?”
“Are you avoiding the question?”
He laughed, then turned serious. “I agonized over it, but decided that Israel is not the best place for a little boy whose mother I’ve already lost.”
“The statistical risk of dying in a terrorist attack is tiny.”
“It’s not about statistics. I would do anything for Israel, but Raul is five. I think of the daily risks, the new language, and mandatory military service, all those things. I can’t make such a decision for him. I’ll raise him here safely, and when he’s an adult, God will help him make the right choice.”
“You don’t trust God to watch over him in Israel?”
“The Master of the Universe would have to work much harder to keep Raul safe there.” He paused. “In your nightmares do you go back to jail?”
Masada felt her guts clamp up and lifted her foot off the accelerator, slowing down. A glimpse of the women’s penitentiary came to her, the view from her cell-a concrete wall, dry grass, and pink bars, someone’s idea of a feminine touch. “Eight months,” she said. “Felt like eight years.”
“Only eight months for manslaughter?”
“I got three years, but my conviction was cancelled. I signed an oath of silence, and came here on a student visa.”
Rabbi Josh shifted in his seat. “And now they’re using the conviction to discredit you.”
Masada turned into her street, letting the car cruise downhill.
“Please tell me more,” he said softly.
She drove into the garage, but did not turn off the car. In all the years since she had left Israel, not once had she spoken of what had happened on Mount Masada. “I grew up on Kibbutz Ben-Yair by the Dead Sea. As teenagers we used to hike to the top of the mountain, camp all night among the ruins of King Herod’s palace, sing songs by a bonfire until dawn.” Masada smiled. “It’s the most beautiful sight, when the sun clears the peaks of the Edom Mountains and reflects in the flat water of the Dead Sea, paints it as red as blood.”
Rabbi Josh nodded. “One day I hope to see it myself.”
She thought of Ness and his staged video conference over Srulie’s tombstone. “It’s a magical place. My parents were Holocaust survivors who became Zionists, devoted to communal life in an independent Jewish state. They worked in the salt factory six days a week, fourteen hours a day. When I was twelve and my brother seven, a dock collapsed. Several kibbutz members were trapped underneath. It was poorly built and they were overworked. There were no safety precautions, no life vests, no first aid gear. Dad pulled Mom out, and went under to save others. The saltwater killed him. Mom lived until the next morning. Her lungs were ruined.”
Masada recalled her mother’s face with blisters the size of grapes, lips cracked like burst tomatoes. “Before she died, I promised her I’d take care of my brother. It wasn’t hard. Kids on a kibbutz grew up in one big, happy family, sleeping in coed dorms. Srulie spent days by Mom’s grave, writing poems, but he got over it. In 1981, it was time for my mandatory service. I enlisted and was assigned to an elite unit.” She paused, shrugged, and looked away.
“And then?”
“And then Srulie died.” She swallowed hard, controlling herself. “He was killed by Palestinian terrorists.”
“Blessed be He, the true judge.” He took her hand.
“It was so unnecessary. Easily preventable.”
“By whom?”
She wanted to tell him everything-about the passionate nights with Colonel Ness at the army base, about the hostage situation on Mount Masada, about the senseless waiting game and her lover’s refusal to order the attack until it was too late. She wanted to tell this handsome American rabbi about finding the crushed body of her brother at the foot of Mount Masada, about climbing the sheer cliff on a steel cable, about throwing the Arab boy over the edge and stabbing the other one in the eye with Srulie’s bloody bone. She wanted to tell him everything, but she knew he would never understand, would never again look at her with the same loving naivete.
He cradled her hand in his large, soft palm.
When she knew her voice wouldn’t betray her, Masada said, “I went crazy, did something really stupid, and went to jail. And I’m still angry, because Srulie and my parents didn’t have to die.”
On the kitchen counter Masada found two packages. Drexel’s secretary must have brought them in, finding the front door unlocked. One contained the silver statue of the newsboy, the other a tray of chocolate brownies with M amp;Ms forming the letters T-I-R. She handed it to Rabbi Josh. “Raul likes chocolate, right?”
The rabbi took the tray. “Actually, it’s his birthday today.”
Dr. Gould dropped Elizabeth McPherson’s chart on his desk. “I got the MRI results.” He glanced at her abdomen, shaking his head. “If there ever was a curve ball.”
Elizabeth gulped, rubbing the bulge on her lower belly. She knew what he was going to say. Colon cancer. Spreading.
“Problem is I spend too much time looking in people’s colons. My wife complains I suffer from tunnel vision.” He formed a hole with a thumb and a finger. “Got it? Tunnel vision?”
“I had to prepare for a trial,” Elizabeth said. “That’s why I missed the last appointment.”
“Don’t blame yourself.” He flipped the pen between his fingers. “I should have put you on something, just in case. But after all these years, I assumed it can’t happen. Call it nature, I guess. God. Allah. Whatever.”
Elizabeth imagined red little tumors sprouting all over her insides. What should I do?”
“My colleague, Doctor Nelly, is top notch.” He paused. “If you don’t mind me asking, is there a stable companion? A partner?”
She understood. He was wondering who would take care of her. “I’m in a committed relationship. We’ve been dating for five years.” To dispel any doubts, she added, “With a man.”
“I guessed that much!” Dr. Gould chuckled. He must have attended a seminar on breaking bad news to patients. Be cheerful!
“We were planning to move in together soon.”
“Good. It’s important to have the support of a committed partner, especially with your medical history and age. Not that I foresee any complication.”
“I already knew it in my heart,” she said.
He shook his head, still smiling. “Women always do.”
Elizabeth was determined not to cry. “How advanced is it?”
“That’s for Doctor Nelly to tell you.”
“I’d prefer you to take it out, not some stranger.”
“Take it out?” He examined his fingernails. “Is that your choice?”
Nausea rose to her palate, chased by a sense of dread. Cancer! What bad timing, just when she was winning a coveted promotion and David was about to leave his wife for her. Could she handle a deputy director’s workload while going through surgery, chemotherapy, radiation? David would help. They would survive it together. “I’ve been through a lot. I’ll beat this thing.”
“You’ll be fine.” Dr. Gould stepped to the door. “Let it sink in, give it a few days.”
She supported herself on the desk, fighting her tears. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”
“That’s the spirit!” He handed her a note. “Talk to your fiance. Maybe he’ll convince you to keep it.”
She paused, looking at him. “Keep it?”
“Why not? The clock is ticking. Your body surprised us this time, but I doubt it’ll happen again.”
“Again?”
He clucked his tongue. “Old fashion is charming, Elizabeth, but I got to tell you, this isn’t Palestine. Nobody’s going to blink an eyelid. It’ll keep you young.”
She realized he wasn’t speaking of cancer.
He let go of the door and grabbed both her shoulders. “Elizabeth, I understand the hesitation, with your traditional upbringing and all, but these days a lot of career women do it later in life, after they’ve achieved everything else. Go for it! What do you care if some kindergarten teacher thinks you’re Grandma?”
Rabbi Josh Frank stood at the foot of his wife’s grave, finishing the Kaddish. “He who makes peace in heaven, He will bring peace upon us and upon all his people of Israel, and we say, amen.”
The others repeated, “Amen.”
The rabbi kissed the top of his son’s head. “Thank you all for joining us today. It warms my heart to know that Linda’s memory brings together the Temple Zion community, even after five years.” He pointed to the round wreath on top of the stone. “Thank you Marti and Esther Lefkowitz for the beautiful red roses-Linda’s favorite.”
The florist and his wife nodded in unison.
“I prepared something to say.” Hilda Zonshine unfolded a piece of paper and put on her reading glasses. “I remember when our rabbi brought Linda to Temple Zion the first time, I told Al that she was the best-looking redhead I have ever seen. And my husband agreed with me, which was rare even before he became MIA from home.”
On the other side of the grave, Al half turned, showing his back to his wife, and mumbled, “Damn right.”
A few people snickered. It was common knowledge that they had separated a few months ago after he became obsessed with Masada El-Tal.
“Linda was beautiful on the outside and the inside,” Hilda continued. “She became part of our congregation, always available to help with family celebrations or with sad events. I remember how gracious she was when I woke her up at four in the morning because a member of my household had nightmares and needed to talk to the rabbi.”
This caused chuckling around the gravestone.
“I miss Linda, but she’s with God and all the other righteous people who are too good for a world where people hurt each other.” Hilda glanced at Al. “But at least we have our rabbi and the baby.” Choked up, she placed an age-spotted hand, laden with cheap rings, on Raul’s head.
“Thank you,” Rabbi Josh said. “Now, as Raul is turning five today, he prepared a speech.”
Raul looked down at the gravestone. “Dear Mom.” He filled his lungs for the next sentence. “I don’t know you, but I love you, and my hair is red like yours. I mean, like yours when you were, you know, alive.” He looked up at his father. “I’m starting kindergarten next month, but I already know letters. Also numbers. My dog’s name is Shanty and she’s a golden retriever.” He inhaled deeply. “But I think Daddy misses you, because you are not here anymore. So, that’s it for now, okay?”
Everyone laughed and wiped tears.
Rabbi Josh picked up his guitar. It had been his custom to conclude the memorial by singing. He closed his eyes, allowing Linda’s face to appear in his mind.
“A woman of valor, who can find?
Greater than pearls, her worth,
her husband’s heart trusts her,
he never lacks in wealth;
She pours goodness upon him, none bad,
all the days of her life.”
Rabbi Josh could sing no more. He continued strumming while the group hummed the familiar tune.
Elizabeth drove back to the office in a daze. A baby! At first she had thought Dr. Gould was wrong. With multiple abortions many years ago, several surgeries on her abdomen, and rare, irregular periods, she had long accepted her infertility. David himself had seeded her weekly for five years without results. Why now?
The answer came to her just as the light turned green at Third Street and Osborn. This was no coincidence. Her subconscious mind sensed their true commitment, a safe future for a child! “Allah hu Akbar,” she whispered in awe of the great God she had not worshiped in decades.
Elizabeth parked at her assigned spot and stepped out of the car. A wrought-iron fence separated the parking area from a yard where hundreds of immigrants queued up to enter the building and file their applications. Their eyes followed her to the staff entrance. Was there a pregnant woman among them, standing in line between the rails, exposed to the August sun?
Upstairs, she hurried down the hallway. David would jump with joy. He loved kids. Now their little family would start with the gift of a new life.
David was not in his office, and his secretary was away from her desk. Elizabeth left him a note to come by ASAP. She tried to work on a case that was scheduled for arguments the following week, but couldn’t focus. It was a boy, she was certain, and he would be tall, like his father, not short like her, his mother! She almost laughed out loud. A single piece of news had turned her world upside down. She would be a good mother. And a good wife. David needed guidance. He was effective in the courtroom, with his boyish good looks and his all-American charm, but his inattention to details could hurt his career. And why shouldn’t she help him? He was her partner!
Impatient to share the news, Elizabeth went to check David’s office again.
His secretary, a new girl with a nervous look, was back.
“Is David back?”
“No, I’m sorry.” The girl blinked. “He’s gone for the day.”
Elizabeth walked into David’s office and sifted through his cluttered desk, hoping to find his calendar. “Call his mobile for me.”
A moment later, David was on the line. “Good afternoon, Elizabeth.” His formal tone indicated his wife was nearby.
“Hi, sweetheart. Is everything okay?”
“What is the issue?”
“The issue is,” she chuckled, “I wanted to hear your voice.”
He hesitated. “Yes?”
“And to tell you that Dr. Gould found nothing wrong with me.”
“That’s good.”
She lowered her voice. “I have great news!”
“David?” His wife’s screechy voice sounded very close, then his daughter’s laughter. He said, “We have tickets to the ballet.” His pretentious wife was a devotee of the Phoenix Ballet, forcing David to accompany her to every performance. “Got to go.”
“I love you,” Elizabeth said.
“Same here.”
Rabbi Josh had picked up a pentagonal birthday cake, its sidewalls marked: R-A-U-L-5. The top was shaped like a dog snout. Candles pointed sideways like whiskers, intriguing Shanty to no end. She put her front paws on Raul’s chair, sniffing the cake. Raul put his arms around her and rolled to the floor. Shanty fell with him, barked, twisted her neck to face Raul, and licked his face from chin to forehead. He yelled, “Phew!” and exploded with laughter as they rolled farther, bumping into the leg of the table.
“Hey!” Rabbi Josh lifted the tray with the cake in one hand and Masada’s brownies in the other. “Let’s sing, birthday boy.”
They lit the candles and sang Happy Birthday in English and in Hebrew. Raul blew out the candles.
Rabbi Josh kissed his son, taking in the fresh smell of the boy’s shampooed hair. His mind made the inevitable connection, and he looked up at Linda’s photo on the wall, her smiling face framed by carrot-red ringlets. He kissed his son again. “May the Lord bless you with many wonderful years.”
Raul took his time smudging his name on the frosting, relishing the taste of each letter. He offered Shanty a crumb, which she licked off.
After consuming a slice of cake, Raul pointed to Masada’s brownies. “I want a piece of that too!”
“Let’s take a break,” Rabbi Josh said. “We’ll go outside, throw some ball, okay?”
“Masada El-Tal?” The caller’s voice was familiar.
“Who wants to know?”
“Ross Linder, WRGX Radio in New York. We just had Dick Drexel of Jab Magazine on the air. He said you’ve never spent time in an Israeli jail for manslaughter. Can you confirm?”
Masada grasped the edge of the kitchen counter. Linder had millions of listeners. “As a nineteen-year-old kid in the Israeli army, I spent a few months in confinement, but my conviction was later cancelled. The Israelis are trying to discredit me, that’s all.”
“You might have heard,” he added quickly, before she could hang up, “that Temple Emanuel in Manhattan lost two Chagall windows last night to vandals. Do you feel responsible?”
“No.” She hung up and called Drexel. “Don’t talk about me without my permission! Never!”
“Masada, darling, you’re absolutely right. But you must realize the value of this free publicity. I mean, we’re getting thousands of e-mails, new subscriptions-”
“You’re a greedy bastard.”
“I take offense,” Drexel whined. “I’m greedy for good writing, for real journalism, for opportunities to inform the public with all the news that’s fit to print.”
“Give me a break.” Masada started doing stretching exercises for her back, bending all the way forward until her forehead lined up with her knees.
“Our readers deserve to know who exactly bribed Senator Mahoney, you agree?”
“Dick!” Masada bent sideways, feeling the muscles of her lower back.
“You need to get on with it. Internet blogs and chat rooms are abuzz with rumors that you’re involved with Judah’s Fist, that you staged the whole thing to hurt Israel, or that you’re a sleeper agent for Israel, working for Mossad.”
She placed her left foot on a chair and bent forward, trying to touch her good knee with her forehead. “Who would believe such nonsense?”
“Ross Linder’s listeners, for example.”
Masada stood straight, pulling back her shoulders. “What do you want?”
“Get your investigation going, find someone else to occupy the hot seat.”
She switched legs, careful not to straighten her bad knee. “I don’t have much to go on. My source came upon the information by chance. He’s a bystander, terrified of getting snarled in a scandal. He’s got no more information.”
“Rubbish! Sources always know more than they realize. And what about that spy video Mahoney mentioned?”
“Bye, Dick.”
“Don’t you want to get back at them for releasing the jail story? They’re dragging your name through the muck!”
“First greed, now incitement. What’s next? Seduction?”
“If I thought I had a chance.”
“Not if you talk to Linder again.” She looked through the wall of glass at the patio, her mattress on the concrete floor. Tonight, after shelving her books and cleaning the house, she would sleep in her own bedroom. “And thanks for the brownies.”
“What brownies?”
“Chocolate, with the T, I, and R. Nice touch.”
“Hold on.”
A moment later he came back. “I wish I could take credit for it, but we don’t know anything about brownies.”
“Oh, God!” She hung up and called the rabbi’s house.
The phone rang once, twice, three times.
A machine picked up, prompting her to leave a message.
“It’s Masada. Don’t eat those brownies!”
She tried Rabbi Josh’s mobile. No answer. She grabbed the keys to the Corvette and ran.
Professor Silver watched Elizabeth’s Toyota enter McDonald’s parking lot. She emerged from the car legs first, breasts second, then the rest. She was plump in a pleasing, feminine manner that reminded him of the women in Nablus and Amman. He felt kinship toward her. Like him, she had tucked away her Palestinian identity and put on an effective facade to achieve her goals.
But he could not afford to be soft with her. A flurry of e-mails during the previous night, including electronic copies of Dr. Pablo’s test results, had produced a lifeline: Hadassah Hospital accepted him into the experimental treatment, provided he was approved by the Ministry of the Interior as an Oleh Hadash-a new Israeli citizen entitled to free health care coverage. They were expecting him for pre-op tests no later than 3:00 p.m. on Friday, August 15-ten days away!
Elizabeth picked up her usual order, collected napkins and a straw, and turned to leave.
“Hi there!”
Her face lost some color, but she came over and sat across from him.
“Here, my papers.” He produced a brown envelope. “The application form, my birth certificate-”
“I’m not your immigration lawyer.” Elizabeth sipped from her drink and stood up. “Take your chances like everybody else.”
“My tourist visa is long expired.” He remained sitting, counting on her good manners not to leave an old man in midsentence. “I have no chance without your help, Elzirah.”
“My name is Elizabeth McPherson!”
“A new name doesn’t change the person.” His eye stung, reminding him how essential it was to obtain this woman’s assistance. He blinked to moisten the eye, trying to ignore the blotch in the middle of his vision.
She leaned over the table. “I’m not going to jeopardize my career for you or for my estranged father. Now leave me alone, or you’ll need a criminal lawyer too!”
“Please,” he forced himself to smile, “sit down for a minute.”
“I must wart you that under the law-”
“The law? What does the law say about a superior who sleeps with her married deputy every Wednesday night?”
Finally her arrogance collapsed, and redness descended on her face.
“Hire a lawyer?” He rattled the envelope. “Take your chances?”
She sat down. “Extortion is a crime.”
“Elzirah,” he said softly, “I offer you redemption, a chance to serve the Palestinian people.”
She took the envelope. “I can’t promise anything.”
Silver followed her outside. “I must travel abroad legally so I can return here without a problem and continue my work.”
Elizabeth unlocked her car. “These applications take months.”
He looked up at the full moon in the clear Arizona sky. The blotch created an eclipse. He closed his eyes, imagining he was already blind. “You have one week.”
She started the car. “There’s no way.”
“One week, or we both lose everything!”
At the rabbi’s house, Masada knocked on the door, expecting Shanty to greet her with barking. But there was only silence on the other side. She tried the handle. The door opened.
The tray of brownies was on the kitchen floor, empty, surrounded by crumbs, which she collected and wrapped in a paper towel. She tried his mobile again, and heard it ring in the other room, where he must have forgotten it. On the counter she found a veterinarian business card, called the number, and asked if Rabbi Josh Frank was there by any chance.
He got on the phone and told Masada that Shanty was sick.
When she arrived, Rabbi Josh was pacing the hallway while Raul played video games in the waiting room. Masada handed the crumbs to the nurse and explained her suspicion that it was laced with something.
They sat on a plastic bench. The walls were painted to look like blue water crested by foamy waves, seagulls diving toward a sailboat, beach toys scattered near a sand castle. Masada held his hand, but he pulled it away.
“Linda was on blood thinners for years,” he said, “but they stopped it a month before she was due to deliver. I should have known better.”
“What happened?”
“Normal delivery, no problems, but she kept bleeding. She nursed him once, and was gone.” He clicked a middle finger and a thumb. “Just like that. And I still don’t understand why God took her. I cannot reconcile myself to His decision!”
An hour later the vet appeared. “Your dog was poisoned.” He showed them a computer printout with a molecular diagram. “It’s a compound used to open sewage blockage. One piece of brownie would have given Shanty the worst diarrhea, but a whole tray was a shock to the system. We’ll keep her overnight, hydrate her as much as we can, and see how it goes.”
The vet left, and Rabbi Josh said, “Raul could have eaten those brownies.”
“It’s the Israelis,” she said.
“Then maybe you should drop it!”
Masada was quiet for a moment. “My readers deserve the truth.”
“Why? Would you tell a man standing at a cliff’s edge that his tests show a malignant tumor? Or that his wife has just filed for divorce? Would you yell Fire! in a crowded theater, even if fire is indeed raging nearby?”
“My job is to report the facts.”
“The facts about yet another corrupt senator? And what about the facts showing Israel’s vulnerability? The facts about millions of hostile Muslims seething to destroy Israel? The facts about Syria’s chemical weapons, enough to kill every living thing in Israel? The facts about Iran’s nuclear capability, a deadly menace to millions of Jews and Arabs?”
“My story was about a senator selling legislation.”
“Isn’t Israel’s need for a mutual defense arrangement with America irrelevant to this story?”
She shifted her weight to the left. “That’s not the point. Bribing a senator is wrong!”
“What so wrong with deterrence, so the Arabs think twice before attacking Israel?”
“His voters deserve to know he’s corrupt.”
“The public’s right to know about yet another political graft is more important than Israel’s survival?” He didn’t wait for a response. “You go and publish such a thing with complete disregard for what it would do to Israel and Jews, and to those who love you!” He pointed at the waiting area, where Raul was playing.
Almost in a whisper, she said, “I wish I could switch places with Shanty.”
“That’s a cliche you’d never put in writing!”
“I mean it.”
Rabbi Josh sighed and put his arms around her. “You must find these people. Finish what you started. There’s still time to prove Israel wasn’t behind this bribe.”
“But it was.”
“Then we’re not worse off. But if you discover it was someone else, then the Fair Aid Act would fail, and Israel would be spared a disaster.”
At her second-floor apartment on Twenty-fourth Street, Elizabeth McPherson put the last French fry on her tongue, savoring it. The Barber of Seville played softly in the background. She swung her legs onto the ottoman, leaning back, and enjoyed the cool sweetness of the strawberry shake. She tilted the cup and moved the straw with her lips, sucking the last drops. She had much to savor-her estranged father reaching out, a long-overdue promotion to the top floor, and a baby. Their baby. David would move in with her at first, and when his divorce was final, they would buy a house with a backyard. He would teach their son to throw ball on the grass under the kitchen window while she made dinner. All those years of hard work had rewarded her with professional success and financial security. Now happiness arrived, the American dream, sweeter than honey.
The phone rang. Was it David, stealing a moment from his wife? She picked up.
“Professor Levy Silver here.”
“How did you get this number?”
He chuckled. “I know what needs to be known. Have you looked at my documents?”
“No.”
“We don’t have much time.”
“We?”
“And get some rest,” he said, “so you have energy for Mr. Goodyear tomorrow night.”
She slammed the phone and ran to the sink, where she lost her dinner.
After washing her face, Elizabeth took the brown envelope and sat down. Integrity. Attention to detail. Strict application of the law. These three rules and long hours in the office had brought success. But Father’s friend knew her secret. Not that she regretted falling in love with David. How could she regret the best thing that had ever happened to her?
She turned the envelope upside down, and its content fell into her lap.
On top was an Italian passport, issued originally in November 1983 to Flavian Silver, with entry and exit stamps from Italy, England, and Canada, and a single entry to the United States two years ago. In the photo he looked younger behind the same thick, black-rimmed glasses, his goatee a bit darker. His driver’s license was from Canada. Several university diplomas, a PhD in European history from the University of Ottawa, a Best Teacher Award from the graduating class at the University of Toronto, and several citations of his articles in academic journals. There was a photocopy of a New York Times review of his book on the Evian Conference under the headline How the Nazis Tested World Tolerance as a Prelude to Mass-Extermination.
Elizabeth set the documents aside. He had stayed in the United States illegally. His application would have no chance, even with a job offer backing it up. The conclusion was a load off her chest-she couldn’t help him even if she wanted. He would have to accept that. She closed her eyes, enjoying the music.
Masada lowered the soft top and started the Corvette. With the sun gone behind the red horizon, the day’s scorching heat had lost its edge. But she was hot with rage. Colonel Ness had sent his agents with laced brownies to scare her into cooperating. He would get the opposite!
Engaging first gear, Masada gave the throbbing motor a rich squirt of gasoline and let go of the clutch. Cutting through the parking lot, she turned onto Seventh Street, merging into traffic. Northern Boulevard took her to the Squaw Peak Parkway, where she pressed the pedal to the floor, launching the Corvette at full power all the way to three-digit speed.
She let go, slowing down, tilting her head sideways, the warm wind ruffling her hair. The desert hills passed by, the brown rocks and dry air reminiscent of the Judean Desert of her youth.
There were no news vans or police cars in front of her house. Waiting for the garage door to rise, she closed her eyes, willing Shanty to recover. Ness had gone too far!
The boxes of books waited for her inside. Masada kicked off her shoes and began lining books on the shelves. She worked fast through four boxes.
Taking a break, she went to the kitchen and pressed a glass to the ice dispenser, which disgorged in a loud cacophony, filling the glass to the rim. In the quiet that followed, she heard noise outside. It resembled rapid castanets, and stopped after a moment.
Five boxes to go.
The water refreshed her, and she put the half-empty glass on the edge of a shelf already lined with books. Reaching into another box, she pulled one book after another, passing them from hand to hand and onto the shelf. With the last box, Masada arranged the books on the top shelf until the last book was back in place.
Panting, she broke up the boxes and piled the flattened cardboard together. As she picked up the boxes and turned, the edge swept across the shelf and toppled the glass to the floor.
In the silence following the shattered glass, she heard the knocking sound resume outside. Was something wrong with the AC system? Masada put down the flattened cardboard boxes and sidestepped the broken glass.
She opened the sliding doors to the patio. The knocking quickened until it sounded like an old typewriter at top speed, simultaneously muffled and loud, far and nearby, impossible to locate. The next house was too far to be the source, especially as the owners lived in Nebraska most of the year, using the house only during the winter months.
The noise stopped as suddenly as it had started. She waited at the patio doors, torn between curiosity and apprehension. Several minutes passed. The mattress on the floor was inviting, the white comforter tucked in all around, the puffed-up pillows waiting to cradle her head. She could crawl in and snuggle for another night outdoors.
The phone rang, and she went to the kitchen to pick it up.
It was Rabbi Josh. “I’m calling to apologize for yelling at you.”
“You didn’t yell.” She hopped onto the counter, her legs dangling.
“For me, that was yelling.” Someone spoke to him in the background. “I have to go,” he said. “Have a restful night, okay?”
His brief call changed her mood. With renewed energy, Masada took the flattened boxes to the garage and fetched a broom and a dustpan to clean up the glass.
When she emptied the glass shards from the dustpan into the kitchen trashcan, the rapid knocking renewed outside with intensity. She realized it had responded to the noises she was making. It must be a woodpecker!
A half-hour with the vacuum cleaner left the house clear of dust and small debris. She opened the patio doors all the way and bent to grab the head of the mattress. The brace limited her ability to bend her right leg. Thank you for shooting me, Dov Ness.
Masada crouched, placing most of her weight on the left leg, jutting out the right leg sideways, holding on to the seam along the bottom of the mattress under the pillows. She straightened halfway, lifting the front of the mattress, her hands stretched, until her right leg could share the load. She kept her back straight and moved backwards in baby steps, pulling the mattress through the double doors into the great room.
Tension began to build up in her thigh muscles. She kept a slow, steady pace, dragging the mattress in a wide sweep through the center of the living room. Off the carpet, the mattress slid smoothly on the wood floor around the kitchen counter, down the hallway, and through the wide door of the master bedroom. Again on a carpet, pulling the mattress was harder, and her arms ached. She maneuvered it to align between side wall and the night table that carried a reading lamp and Silver’s book, which she hoped to finish tonight. Pulling backward, her posture uneven with the stiff right leg, her fingers clenched the seam at the bottom of the mattress. She glanced back to make sure the corners of the mattress fit and took another step back before her butt collided with the wall and her sneakers slipped on the carpet. She landed on her butt, her fingers pried from the mattress, which dropped on her legs, pinning her down.
“Silly you.” She said.
Tuck tuck tuck! Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
The knocking sound!
Not a woodpecker! In the room! Buzzing through the mattress into her trapped legs like a rampant electric current.
Her throat constricted, blocking the airways. She was paralyzed.
It paused and resumed in a rapid Tucktucktucktucktucktuck!Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
The comforter contorted wildly, and one of the pillows flipped over to the floor, causing Masada to jerk and bump the back of her head against the wall. Her legs, under the mattress, felt as if someone was rapping the mattress with immeasurable speed.
She struggled to release her legs, to push away the heavy mattress, her body barely following the orders sent from her brain, her limbs heavier than lead.
Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! The comforter peaked in several places, poked from beneath repeatedly with thrashing, crazed rage.
Masada heard herself shout, “Get out!”
In a flash, a triangular head appeared from under the comforter, which flipped backward. Bulging eyes locked onto hers. A snake!
It slithered from under the comforter, its body transforming into a live spring, its tail emerging, the end pricked up with rings that turned into a blur of speedy rattling. Trrrrrrrrrrrr!
Its mouth opened impossibly wide. A pair of fangs emerged from their moist sheaths, rotated forward, and pointed at her.
Before going to sleep, Rabbi Josh phoned the vet to check on Shanty. The night nurse told him that the dog’s breathing was regular and the digestive system had cleared out. However, Shanty was lethargic and unable to even wag her tail.
After hanging up, the rabbi recited quietly, “Deliver me, O Jehovah, from evil men, who devise mischief in their hearts; they have sharpened their tongues like serpents, adders’ poison under their lips; Selah.” It felt odd to recite Psalms for a dog, but Shanty’s recovery was worth praying for.
Turning off the lights around the house, Rabbi Josh lingered in Raul’s bedroom. He sat on the bed, stroked his hair, and kissed him. The boy was fast asleep, hugging a stuffed puppy. “Sweet dreams, Son,” Rabbi Josh whispered. “Shanty will be all right.”
He looked closer and saw Raul’s eyelashes flutter. He wondered what dreams the boy was having.
The triangular head shifted from side to side, measuring Masada from each angle. The forked tongue lashed in and out, tasting the air between them. Its body was thicker than her arm.
The snake twisted back, the rest of its body slithering, constantly reforming.
Masada tried to shift her position.
The snake stuck up its tail and rattled its multiple rings. Trrr! Trrrrrrrrr!
The sound deprived her of the capacity to think.
Its head rose high, supported by a curve of its muscular body, parallel to the ground, pointing at her like an arrow on a tight bow. Its neck arched back behind the head with enough twisted length to strike at her face. Parting its jaws, the snake hissed at her, its tongue moving, fangs unsheathed.
Masada forced air into her lungs slowly and watched the rattlesnake without moving a limb. Its head kept shifting from side to side until it froze, as if reaching a decision. It opened its mouth even wider and tilted its head backward, the fangs aimed at her face. She was about to reach forward and grab it before it struck-what did she have to lose? — but the rattler closed its mouth, its tongue resuming a series of quick pokes at the air between them. It was giving her a chance to use her only weapon. But how could she draw it from the brace?
Forcing herself to avert her eyes from the snake’s menacing gaze, Masada slid her right hand under the mattress and slowly reached for the brace. But her leg was straight under the weight of the mattress, the knee beyond reach.
The snake must have sensed the movement, because it glided closer to her, its head swaying in precise angles. She strained the muscles in her right leg, trying to bend it, causing the mattress to shake.
Trrrrr! Trrrrrrrr!
The snake jerked its head, fangs like white hooks with dagger ends. Its palate was pink and wet with rows of tiny teeth. It lunged forward so fast she could barely see the movement, the gaping mouth flying at her face. She choked with fear and shut her eyes, ready for the bite.
She felt a light puff of air on her neck, as delicate as a feather. Her eyes opened, and she found the snake back in position, adjusting its aim. She waited for pain to spread, but none came. Had the snake made a fake attack? A practice strike to measure the distance for the next, venomous strike?
Masada focused on reaching the brace. By leaning to the side, she could bend her leg closer. Certain that her movement was subtle enough, she was shocked when the snake shifted simultaneously, maintaining its aim. It began a series of rocking motions, back and forth, its tongue emerging and retreating in quick lashes, as if it were sampling scent and sight and smell, collecting all the information it needed for a perfect strike.
Time was running out. Masada knew the rattler would strike soon-it had enough of torturing her. She tried to plan her defense. On her left, the mattress was flush against the wall. On the right, there were the reading lamp and Silver’s book on the night table. She could topple it if she managed to get from under the mattress and leap sideways, all that without getting bitten. But the intensity of the snake’s focus on her made it clear that its lightning-fast strike would reach her as soon as she tried.
As if reading her mind, the snake hissed and slithered, inching closer.
Tucktuck! Trrrrrrrrrrrrr!
Another pull, and she managed to bend her right leg enough to reach the brace.
The snake sensed her fleeting movement and grew more agitated, its head moving sharply, the diamond pattern on the tight, scaly skin changing with each contour of the slimy, tubular body.
Masada’s fingers reached below the brass knee cap to the shin part of the brace. She slipped a finger under the leather flap and fished out Srulie’s bone from its hidden sheath over her shin.
Her enemy sensed danger and raised its rattle, paralyzing her with a different sound, a deeper grinding. Krrrrrrrr! Krrrrrrr! Krrrrrrrrrrrr!
The snake’s head swiveled on its curved neck as if taking a radar reading of the room, then returned to glare at her, its head high, parallel to the floor, shifting sideways, its tongue taking air samples.
Masada forced herself to look away from the snake’s mesmerizing eyes. It was relocating itself to her left, selecting the optimal striking spot. She had once read that snakes rely on heat sensors to trace their targets. And here, within an arm’s reach, a live rattlesnake zeroed in on the heat emanating from the large neck artery that supplied blood to her brain-the best spot to inject its deadly venom. She had no illusion about what would follow such a strike. The venom would shoot up with the blood directly into her brain and begin dismantling the chemical blocks that formed her mind.
The snake repositioned itself in a fluid rhythm, its head high on a loop that would provide the force and length for an effective strike.
Her right hand clasped the bone just under the small ball that had once been part of her brother’s elbow. She would have one chance, resulting in a death-either a quick death for the snake or a slow, horrible death for her.
Masada’s right hand emerged from under the mattress, holding the dry bone as a dagger, rising slowly.
Khhh! Khhhh! Trrrrrrr!
The snake suddenly pulled its head back, its neck curved in a wide arc, its mouth open, fangs drawn. It was reading her mind!
Trrrr! Trrrrrrrrrrrrr!
With no time to think, Masada realized it would now strike her neck, too close to miss. She was pinned down like a trapped rabbit.
Now!
She passed the bone to her left hand, raised it above her head, the dagger pointed downward, and with her right hand reached sideways and snatched Silver’s book from the night table.
The snake hissed. Its arrow-shaped head made a snap adjustment of position. Its fangs unsheathed and aimed.
Her hand drew back with Silver’s book, and the rattler struck, its gaping mouth moving so fast it became a blur. It punched the book like a fist, pounding the cover into her face. Its fangs burrowed deep, piercing the book, determined to inject venom through an inch of printed pages into her pulsating artery.
Numb with fear, Masada let go of the book. It flew from her hand, the triangle head of the diamondback attached to it by the hooked fangs. The snake thrashed furiously to release itself for a second strike. She willed her left hand to strike down with the pointy bone, but the snake’s eyes swiveled upward and met her gaze.
It stopped moving. Its greenish eyes glowed, drawing her. It shook its head from side to side, never letting go of her eyes, until its fangs unhooked from Professor Silver’s book.
The rattler’s mouth opened in a wide grin as its body slithered, re-forming itself into a spring for another strike.
Masada shut her eyes, breaking the spell, and her arm stabbed downward with all the force it had.
She opened her eyes. Her brother’s bone had pierced the scaly skin just behind the rattlesnake’s head, nailing it down through the comforter into the mattress. The snake looked at her, its mouth open, its fangs drawn forward. Its body coiled and recoiled in crazed twitching. Its tongue darted rapidly. Its eyes bore into her, still trying to possess her mind.
Masada struggled to free her legs from under the mattress. She stepped over the twitching snake and across the room. Leaning against the doorframe, she watched the rattler, pinned down by the bone dagger, until it ceased to move.
A corner of the comforter had flipped backward during their battle, exposing a crumpled pillowcase. On it, spray-painted in mustard-yellow, was a crude fist that clenched a letter J.