The Others by Sarah Blau (best ereader for academics TXT) 📗

that dimple flashing so beautifully between his light bristles, and I can’t help myself, I reach out and gingerly touch the inflamed tattoo. His skin is warm, and I imagine the words scorching him from the inside.

“Why that sentence?” I ask after a lengthy pause.

“‘The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth are set on edge.’ It’s just a little reminder,” he replies. “To remind me that there are consequences in this world, and that there’s always a choice, even when it feels that there isn’t. Which seems to be something you need to remind yourself of.”

But right now I don’t remember a thing, certainly not when he leans in and gently places his lips on mine.

It’s not exactly a kiss, more like an exploratory gesture while we hold hands like a couple of high school students. There was no holding hands in your ulpana, Little Missy! Perfectly still with only our lips fluttering like wet butterflies, I wonder what now, and command my body not to move, because it has to be them, always them! And there he goes, pulling me into him, and I feel his body pressing against mine, feel that physical compatibility – you can never know whether it’s going to be there before your bodies meet – our tongues wrestling, entwining, and I reach out for the back of his neck, which is something I wanted to do from the very first moment, only to feel him lowering my hand, pulling away from me and saying, “This is a bad idea.”

Bad idea! Bad, bad girl! I want to tell him that he sounds like an actor in a poorly scripted crime drama, but I’m struck mute by shock, debilitated by insult.

What put him off? What did I do wrong? What? Did he not like the hand behind his neck? Was I too gentle? Maybe he was expecting me as the more experienced adult to be more assertive? But I went along with him, with his moves, in perfect, subsensory coordination, felt that it was what he wanted, that tenderness, Well then, that’s exactly the problem! Instead of thinking about what he wants, start thinking about what you want!

The insult courses through me like lava, but I can’t stop wondering what deterred him. What was it? I quickly go over every part of my body but can’t think of an obvious culprit, so I continue ruling out possibilities. I showered after fainting in the museum, changed all my clothes – other than my bra, but it’s not like he could smell that through my shirt, and even if he could, it wouldn’t be enough of a reason for him to just push me off him like that, so abruptly, and with that trite sentiment of “a bad idea.”

Suddenly Eli’s face pops into my head, and I remember him telling me that Ronit also pushed him away just before things got hot and heavy between them, and I wonder if this coincidence means anything. I keep wondering and pondering and mulling it over, anything to distract me from feeling the full sting of rejection.

We sit side by side in ballooning silence, but I slowly come to realize that it’s not exactly unpleasant, it’s more of a to-be-continued kind of atmosphere, and just as I wonder whether he’s feeling it too, he says, “Tell me more about this Gali person.”

I remain silent.

“Doesn’t feel right, Naama’s daughter suddenly appearing out of nowhere.”

Still, I say nothing.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he says.

“They say a coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” I just can’t help myself.

“After what I’ve seen, trust me, there is no God.”

Something in his voice suggests he wants a conversation on the subject. “Let it go, Micha, she’s not your killer.”

Are you sure?

“Are you sure?”

“It has to be someone who knew us from college, and Gali wasn’t even an idea in her mother’s head back then.”

“Don’t let her age fool you,” he says.

“Enough.” I get up from the couch. He tries pulling me back down, but I stay standing. You won’t bring me to my knees.

“I understand it’s difficult for you to accept this, but I saw the bodies, Sheila! It was ritualistic, ceremonial, something about the theatrical brutality was almost…” He hesitates for a moment, “almost kitsch. And the symbols, props from your costumes in both murder scenes…”

“What props? What symbols?” I blurt out. “I know they stuck the doll in Ronit’s mouth, but what did they do with Dina?”

“They left something behind, next to her chair,” he replies. “A tambourine.”

I collapse on the couch, dumbstruck and drained. Thrump! Thrump! Thrump! There’s something about that final and irrefutable proof that saps me to my core.

The thought about that small, vicious tambourine placed there as a clue – for whom? for me? – sucks the air out of the room. Micha takes me into his arms, and the tenderness of the gesture finally brings out the tears that were caught in my throat all day. He hugs me and pulls me tighter into his chest, and I can’t help but think – so this is how he wants me? Like this? Weak and submissive? Thrump! Thrump! Where’s Miriam? They’re supposed to want you strong and mature like Miriam, they want you half-mother half-teacher, half-femme fatale, half-aunt, and you like that and you give them just what they need, what you think they need. But now you can’t and don’t want to give him that, not when he’s holding you and kissing every inch of your neck, firmly, forcefully, and this time he’s not stopping and he won’t, and I don’t need you all to tell me it’s a mistake because I already know; I feel it with every fibre of my being, my teeth are set on edge. The sins of the fathers visited upon little old me.

16

WHEN I WAKE UP in the morning, he’s no longer there.

He did mention yesterday something about an early morning appointment, but at the time