A Remarkable Kindness (20 page)

“Can't you say something? Say
something
.”

“You knew it all when you married me.” Smoke drifted from Boaz's mouth.

“But did you . . .” She paused. “Did you really love me?”

“Yes.” He took another drag on his cigarette. “I loved you.”

“And now?”

“And now it doesn't matter.”

“It has to matter! I chose you because you were a soldier. I thought you'd fight for me.”

“You chose the wrong man.”

She pressed her hands against his massive chest but he did not move. “Why can't you fight for me?”

“There's nothing left to fight for.”

“Please don't say that, Boaz! Please? I want to love you, but you're not giving me a chance! I want us to be together. To be happy together.” And after she said those words, she knew it was what she did want. Maybe Ali had been the catalyst for a change
in her relationship with Boaz. Of course, she had felt an intense connection with Ali, but whatever their relationship was, or might be, it was doomed before it even began. She'd guard the memory of being with him as if they'd gone to their own private tropical island. She was back on the mainland now. Back where she belonged. She shivered at the thought of losing Boaz, of losing everything she had right there. She listened for Boaz's response. She gazed at him. Waited.

Boaz dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out under his boot. “It is what it is.” Then he fell quiet.

The billowing fog suddenly stopped. It held still. It hung all around them. Boaz's silence stifled her. Stretched all around her—going on and on until the outer edges of the cosmos. How would she be able to continue to eke out this lonesome existence with Boaz until the very end?

Tears slipped down Emily's cheeks. She stood there torn, guilty, and anguished, hating herself for deceiving Boaz, at a loss as to how to get him to give her what she needed. What he might be unable to give. She didn't know what else to do with herself except stand there for the longest time, waiting, waiting, waiting, and when she couldn't bear to wait anymore, she reluctantly turned and entered the cowshed.

Almost every day, she came here to visit the cows with Shoval and Tal. They'd watch the cows and make up funny names for them. They'd stick long pieces of straw through the metal rails to feed them. Sometimes, a cow would poke out its head, grab on to the edge of Emily's shirt, and suck on the fabric, making the boys laugh.

“Wake up, cows,” Emily shouted. “Wake up!”

A metal tag on a cow's ear jingled. The cowshed contained the smells of manure, hay, mud. In the darkness, Emily could not see the cows: not their faces, not their black eyes, not the numbers tattooed on their rumps. She walked through the shed until she reached the end. She turned around. Boaz was not coming toward her and not going away. His figure as substantial as the hills on the other side of the valley. His figure as transparent as a ghost, fading into the fog.

R
achel sat with Esther in her living room on a cloudy afternoon. It was so quiet that Rachel could hear Esther's wristwatch ticking on her thin wrist. On the coffee table were a bowl of pretzels and three glasses of lemonade, two half-empty, one untouched.

“I'm surprised Jacob didn't pop in today.” Rachel munched on some pretzels. She wasn't particularly hungry, but she knew her eating them pleased Esther. “He usually stops by for at least a few minutes when I'm here.”

Esther shrugged, her gaze shrinking. “When we first met after the war, he seemed better. But now he stays alone.”

“How did you meet?” It was a question Rachel had meant to ask for a long time.

“Well . . .” Esther hesitated. She pulled down the sleeves of her maroon blouse and rolled them up again. “My father and
Jacob's father met in a labor camp soon after the Nazis invaded Hungary. You know how it is, no matter where you are, even in a place like that, you speak about where you're from, your family, and of course, your children. Jacob's father told my father, ‘If we ever get out of here, I want my son to meet your daughter.' My father forgot their talk, though, with everything else going on, and Jacob's father didn't survive the war. After it was all over, Jacob went back to his village, but everybody in his family had been killed. The Nazis used part of his house as a stable, and neighbors moved into the other part. Jacob left the village right away and came to Budapest, where he joined a group of my friends. We'd all had enough of Hungary and we were trying to get to Palestine. That's how Jacob and I met.”

“That's nice.” Rachel's eyes brightened.

“But there's more to the story.” Esther looked at Rachel questioningly, unsure whether to go on. “I took him home to meet my father. My father asked Jacob where he was from and what his last name was, and what his father's name was. When Jacob told him, my father looked at him in utter amazement. He said, ‘Before your father was killed, he told me that after the war was over, he wanted you to meet my daughter. I thought he was just speaking nonsense. But here you are with my daughter, just as he had wished.”

Rachel felt goose bumps rise up and down her arms. “Maybe there is a force for good in the world,” she whispered. “Maybe even in the midst of evil.”

“Jacob doesn't agree.”

“Do you think I can go visit him in the dog kennel?”

“He won't let you in.”

“I can still try.” She stood and kissed Esther, aware of the powdery smell of her cheeks and the rose scent of her shampoo.

“Thank you for coming to help me.” Esther glanced at Rachel as though surprised that compassion still remained on earth. “It's very nice of you.”

“I love helping you.” Rachel opened the door. “It's my treat. I'll see you next week.” She closed the door and started to walk. The clouds hung low, big gray lagoons full of promise. Maybe it would rain later, Rachel thought. In Israel she had come to love the rain.

“You don't have to bark so much, Smoky!” That was Jacob's voice from the kennel. “There, there now, Sputnik.”

“Jacob?” Rachel called softly when she reached the kennel gate. It was not as odd a name as Moshe, but it was just as Biblical. Through the gate Rachel could see Jacob at the far end of the cowshed, just standing there, listening, his elbows jutting out like branches of a tree.

“It's me, Rachel.”

He jerked his torso around and came to the gate, fixing his gaze on her, the metal bars striking shadows over his face. His eyes cut through her. “Didn't I tell you that I don't like people coming here?”

“I'm sorry.” Rachel searched his eyes between the bars. “Just one time, please? I really want to see the dogs.” Her words hung in the air, the dogs yelping behind him.

“Why?”

Rachel hesitated. “I've never met anyone like you or Esther before.” The truth was all she could give him.

He stood still. Only his brown eyes flashed. Moments passed.
Rachel kept her eyes steady, unblinking. The severity in Jacob's face began to melt.

“You might as well come in now. First and last time.”

Unlocking the gate, he dragged it open, the bottom scraping over the dirt in an arc, the way Rachel used to make angel wings in the snow. A few steps inside, she took it all in: the plants and small trees, the ivy climbing up the fence, the barks of dogs, and the chirps of birds. It had an unexpected, peaceful loveliness.

“Here's Pete, Sputnik, Happy, Scrappy, and Coco.” Jacob ticked off the name of each dog as they walked past its stall. He stopped at a stall where a German shepherd was yelping, its ears pointed, its black snout wet and quivering. “That's Max.”

“Don't be so blue, big fella,” Rachel said.

“You can look at a dog and understand its owner. That dog's owner is a psychiatrist.”

“I guess Max still needs a lot of therapy,” Rachel joked, and when Jacob let out a short chuckle, she realized it was the first time she had heard him laugh.

“When we had our chicken coops, we used to keep baby chicks in here.” Jacob stood by a large wire cupboard. “Now I use it to store my things.” There were medicines, flea collars, rubber toys, woolen blankets. On a shelf was a pot as big as the one Rachel had cleaned in the hotel kitchen.

“You cook out here?”

“I make the dogs rice. They mostly get dried dog food, but I add some rice and yogurt on top. You know, a little schmaltz.”

“But you said you don't like schmaltz
.
”

“The dogs are away from home. I want them to be content.” He
glanced at Rachel as if he had inadvertently unlatched a door that he didn't want opened. Then he moved quickly down the next row of stalls until he slowed in front of a basset hound with somber eyes, its ears sweeping the ground.

“That's Freddie.”

“Hi, Freddie!” Rachel then noticed a cot carefully made up with a woolen blanket and a thin pillow in a white pillowcase, like the kind they'd wheel into a hotel room for an extra child. “This is where you . . .” She stopped. “Do you talk to the dogs at night?”

“If they bark.”

“What do you tell them?”

“I say, ‘Shhh, be quiet, good night.'” And then Jacob did an about-face and headed back to the gate, holding it open for her.

“Thank you.” Rachel looked at Jacob's distraught and weather-beaten face, trying to think of something else to say but coming up short.

Jacob stepped out after her. “Now that you're here, I'll take you for a walk through our avocado groves.”

“We can go another time, if you want.”

“No. We'll do it now.”

They walked away from the kennel, following a lane into the groves. Walking between the trees, Jacob jutted out his chin and chest. The barking of the dogs faded. They reached a fence where the groves ended.

“You see this?” Jacob patted the bark of a slender tree. “It's a carob tree.”

“It's nice.” Rachel thought the tree plain, gnarled. Its leaves were pale and dusty, and a lone pod swayed from a low branch.
Rachel had a disconcerting memory of the song “Strange Fruit,” about black men who were lynched and hung from trees, swinging in the Southern breeze.

Jacob thrust out his chin. “I planted this carob tree.
Zeh hu zeh
. That's it.” Then he pivoted, walked away.

Rachel stared at the tree for a moment and then turned, walking briskly to catch up. “Thank you for walking with me—”

“You'll always know where to find me.” He did not look at her. “In the shade of that tree at the end of the road.”

R
ACHEL TOOK THE
next two days off work. She didn't want to go to the
gan
and pretend to be happy with the kids when all she could think about was Jacob and his desolate sadness. She lay in bed doodling in her notebook. Rolled onto her back and looked up at the blank sky. The clouds had moved on. It hadn't rained after all.

On Friday afternoon, there was a knock on her bedroom door. She didn't feel like talking and turned to the wall, shutting her eyes.

“Rachel? Can I come in?”

“Yes.” Rachel didn't turn around. She kept her eyes closed, her other senses sharpening. She could see Yoni take three long strides into the room, stop by her bed, open his mouth. Hesitate. He looked down at her, worry clouding his green eyes. “My mom told me you haven't been to work.”

“I was feeling down.”

“About . . . ?”

“Jacob.” She paused. “And I guess . . . well, about not getting to see you.”

“I tried to call.”

“I kept my phone off.” And then she rolled over to look at him. “Hey, you.” She patted the side of the bed.

“Hey, Rachel.” Yoni sat down.

“Thank God, you're dressed as a civilian.”

“A Yankees shirt is still a uniform.”

“Your nose is all burned.”

“I've been working on my tan.” He smiled. “Even sick, you look pretty.”

“With this zit?” Rachel picked at the pimple on her chin.

“Don't pick.” He brushed her hand away.

“Why do you care?”

He blinked, embarrassed. “Because I've never felt anything like this before. I'm thinking about you all the time.” He hesitated. “I like you. I like you a lot. Maybe even I love you.”

Then he leaned forward and kissed her, his eyes wide open. In them, Rachel could see a meadow, an entire field of four-leaf clovers.

“Well, I love you, too,” and Rachel let out a breath that she felt she had been holding inside for way too long.

O
n the seventh of the month of Adar, according to tradition, God buried Moses.

Ever since then, the date has become known as the special day for communities around the world to honor their burial circles.

In Peleg, Rabbi Lapid invited the members of the men's and women's
hevra kadisha
to the synagogue for a modest celebration. It was a mild evening in the middle of March, and the rabbi—not one for long speeches—stood and spoke briefly.

“It's no small task, what you do,” he told the dozen or so people sitting around a few tables. “Being a member of a burial circle has always been considered a great honor. The privilege was sometimes passed from father to son, from one generation to the next. What you do is an act of mercy, and everyone appreciates your dedication. Thank you.”

Emily sat with Aviva, Lauren, Leah, and Gila. Rachel had gone to see a movie with Yoni on home leave from the army, which was just as well, Emily thought. They drank tea, ate pastries, and spoke about the weather and their families, and then moved on to the evening's subject: taking care of the dead. Emily, Aviva, Lauren, Leah, and Gila all agreed that the dead gave off an aura, a presence.

Some of the dead appeared tense, as if they had fought death until the very last moment and only reluctantly surrendered. Others appeared calm. They had made peace with their fate. They had accepted the inevitable fact that they had arrived at life's exit. The final destination.

They were prepared for their next journey.

They were the same in death as in life.

They would always be what they once were.