Ashs fire, p.7
Ash's fire, page 7
“You’re acting like six-year-olds,” Eyal said, but he was smiling. “Now out with it!”
“What the hell, we can tell him,” Sam said. “Just keep it to yourself, Son.”
Eyal nodded, and looked at his mother with anticipation.
“Many years ago, you were still a little boy, your Aunt Dvora decided to volunteer at Ma’asiyahu Prison.”
Eyal listened intently; he knew he was being treated to one of the Cohen family secrets.
“Once a week she helped the prisoners write letters to their families, and listened to their troubles.”
“Sounds like a nice thing to do,” Eyal said.
“Yeah,” Jordan said. “Then one day, she shows up for a Friday dinner with Manny Amar, a convict, out on weekend leave, his return to the prison on the following Sunday guaranteed by your aunt.”
“You’re kidding,” Eyal’s eyebrows lifted, widening his almond-shaped, gray-green eyes.
“I wish I was,” Jordan said. “So Dvora looks positively radiant, and they sit next to each other as if they’re on their honeymoon.”
The light mood was all but handcuffed and dragged away from the kitchen.
“Throughout dinner I had a strong vibe that this guy is a nasty piece of work, so I pull your aunt to the kitchen and I ask her what’s what. She tells me that he is a sweetheart, that he had a terrible childhood, and that she’s helping him return to society a productive and well-adjusted citizen. She also says he has one year left on his sentence, so he gets weekend leave every couple of months.”
“Too bad I was too young to ask him about prison life,” Eyal said, fascinated.
“When I asked her how well she knew him, she said he declared his love for her on her last visit and that she, too, was in love. She’s thinking of inviting him to live with her, once he’s released.”
Sam shook his head in disgust.
“So, then, I ask her why was he in jail, and, without blinking, she says, armed robbery.”
“Ha!” Eyal hooted.
“It is hilarious,” Sam said. “Unless it’s your own sister. So now this armed robber knows where we live, has seen our nice home and the fact that we don’t have a security system.”
Jordan reached for his shoulder and squeezed it.
“The next morning at about eleven,” Jordan continued, “the phone rings and it’s Dvora. She is crying, and she says she’s at the police station to report the theft of her car, and that she’s leaving to go home now.”
“Poor Dvora,” Eyal said.
“Your father goes to the police station, drives her home, calms her down, not once telling her she was stupid and reckless to hook up with this guy in the first place.”
Sam rolled his eyes, “Like that would have made an impact.”
“When she comes over that afternoon,” Jordan continued, “she’s not as hurt about the theft, as she is about the fact that he used her emotionally and dumped her.”
“Was he caught?” Eyal asked.
“Yeah, they found the idiot the next day, hiding in his mother’s house. And he got an extra year for escaping.”
“That’s one of the funniest stories, ever,” Eyal said. “But also very sad.”
“For a couple of years after Amar was released,” Sam said, “I was worried sick he would rob us in the middle of the night.”
“Your father slept with a baseball bat under our bed.”
“Oh, Dad,” Eyal said.
“There’s more,” Sam said. “A month or so after what became known around here as ‘the Amar incident’, I made some passing remark about Amar. Dvora exploded, she screamed at me, then she cried, then she stormed out of our house. She didn’t talk to me for six months.” Sam lowered his eyes, not before Jordan saw his shame and hurt.
“So nobody ever talks about it anymore?”
“No,” Jordan said.
“She never married,” Eyal said. “She must feel so alone.”
“You are the sweetest,” Jordan said, and kissed her son on his cheek.
“Is that why she joined that volunteer police thing? To belong to something?” Eyal asked.
“Yeah, that’s part of it, I think,” she said. “It also makes her feel like she’s doing something meaningful. For some reason she’s drawn to that world of crime.”
“Dad does, too,” Eyal said.
“And she does want to contribute, you gotta give her that,” Jordan added.
“I didn’t tell you,” Sam said to Jordan, “the police program is going to be cancelled by the first of the year.”
“Oh, no!” Jordan said.
“The Chief of Detectives got tired of civilians running around his crime scenes, taking photos of the CSU technicians, potentially contaminating the evidence, all for publicity he doesn’t need,” Sam said.
“What’s Dvora gonna do?” Jordan asked.
“She won’t sit at our dinner table spewing about body parts, that’s for sure,” Sam said.
“Were the volunteers told about it?” Jordan asked.
“They will be, soon.”
“I, for one, will be sad to lose her stories,” Eyal said. “It’s fascinating. I know you hate it, Dad, it’s written all over your face. Is that your poker face for Court?”
Sam had to laugh with his son.
“I’ll help you implement the Amar Rule,” Eyal said. “I’ll be nicer to her, to make her feel more a part of this family.”
“We’ve created a touchy-feely monster,” Jordan said to her husband.
“But you need this touchy-feely monster, Mom, and you know it.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Jordan said.
“Thank you, monster,” Sam said. “You are a rare and compassionate creature of the bog, and I’m proud of you.”
“Alright,” Eyal said, “can I go back to my lair now? Or do I need to make the salad dressing?”
****
When Dvora showed up a little after seven, Jordan watched proudly as her son showered his aunt with attention.
When the doorbell rang again and her parents arrived, Jordan called her daughters downstairs for dinner.
Mom and Dad were healthy, the family was together, that’s what’s important. Jordan served dinner. Stop thinking about Ari, it will show on your face.
“Delicious as always,” David said. “Look, Jordan, even your mother has finished everything on her plate.”
“I gained two kilos, dear,” Naomi said, her face tired, showing the heavy burden of chronic pain.
“Yeah, Mom, I’ll believe it when you reach size four.”
The family was settling into their apple cobbler a la mode, when Dvora turned to Jordan and said, “I worked at a challenging crime scene this week…”
Thinking about ‘The Amar Rule’, Jordan gave her husband a warning look. Sam complied, ironing his expression to blank.
Eyal and Talya perked up, they loved their aunt’s gruesome stories.
“Give us the gory details,” said Eyal.
Shira played with her food, too sensitive for this kind of dinner talk, but also too polite to say anything. Dvora’s neglected dessert lay melting in her plate. Dvora’s collarbone protruded from underneath her shirt like a metal clothes hanger. Never missing an opportunity to address the public, even if it was just family, Dvora launched into her story.
“I got the call, and was told to go to Ramat Gan, to the Homes and Gardens store.”
“So that’s why you disappeared in the middle of the workday,” Sam commented.
“It has always been clear that my community work comes first,” she said haughtily.
“Glad I can contribute to the community,” Sam muttered.
“Anyway,” Dvora warmed up, “when I got there, the place was already manned by our people. High ranking officers, the Chief of detectives, CSU technicians, the Medical Examiner. I like it better when I’m first on the scene. I’ll have to talk to dispatch about calling me sooner.”
“Surely, you should be called before the detectives,” Sam said, and Jordan shot him another warning look.
“This was the case of the woman in the news? The one that disappeared?” Eyal asked.
“Exactly,” Dvora continued, a crocodile-infested moat wouldn’t have stopped her. “The police had already found the body rolled up in a carpet.”
Shira’s eyes were down, her hands nowhere to be seen. Texting, no doubt.
“So when I got there,” Dvora continued, “I went up to the open-air lawn furniture department on the roof. The large storage area behind the display area was littered with broken furniture, boxes, a lot of places where someone could hide a body. At that point, I knew we were going to be there for hours.”
“Tea, anyone?” Jordan interrupted. Multiple heads shook, no.
“So I crossed the tape and started taking pictures. I took great pictures of the scene. The Chief said so himself.”
“As a volunteer of the Police Public Relations, aren’t you supposed to just take pictures of the professionals processing the scene, not the scene itself?” Sam asked.
Dvora ignored him, and continued. “Then I started checking the scene methodically, looking for a new perspective.”
Jordan held her face straight, embarrassed for the charade. Everyone at the table knew processing a crime scene wasn’t Dvora’s job. Jordan felt sympathy for her, a woman of so few achievements, not regarded as a professional anywhere, never to receive the respect of others. She resigned herself to wait patiently.
“The body was rolled in a tacky, beige-and-black-checkered carpet, and thrown in a pile of other rolled-up carpets, all the way in the back. It was rolled open, and technicians on their knees were looking for trace evidence and collecting it into baggies.”
“The body was still there?” Eyal asked.
“Of course.”
“And you looked at the dead body?” Talya asked.
“Oh, I’m used to it, I’ve seen worse,” Dvora replied. Talya shuddered. Shira caught Jordan’s attention, her eyes pleading to be excused. Jordan nodded, feeling her anger rise. The Amar Rule, she reminded herself.
“The many cuts that the killer inflicted on the woman were visible. The coroner said they were very deep. That spells rage. After it got dark, the technicians sprayed the floor with Luminol, and as I expected, there were clear signs a lot of blood was spilled on the floor and then, cleaned up. The carpet was heavily stained with blood as well.”
Dvora went on relentlessly, her red fingernails tapped on the table, then played with her dessert spoon as her eyes darted from face to face. “And other fluids of various colors. And of the strong smell of decomposition—”
“Dvora,” Sam raised his voice, “Enough!”
“Talya, dear,” David said, “Can you go make your grandpa some tea?”
Jordan breathed deeply, silently thanking her father.
“Dvora,” Jordan said to her sister-in-law, who donned a defeated look, “Why don’t you come to the living room and have a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you,” Dvora said, “the dishes need to be attended to.”
“Dvora, please,” Jordan said, “I’ll do them later.”
“No,” Dvora said and stood up. “You’ve done enough. Both of you have done enough.”
Chapter 12
Sunday, July 22
On Sunday, back from work and out of his ritual shower, Sam walked into the kitchen. Between thinking about Ari and Sam’s bouncy ball, Jordan managed to get some work done, not much, but some. She also tried to convince herself that time was on her side as she hurtled forward, waiting for Ari’s return.
Sam’s fresh fragrance stood in stark contrast to the grim look on his face. Shira had already gone to bed, and Jordan stared at her husband.
“I know,” was all he said.
Jordan’s heart sank. Sam had beaten her to the truth. She closed her laptop.
“Since when?” she asked.
“Every thought that goes through your head is projected on your face like a movie screen. You are so transparent,” he exclaimed.
“What?” Jordan stared at him, “You guessed just now? You tricked me?”
“You left me no choice.”
“So now we lay traps for each other?” she spat at him.
“Sure, if we lie to each other,” he shot back. “I saw something happened to you weeks ago.”
“Oh.” Never underestimate Sam, she thought. “You didn’t say anything for weeks then?”
“I gave you the chance to come clean, Jordan. You didn’t take it.”
“Yeah, I waited, I know,” she said, angry, all of a sudden.
“So we’ve discovered you can be disingenuous, Jordan,” he said, as he stood over her.
“And we’ve also discovered you can go on with your girlfriend for two months,” Jordan shot at him.
“We had an agreement.”
“Sit down,” she said. “I hate it when you stand over me like that.”
“We had an agreement,” he said again.
“There was a reason,” she said.
“And that reason being?” he said, still hovering, his presence intimidating.
“Sit down.”
“Get to the point, first,” Sam said.
“I was afraid to hurt you,” Jordan said, unable to look at his face.
“Because lying to me is not hurtful?” Sam said and leaned deeply over her.
“Please, Sam,” Jordan asked. “Can we talk like we talk? Not like you’re cross-examining me?” Sam’s courtroom tone, Jordan knew, was his refuge, the safe-haven he escaped to when he felt under attack. Shut up. Let him stand however he wants.
“When you screw other men and you lie to me, I talk like a lawyer,” Sam said.
“We’re even on the screwing part, Sam Cohen,” she shot back, adrenaline coursing through her body. “Actually, we’re not. Not even close. I saw this man twice, which is a whole lot less than what you’ve been doing for a month and a half now.” Then she paused. She had thought a lot about this conversation, and in her head she didn’t screw it up as badly. Calm Down.
“You’re right, we’re not even,” Sam said. “You lied.”
Jordan looked at her husband. She could only imagine how many times he wanted to bring it up and didn’t, letting her take the lead, giving her freedom to walk alone, unencumbered, but also, testing her.
“Coffee?” she asked him, and he nodded.
Sam had done the right thing and she hadn’t. She took the cowardly path. Silence filled the kitchen as she filled the kettle.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” she said, and put down two cups. “I really mean that. It was just too hard for me to tell you.”
Sam sat down, too, but he didn’t touch the coffee in front of him. “Now that we’ve established that there’s a double standard going on around here, we can continue,” he said.
“So how exactly did you find out?” she asked.
“You’re the worst liar in the world,” he said, exasperated. “I wish you were better at it. I saw your face, And you had that look.”
“What look?”
“The look you get when you have great sex.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Yes. Oh.” Sam took a sip of his coffee, and then, poured out the rest in the sink. Then he got himself a tumbler, poured some whiskey, neat, and came back to sit with her at the table.
“And you went and bought nice underwear.”
“How do you know that?” she snapped.
“I didn’t search your underwear drawer, Jordan, if that’s what you’re thinking. I saw new stuff with lace in the laundry basket.”
“Oh.”
Sam just looked at her. Her husband of so many years sat at their kitchen table and talked about the underwear she bought for another man. And he didn’t rant with jealousy, he just sat and drank his whiskey, like he always did.
“So is it?” he asked.
“Is it what?”
“Great sex.”
“Sam, don’t.”
“Tell me,” he said. He looked more hurt than angry now.
“It’s different, it’s not you.”
“I look at you and I see a whole lot more than just different.”
“Why do you need to ask me these questions? I don’t ask you anything,” Jordan said as she stood up and paced back and forth, needing some space. “Do you want another whiskey?”
“No. Sit,” he said. “Answer me.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I asked you a simple question which you’re evading. Is it good sex?” His voice switched to litigator again.
“I feel excited. Okay? I feel alive. I’m sorry, Sam, but the truth is I feel desired. And I haven’t felt that in years. There. I said it.”
Sam didn’t say anything for a while. He finished his drink in one gulp and stood up. He couldn’t sit either.
They faced each other, leaning against their cream-colored kitchen cabinets that they opened a thousand times to make a thousand meals and snacks and coffee breaks and midnight drinks, in the house that was their home for what felt like a hundred years. And they faced a brand new situation.
“I wish we could feel it between us,” Jordan said, bleakly.
“I believe you when you say that,” he said.
“Thank you,” Jordan said, grateful that they knew how to concede on points, even while they fought.
“What excites you about him?”
“Nothing special. It’s not swinging-from-the-chandelier-sex. It’s just that you and I have been together for so many years that it’s not as lustrous. I mean, I still want to make love to you, and it’s good and all, you know I feel that, but it’s not as exciting as it used to be.”
“I still feel the luster,” Sam said. He looked forlorn.
“You do?” Jordan asked, surprised. “So why do you sleep with that pint-sized admirer of yours?”
“I’m not sure. Variety, I think, and she makes me feel young.”
“And I make you feel old?” Jordan asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Sam answered. “But I see my age, I feel it, and I hate to admit it, but I lament it.” He looked at the backs of his hands and the few age spots that sprinkled them.
Jordan had noticed them before, but hadn’t thought anything of it. They were simply a part of Sam.
