The Others, Sarah Blau [hardest books to read txt] 📗

I pick up the Coke can and take a sip, pumping free radicals straight into my bloodstream. He doesn’t stop me.

“Why don’t you be honest with yourself and just admit you feel like brushing up against the past, and maybe see Neria Grossman again?”

My grip tightens on the can, but it doesn’t crush as nicely as it does in the movies.

A sharp angle grazes my pinkie finger, producing a long thin scratch, just like the one I got after my last meeting with Neria; the last chance encounter, not the last awful planned one. Images from that encounter flash before me – Neria sitting on a street bench, vigorous and robust as ever, me happening to pass by after a long and ugly bout of mono, dragging my feeble body down the street. What can I say? Fate and its famous humour. We both uttered the perfunctory “Oh, hello there,” and “It’s been years!” and “So how have you been?” but he felt the need to add, “You know, I hardly recognized you.” I, on the other hand, instantly recognized him, especially the nasty edge that crept into his voice. But I felt l had it coming after what I did to him, after what Dina did to him.

So I smiled and kept my mouth shut, but on the way home I stopped at a drugstore and bought ten different kinds of vitamins and minerals to boost hair, skin and nail health, and when I got home, I opened all the small bottles and tore into the pill sheets, scraping my finger on the vitamin B-complex wrapper. Which is when I finally burst into tears. Little witch, little witch fell down a ditch, scraped her finger and broke into whimpers.

“Trust me, I’m in no hurry to see Neria again,” I say.

“Then why do you want me to go to the party with you?”

Why do you think.

“Because you’re a fastidious accountant, that’s why; you notice every detail, and people who know Ronit and maybe Dina are going to be there. We might find out new information.”

He takes the crinkly can from me, peers inside to make sure it’s empty and tosses it into the garbage can, a good accountant never wastes a thing. “Sheila, it has nothing to do with the murder. You just want a man by your side there, that’s all. Don’t be embarrassed.”

But I am embarrassed, Eli, you little hamster, and anyway, when did we start telling each other the whole truth and nothing but? What’s so nice about friendships is that friends don’t have to share everything with each other, certainly not the truth, which is usually ugly and insulting. So yes, given that I’m likely to run into a few figures from my decidedly unglamorous past there, I’d indeed prefer to have a man by my side, especially a submissive, docile one like you, who’d let me ignore him the entire night. How’s that for the truth, huh, Eli?

He must have noticed a slight change in my expression, because he immediately says, “Don’t worry, I’ll go with you.” To which I reply, “Thanks, you’re the only person I trust,” and while my mouth is chewing out the words, I realize it’s the truth.

Then he just has to ask, “You haven’t heard anything from that detective?”

That detective. I see we aren’t quite ready to call him Micha yet. And no, I haven’t heard anything new, and I have no idea whether that’s a good or bad sign. It’s an excellent sign, you stupid baby. I automatically reach for my phone, and no, no missed calls. And how could there be any, when you’ve been staring at the damn thing all day?

The press also took half a step back, I mean the news pages, because the magazines were still brimming with the shock waves; just this Saturday, one of the women’s magazines featured a piece about “religious couples who choose not to have children,” or at least that’s what the tantalizing title advertised, but the reporter did everything within her power to wrest a limp promise out of each of the miserable couples that maybe, down the road, they’d reconsider their choice, that “maybe one day…” In a predictable yet ludicrous manner, the reporter pointed the finger of blame solely at the wives, while the husbands were granted full immunity and sympathizing support. One of them bore a remarkable resemblance to Eli.

“It’ll be okay, don’t worry,” he says, and it takes me a few seconds to realize he’s talking about Ronit’s party. He’s completely clueless about what he has agreed to because he doesn’t know Ronit, but I have no doubt that’s about to change. He’ll get to know her all right. The moment we step into her party together, she’ll be all over him. A scorpion never changes, and neither does a Lilith. I stick my pinkie in my mouth and taste the warm, soothing blood.

It’s the night of the survivors.

I look up at Ronit’s bright balcony, hear the voices carried in the air, whispers and giggles. I feel Eli’s body tense beside me. He looks exactly the way I wanted him to: a solid partner, but the kind of partner no one can quite figure out. There comes a time in every woman’s life when obfuscation is her best companion. Just as I start sucking in my stomach, I remember I don’t have to. I have my organ-crushing Lycra shapewear on for that. Sure, I’m sweating from every pore under this cling-film bodysuit, but like the saleswoman said: A building’s most important feature is its foundation, and yours could use a little reinforcement. And the most important parts of the foundation are the ones you can’t see.

The moment we step into the spacious, well-lit apartment, I’m instantly struck by the smell of alcohol, sweat and expensive perfumes. Eau de cougar. I take in IKEA’s version of a living room, complete with several nondescript landscapes on the walls. Well, well, turns out the seductive siren