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

we are, loud and revved up, shouting into the furious waves. I’m still puffed up with power from Neria Grossman’s tears at the party, thinking there’s nothing like the tears of a broken-hearted man, believing I’ll forever be leaving a trail of teary-eyed men behind me, not knowing how quickly it will all end, and that it won’t be long before the tears will be mine.

The cold breeze whips at my face, almost carrying away my pointy witch hat, but at least I have my cape to warm me up. We all have capes, each matching her own costume.

Dina is Miriam the prophetess, obviously. Who better to play eldest sister? The tambourine never leaves her hands, and she’s pounding and pounding… It’s a top-quality instrument, wooden rim and stretched leather, and she won’t let it out of her sight, she’ll keep pounding that thing until she won’t.

Ronit is Lilith. As if you couldn’t guess. It’s not much of an effort for her. Beautiful and seductive, she’s sashaying around in her dark cape, holding a small doll in her hand and every now and then licking its head, a gesture that makes my skin crawl but I don’t say anything to her. Instead, I whisper to Naama, “Too much,” and she agrees with a brief nod.

“It wouldn’t have kept my dear husband from hitting on her,” she whispers back, and we both start laughing.

Because Naama is Michal, King David’s wife. My favourite. The small crown on her head complements her beautiful auburn hair, the reason she chose that character in the first place. The thought of them as two redheads facing off made her laugh. But she didn’t get to have the last laugh, did she?

“I understand you went as a witch,” Micha’s voice snaps me back to the present. He’s whispering, as if we’re not alone in the living room. He’s right, can’t you feel them?

“I went as the Witch of Endor,” I say. “I was always fond of her, of her unique gifts.”

“And you girls chose those costumes because…?”

I know he knows and he’s just waiting for me to say the words, so I do. “Because they were different. The Bible’s others,” I say. “Miriam, Lilith, Michal and the Witch of Endor. Strong biblical women who didn’t have kids, just like we promised ourselves we wouldn’t.”

But we didn’t all live up to that promise, did we?

The sea is rough, waves roiling so loudly we can barely hear Dina’s tambourine going Thrump! Thrump! Thrump! She really does look like Miriam the prophetess with her eyes steely and unblinking, and that drumming, which could have easily made her look silly, but it only lends her an air of power.

“Come on! Don’t chicken out now!”

Who even thought about chickening out? We’re fired up and ready to do our own thing, because we’re not like the rest, we’re not going to take the well-trodden path like all the students eager to get married during senior year, start having babies and settle down; we’re going to steer our own destinies, we’re not going down the baby trail, no, we’re going to march ahead, towards… towards what exactly? A moment of hesitation. Ronit breaks the silence, saying, “Maybe we should take a blood oath?”

“We’re not little girls.” It’s Dina’s voice, obviously, since she never was a little girl.

“I have another idea,” Ronit says and whips out her red lipstick. We extend out fingers, and she marks each of them with a red smear. Her face is screwed up in concentration, her tongue poking through her pursed lips, a snake’s tongue! Her eyes are narrowed to slits, and when it’s my turn, she presses too hard and the lipstick breaks.

“Must be some kind of sign, right, Witchiepoo?” she asks with a smirk, and I want to tell her it’s a sign, there’s going to be blood. But I keep my mouth shut.

I wish I could keep my mouth shut now, but I can’t. I keep blabbing, rambling about that night at the sea and then fast-forwarding twenty years to Ronit’s party, and finally I mention Gali Malchin, Naama’s daughter. He’s listening intently, too intently. Watch out, Sheila. But I don’t. I ignore the voice. Because I’m enjoying this, enjoying laying out my memories before him like a display of precious stones. He’s listening but his gaze is elsewhere.

“Why have you kept that painting for so many years?” he asks, pointing at the Witch of Endor.

“It’s my second Witch of Endor painting, I got rid of the first one years ago,” I reply. “There was a Flemish artist who painted the women of the Bible, like Miriam, Michal, Lilith… and we drew inspiration from his work for our costumes. A few years ago I saw this reproduction in the flea market, and it looked a lot like the painting I had back then, so I bought it.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s pretty, and it reminded me of things.” Things! It reminded you of yourself.

“And Dina and Ronit also wanted to remind themselves of things? That’s why they held on to their paintings?”

Wanted. The mention of Dina and Ronit in past tense sinks inside me like a stone to the bottom of the ocean.

“Sometimes we don’t get to choose what to remember,” I reply.

“There’s always a choice,” he says quietly, “even when it feels like there isn’t.”

It may not mean anything, but I suddenly notice his arm resting beside me at an angle that finally allows me to read the tattoo on his wrist.

“The fathers have eaten sour grapes.” I stare at the text etched into his skin. Of all verses! The letters are surrounded by a reddish aura, as if he has just gotten the tattoo, but I know that can’t be.

“It got a bit infected,” he says.

“Looks painful.”

“Funny, the first time we met you asked me if it hurt.”

“And that was before I saw what it actually says,” I remark. “No wonder it hurts!”

His lips slowly expand into a smile, and there it is again,