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

fluttering touch of Yaniv’s small hand on my shoulder.

“He isn’t the type,” I say.

“Maybe he had messianic delusions and decided to purge the Holy Land of women who won’t have babies? Maybe he had a pot-induced psychotic episode? I think that’s definitely a possibility,” he asserts and puts down his phone, markedly pleased with himself.

“Okay, I think we made some real progress. What say, Detective Heller?”

He digs out another giant scoop of ice cream and plops it into his bowl. I stare at his jaw working the frozen raisins and think to myself, if I’m the detective in this story, at least that guarantees I’ll stay alive until the last page.

But that doesn’t comfort me. Or at least not enough.

18

I SPEND THE ENTIRE way to the Grossmans’ house wondering whether I’m doing the right thing.

Walking past the monotonous vista of houses, I peek into lit windows framing families having dinner, The fathers have eaten sour grapes, cottage cheese on toasted rye shovelled into young mouths, tables set with an assortment of spoons and forks, but the knives, what about the knives?

I glance up at the house numbers, steal into backyards, like a cat cloaked in darkness, to locate casa del Grossman.

Since I was never the proactive, probing type – more of a “sit at home waiting for life to come knocking” kind of girl – you could say I’m outside the circumference of my comfort zone right now. But then again, the thought of sitting at home, staring at the Witch of Endor painting from my armchair, waiting for the door to quietly crack open and for someone (could it be someone I know?) to come in and tie me (would it be with really tight, painful knots?) to the chair and glue a doll to my fingertips isn’t exactly pleasant to entertain.

I have to admit a part of me enjoys this swift detour from the humdrum lane. Even going back in time to the Grossmans’ house gives me an odd thrill; the thought of either one of this bourgeois couple turning out to be a perverted and flamboyant murderer makes me almost giddy. Never underestimate the power of the bourgeoisie.

But involuntarily, images of the future scene drift before my eyes, in my very own (unkempt) living room, What kind of mother are you? And I wonder how they would mark me, what gesture they’d choose to identify me as the Witch of Endor, her powers gradually dwindled until there was nothing left of her.

The first image that floats into my mind is me tied to my chair with a stuffed black kitten toy glued to my hand.

You think it’s funny, Sheila? Good, laugh while you still can.

Turns out I chose a bad time to come knocking.

Through the closed door, I hear further evidence of the dinner ritual, the metallic clanging and clinking of cutlery against plates, and take in a gentle whiff of omelette. Herby. Then I hear a childish “Yuck, I hate that!”, followed by a loud shattering sound and Taliunger’s irate voice shrilling, “I told you! Now pick that up.” I can’t tell whether she’s addressing Neria or one of the kids, since there comes a particular stage in every mother’s evolution in which the tone she uses with her children becomes the very same one she uses with her husband.

I hear a mumbled apology in Neria’s voice, and wonder when has he become so submissive. Back in college he was a red-blooded he-man. What is it about married life that turns men into doormats?

It’s not marriage, it’s parenthood. Puts the fear of God in them.

The doorbell produces the sweet, clear notes of wind chimes, and I picture Taliunger telling the person who installed it that she won’t settle for any other sound. Only when the footsteps approaching the other side of the door become louder does it dawn on me that I really should have called first. And it wouldn’t have killed you to wear something more flattering.

“Sheila.” Neria isn’t surprised to see me, and it seems he has no intention of letting me in. He’s standing there with his many feet and inches, blocking the entrance. I peek inside. There’s the omelette, next to a salad and a few elongated bottles of ketchup and other sauces. It’s an unreasonably long table, currently seating three children.

One of them is Ari. I’d recognize that sinister, pink-gummed smile anywhere. Stuck in his high chair, he doesn’t look like someone capable of, or even interested in, causing harm. My hand instinctively reaches for my nose. Neria notices this but doesn’t react. Which is a good sign, because Taliunger’s mouth would’ve already curled into that vicious little smirk of hers.

“Well, let her in already,” she calls out over his shoulder.

Her acidic tone is surprising. I thought she would be happy to host me on her turf, a house smelling of omelettes, dish soap and bathed children, with Neria crouching on the floor, picking up the last shards of a plate. Domestication process – complete. He’s mine, honey.

“Sorry to intrude,” I say with my sweetest voice, “but could I talk to Neria for a moment?”

They exchange the kind of glances that tell me they’ve been preparing for this moment. We knew she’d come crawling.

“It’s just not the best time right now,” Taliunger replies, pointing at the table. I notice how short she is without her heels, cutting the figure of a tiny empress with her grand, magisterial wave, fingernails sparkling with metallic nail polish. All this is mine.

“I’m really sorry, it’ll only take a few minutes.”

My voice is quiet, my tone polite. In the realms of the bourgeoisie, manners work like a magic spell, able to open the biggest and baddest padlocks. Even the kids are listening silently now. Ari is playing with his fork, a plastic neon-pink apparatus, and looks dangerously close to shoving it up his nostril. The girl is cute, but her skin is glimmering with an oily sheen and I can