“Oh, let me see that,” Dave said, pulling the rental car over, putting it in neutral and jerking up on the handbrake. I gave him the directions for all the good it would do; he had written them out, and he knew (though he wouldn’t admit it) that I could read his handwriting better than he. Dave glared at the piece of hotel stationery, straining to make out the words. The little car bounced around as if it were choking to death.

I restrained myself for almost a minute, but it burst out almost by itself.

“Why don’t we ask somebody?” I asked.

“Oh, Sara,” Dave said, continuing to inspect the paper. I looked around, but Dave had managed to stop on one of the few streets in the whole Tel Aviv area without pedestrians—no doubt so he wouldn’t have to ask for directions, or worse, have to listen to me ask. “Oh Sara” was as much discussion as we ever held on that subject. I had long ago resigned myself to it.

Don’t misunderstand. My love for Dave wasn’t diminished by his little weaknesses and foibles. Why, he might be as annoyed by my insisting on asking for directions when I drove as I was by his refusal to ask when he did, although for the life of me I can’t imagine why. It was more a ritual than anything else; I don’t even think it was a point of pride, as it might have been forty years ago when we were first married. Back then there were enough big things to argue about without analyzing the little things: reading the morning newspaper instead of talking, forgetting to put the toilet seat down when he left the bathroom—things like that. They were like small stones in shoes that didn’t fit all that well in the first place. Your foot adjusts to the shoe eventually and you develop thick enough calluses to ignore the occasional pebble—at least you do if you work at it.

“I think we should have taken a right at Herzl Street,” Dave finally said.

I didn’t ask how he had come to that conclusion; going straight at Herzl was the only clear direction on the whole page. He handed it back to me, took a look around, and then made a U-turn to get us back to where we had been twenty minutes earlier. He drove with an air that implied that I had made the mistake. I knew that he would act aggrieved until we found Ben Yehuda, which should have come three blocks after the intersection with Herzl.

I tried to keep track of the passing streets so Dave wouldn’t get lost getting back to where we had been led astray. The street narrowed and was half-blocked by double-parked cars, but at least now there were people on the sidewalks carrying plastic bags heavy with produce. I promised myself that at the next red light I would ask someone the best way to get to 37 Atzmaut Road, which was the address on the bottom of the full page of directions that I folded and unfolded absent-mindedly as we drove.

Luck was with us—or with Dave; the lights turned green just before we reached each intersection, and before I knew it we had found Herzl and Dave turned left—the right he thought he was supposed to have made coming from the other direction. I immediately grew alert; in two blocks we should take a right on Tzahal, then an immediate left on Allenby. It turned out that Tzahal came in three blocks, not two, and Allenby was one way going right, but it didn’t matter. These quick successes should have made Dave communicative again, except that he was probably ashamed about blaming me for getting him lost. He might even be angry that I resented his anger—although if I was angry it was unfair of me, he was probably thinking, since he hadn’t said anything. I allowed myself to smile; poor Dave—I did love him so.

Almost a mile further I was certain that we had gotten lost again when Dave seemed to have an inspiration; he took a quick left and right, and all of a sudden we were on Yehuda Halevi, just as we were supposed to have been. Two more turns, and we were on Atzmaut, a pleasant street lined by trees and broad sidewalks.

“Aha!” Dave called out suddenly. I refolded the directions and put them in my purse, although I didn’t think I would file them—at least not the way Dave had written them down. I would try to take his cousin aside—or better yet, his cousin’s wife—and get real directions for the next time we came to visit.

I sympathized with Dave, even though it was hard to understand his anxiety. It was just a family visit. That’s just about all we did when we came to Israel—visit family, that is—although this was the first time in over twenty trips that we were going to visit someone on Dave’s side. Dave didn’t have any relatives in Israel, or, at least, hadn’t known about any until his brother Sam, who had taken up genealogy after retiring, uncovered a branch of the family that left Poland for Palestine in the early twenties. It was actually pretty exciting to find a long-lost relative, even if it was only a third cousin twice removed. Sam had to sketch it out on paper to explain the connection: one set of their great-grandparents had been the same people. It’s all I can do to keep track of my first cousins and their kids, let alone second cousins, but I suppose that was why Dave was so anxious. He just wanted to visit one of his relatives for a change. I didn’t begrudge him his visit. I didn’t even mind the long drive, since we were on vacation and I didn’t have anywhere to go—except to the bathroom, which, if we had asked for directions, I could have been in and out of three times already.

We pulled to a stop in front of a small restaurant advertising Middle Eastern food and got out of the car. Dave locked the doors. He tucked in his shirt, stuck his hands in his pockets, and stood motionless. I should have expected this: after all the rushing at the hotel, the hurried scramble to buy a gift, the headlong plunge into deepest, darkest Tel Aviv with an asthmatic rental car, Dave was now too shy to go forward. I think that if I had suggested returning to the hotel to take a nap—heaven knows that after that drive Dave could use one—he would have gotten back into the car without even a token protest. He might even have suggested that I drive. Why else had he waited until our last week in Israel to call his cousin—the very last day that we could make time to visit? Sure, I had reminded him a couple of times, but I didn’t want to nag. I left it up to him. It was his third cousin twice removed, after all. Certainly Dave would have felt resentful if he had missed getting Itzik on the phone, or if they hadn’t been able to meet today. But despite himself things had worked out; we had found the address only half an hour late—a negligible social delay in Israel—and had even parked exactly in front. What else could you ask for? Dave stood by the car, reached up to adjust the tie he wasn’t wearing, put on his reading glasses and then took them off again, jingled his keys, rocked forward on the balls of his feet.

I suppressed a smile. Sometimes Dave just needed a little push to do something that he will enjoy. I could almost hear him relating this whole incident to our friends, the little exaggerations he would add to make it funny, and the report he would give his brother Sam, who, if anyone had nagged him about this visit, it was he.

“Let’s go, Dave,” I said. “I have to find the ladies room.”

Dave took his hands out of his pockets, took my arm at the elbow and headed towards the door. I think that the nicest thing about going on vacation—especially one where there isn’t anything new to see anymore—is the chance to touch your husband, or have him touch you, in the way it used to be back in the beginning. I suppose it’s the uncertainty of being in a strange place, even if it’s not frightening or threatening. He uses you like a security blanket to help him face the unknown. I put my hand on his. I didn’t care about the motive; I’m not complaining. It’s always nice to be needed.

Dave pushed the door open and a tiny bell rang. The interior of the restaurant was decorated in sports posters and nature scenes; tobacco and grease smoke floating in the room had left a brown high-tide mark on the walls. One table was occupied by two men, hunched over their plates, eating hummus with little trowels of torn pita, popping chunks of pickle or hot pepper into their mouths every five or ten bites.

The cook—or perhaps the waiter—stepped out from the kitchen in response to the bell. He was taller than we were, although that doesn’t say too much, since neither of our families is noted for height. His skin was dark, as if he had spent the entire summer on the beach basting in Coppertone. His eyes were black and his bristly hair salt and pepper gray; he had a droopy mustache and sufficient whiskers to justify shaving twice a day—if he hadn’t just forgotten to shave this morning. Over a tee-shirt and blue jeans he wore a soiled apron which he used to wipe off his hands.

“I’m looking for Itzik,” Dave said, glancing briefly at the two men at the table.

“I am Itzik,” the dark man said. I almost gasped. A third cousin twice removed sounded like a distant relation, but not as distant as all that!

“I am your cousin Dave from America,” Dave said.

Itzik responded after a moment of incomprehension, and then his suspicious features were transformed by an outgoing smile.

“Come—sit, sit,” Itzik said. He took off his apron and folded it over the fourth chair of the table he led us to. Dave put out his hand for a shake, but Itzik just used it to pull him closer so he could give him a middle-eastern hug, and then two kisses on the cheeks.

“This is my wife Sara,” Dave said. I got the kisses minus the hug. He smelled, not unpleasantly, of olive oil and cayenne pepper. His whiskers were too long to scratch me; they just tickled.

“I bring you some food,” Itzik said. He disappeared into the kitchen, and I went off to the ladies room, which turned out to be a unisex stall in the back of the storeroom that was stacked with cases of soft drinks, sacks of chickpeas, and huge tin cans of pickles, olives and hot peppers. Only dire necessity brought me to use the toilet, and the sink—well, it’s good I always carry Wash’n Drys.

When I returned I saw Itzik pouring Dave a beer into a tall glass. I didn’t reprimand him until Itzik went back into the kitchen; Dave’s cardiologist didn’t allow him alcohol but Dave considered vacations a good excuse to getting out from under his doctor’s thumb.

“I’m not going to drink it all,” Dave said defensively. It took real restraint not to refer to the martini he had ordered at the King David, or the chocolate he had bought and eaten at the airport when he thought I wasn’t looking. He was too excited to scold or get mad at. I just hoped we wouldn’t have to pay for all this with chest pains later on. It wouldn’t be our first vacation that included a visit to a doctor’s office.

Itzik brought out plate after plate of salad, a beer for me (which I didn’t drink so as not to tempt Dave) and a platter of shishkebab, which used up Dave’s cholesterol quota for the rest of the month, if not for the summer. We talked in fits and starts, since Itzik spoke almost no English and didn’t even have a trace of Yiddish. Still, he was a lovely man. He showed us pictures of his wife and six children, and I reciprocated with ours, as well as pictures of our grandkids. Itzik smiled and nodded, and Dave and I smiled and nodded back.

After Itzik brought baklava and Turkish coffee—two more forbidden foods—he and Dave almost got into a fight when Dave insisted on paying for lunch. Itzik’s broad smile tightened and Dave got red-faced as they tried to outdo the other in pantomimed generosity. Dave tried to stuff two twenties into Itzik’s pocket, while Itzik pulled a bill out of his order pad and tore it up ceremonially. Finally I took the money from Dave and put it in Itzik’s hand, then leaned up to kiss him on each cheek. Not to be outdone, Itzik filled a white cardboard box with pastries dripping with honey, tied it with string, and gave it to me. I would have to keep an eye on Dave until I found somebody to give them away to.

“Sara!” Dave said as we got up to go. “We almost forgot to take pictures!” I took the camera out of my purse and motioned Itzik and Dave together. Before I could focus Itzik called to the men still working on their hummus; one of them took the camera from me, refused instructions, and then argued with his friend about which one was going to take the picture. They pushed and shoved each other, gave contrary instructions over how we were to pose—not that we could really understand what they were saying, since their mouths were still half full and they talked over each other in an excited staccato.

The pictures were finally taken, including one I took of the two photographers. They smiled between Dave and Itzik, their food finally swallowed. I promised to send them all copies. Itzik walked us to the door and we exchanged kisses again. This time I got a hug as well; my peacemaking had brought me into the family, I guess. Itzik and his two customers stood in the door and waved to us as we pulled away.

“I should have gotten directions on how to get back to the hotel,” I said after a few minutes.

“Oh, Sara.”

“Anyway, I’m going to write a note to myself to make copies of the pictures.”

“I hope they come out,” Dave said. “Did you have the camera set on automatic exposure?”

“Of course,” I said, hoping I would remember to check before Dave examined it.

The streets were quiet now; shops were closed for the afternoon. The sun was getting hot, and the humid air made me look forward to a nap in our air-conditioned room.

“Do I turn right or left on King George?” Dave asked after a while.

“I’ll check.” I fished the directions out of my purse and tried to follow it backwards.

“Well,” Dave asked presently, “left or right?” He tried not to sound impatient, but he never really liked it when I navigated, though he liked my driving less, probably because I asked too many questions.

“Oh, take a right,” I said. I didn’t tell him that it didn’t make any difference which way he turned. In looking at the directions I had noticed that his cousin Itzik lived in Haifa, not Tel Aviv. I wondered how, or if, I could ever tell Dave.

“A wonderful man,” Dave said, turning left.

“He is.”

“Sure is nice to have family.”

A Novel by Jimmy Goldfarb

© 2000 by Jimmy Goldfarb

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

“It’s Not Unusual” was written by Gordon Mills and Les Reed

ISBN 1442156945
EAN-13 9781442156944

For Joyce, of course

Y5.76K

1:1

Lester Norris unlocked the door to his apartment and flipped on the light before opening it wide. He walked in with his daughters’ two suitcases and set them down by a narrow table. Lester was immediately aware of the odor of worn furniture and ancient stains and indifferently-washed laundry that he had tried to cloak with new bleach and cleanser. He forced his embarrassment to the background as he ignored the stale air.

“Come in and make yourselves at home,” Lester said. “You’re probably exhausted from the trip. Can I get you something to drink? To eat? I don’t have guests very often, but I hope you’ll be comfortable. Here, sit down, sit down.” He walked past the table to the couch, sat down as if to give them the idea, and then stood up again. “What do you both like to drink? Hot? Cold?”

“Relax, Dad.”

Lester thought it was Abby who spoke, though he couldn’t yet tell her and Amanda apart. Abby was the more talkative of the two—at least that’s what she had told him in the rush at the airport. He couldn’t remember what they had been like as children.

“That’s right,” said his other daughter. “You’re bustling around like a mother hen.”

Lester changed his mind about who was who.

“Let me look at you,” Lester said. “I just can’t get over it.” He stood in front of the two young women, both twenty: identical twins. Even to Lester’s unpracticed eye he could tell that their clothes had been picked off the same rack and probably were as interchangeable as their features. Their long dark hair was tied in the back; they had just enough of their mother Sally’s looks to make them pretty rather than voluptuous. They had his milky-blue eyes, but with a lively sparkle rather than the vague distraction that he saw when he looked at himself in the mirror. The reason that life had dulled his eyes was not an inherited characteristic. At least he hoped not.

Abby and Amanda saw a man in middle-age with sagging jowls, thinning hair, and a small pot belly on a narrow frame. His clothes were old and frayed. He was a successor to the few photographs their mother had overlooked when she had weeded out her albums years ago; Amanda had spotted him fidgeting across the arrivals hall right away. They knew what kind of man their mother liked, even though he gave no indication of having any of those qualities. Tears gathered in Lester’s eyes, as if squeezed from the dark heavy bags that lay above his cheeks. He stepped forward to hug them both. They stiffened, then submitted; Lester retreated into the tiny kitchen. He turned to the cabinets and pulled out his handkerchief.

“I have coffee and tea,” he announced. “Or Coke. Or water. I made ice this morning.”

“I’ll have herbal tea.”

“I’ll have Coke.”

Lester turned.

“I can’t distinguish between your voices yet.”

“You never will,” one of them said. “The question is if you will ever be able to tell us apart at all.”

“You’re Abby,” Lester guessed from the length of the speech.

“Bingo,” Abby said. Lester stared at her clothes. She was wearing a solid blue skirt and a white blouse with lace trim. Amanda was wearing a flannel plaid shirt and designer jeans. He tried to memorize their outfits. He might be able to keep them straight for the rest of the evening, but what would he do tomorrow morning?

“Your mother used to keep your hair in braids,” Lester said. “‘B’ for Abby. That way everyone could tell you apart.”

“I know,” Abby said. “That stopped when I was twelve. I hated braids.”

“So how…” Lester started speaking.

“Amanda has a little mole near her mouth,” Abby said. Amanda pointed to a small black spot. “‘M’ for Amanda.”

“Abby sometimes makes a matching mark with eye-liner,” Amanda said. “It drives everybody nuts.”

“Have pity on your old man,” Lester said. “So who wants Coke and who wants tea?”

“I’ll have Coke,” Abby said.

“I’ll have tea,” Amanda said. “Herbal.”

“I’m not sure if I have herbal tea,” Lester said as he filled his electric kettle. Of course he didn’t have herbal tea. He knew exactly what he had. He put a brand-new box of Earl Grey on the counter and then reached deep into the back of the cabinet. He touched a small paper envelope that must have been there since before he moved in; he pried it off the shelf. It was a good thing that he never cleaned the cupboards.

“Is chamomile OK, Amanda?” he asked.

“That’s fine.”

“It’s my last one. We’ll go shopping tomorrow and get you whatever you want.”

Lester put some ice in a glass; the Coke foamed over when he poured. He wiped the glass with a rag and then brought it and the steaming tea to the trunk that he used for a coffee table.

“Here you are,” Lester said. “What about a snack? Fruit? Cake?”

“Yeah,” Abby said. “Fruitcake would hit the spot.”

“We can buy one tomorrow if they have such a thing in Jerusalem.”

“Don’t bother. Just making a joke.”

“No, if you really like fruitcake I’ll find one.”

“Don’t try so hard, Dad,” Amanda said.

“I guess I’m nervous.”

“We’re all nervous,” Amanda continued. “Just sit down and relax.”

Lester sat down but he didn’t relax.

“But now you don’t have anything to drink,” Abby said, standing up. “What would you like? Coke? Coffee? Tea? Beer? Scotch? Bourbon? Gin? Or maybe all of them mixed together?” Abby walked to the kitchen. “Where do you keep the ice?” she asked as she examined a glass, rinsed it out, and wiped it off.

“I’ll have plain water from the tap,” Lester said.

“One on the city,” Abby announced, filling a glass and bringing it to her father. Lester watched the milky mineral gasses slowly subside.

“Cheers,” Lester said. Abby and Amanda exchanged a quick glance at this toast, lifted their glasses silently, and then took small sips of their drinks. No one said anything until all of their glasses were empty. Lester took his last swallow as Amanda finished her tea. Abby started laughing.

“Look at us,” she said.

“I forgot the snacks,” Lester said, starting to get up.

“Save them for tomorrow,” Abby said. “Otherwise we might not have anything to talk about.”

“There’s too much to talk about,” Lester said slowly. “That’s the problem.”

“The only problem is getting started,” Amanda said.

“You first,” Abby said to Lester.

Lester picked up his glass and up-ended it even though there was hardly a drop left. His mouth was dry; the water had left his tongue coated with a bitter metallic scum.

“I’m sorry,” Lester said. He hid his face, but he couldn’t hide his tears. They flowed through his fingers. He was reaching for his handkerchief, ashamed because he knew it wasn’t clean, when he felt a soft hand on his. Amanda offered him a tissue from an open travel packet. Lester wiped his face with an embarrassed laugh.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said.

“We will?” Amanda asked.

“We do,” Abby said.

“Thank you.” Lester wasn’t sure if they were talking about his outburst, or for everything, but he didn’t pursue it. It was enough for now. Amanda gave him another tissue and Lester made a show of blowing his nose.

“OK,” he said. “I started. Your turn now.”

“I don’t know if that’s really considered starting—do you, Amanda?” Abby asked.

“In classic psychological terms,” Amanda answered her, “that would be considered catharsis. But it was more for him than for us, I would think.”

“So would I,” Abby agreed. She turned to Lester. “It’s still your turn.

“What do you want to know?

His daughters answered in unison. “Everything,” they said.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Well,” Abby said, “maybe you can think about it overnight and start tomorrow. I’m exhausted.”

Lester stood up quickly. “I’ll show you to your room.”

“That’s fine,” Abby said.

“I’d call that avoidance on both of your parts,” Amanda said.

“Aren’t you tired?” Abby asked her sister. “You slept as little as I did on the plane.”

“For the sake of family unity,” she said as she yawned, “I’ll also cast my vote for squeamishness.”

Lester showed them through the apartment—which took little enough time: one big room for a kitchen and sitting area, a narrow balcony crowded with a broken washing machine, dead potted plants, and miscellaneous junk left by previous tenants. Lester carried both suitcases down a small dark hall past a toilet room and shower and went into the bedroom. It had a narrow double bed, a free-standing wardrobe and a dresser. A portable typewriter stood on a cluttered desk.

“You’ll sleep in my room,” Lester said. “I’ll make a bed for myself on the couch,” he hastened to add.

“We can’t kick you out of your bedroom,” Abby said.

“You’re not kicking anybody out,” Lester said. “The couch is comfortable.”

“So we can sleep there,” Amanda said.

“It only sleeps one. No, I’ve already thought it all out.” Lester pulled down the blanket.

“Amanda, look,” Abby said, pointing at the sheet. “Mother has rags with that same pattern.”

“It was a wedding gift,” Lester said.

Amanda picked up one of the suitcases and put it on the bed. Abby went to pick up the other but Lester was too quick for her.

“I cleared out some space in the closet for hanging things,” Lester said. “And you can use the top two drawers of the dresser.” He gestured at the foot of the bed. “Towels, washcloths, soap. Anything else you need?”

“Do we have to tip you, too?” Abby asked.

“It’s already covered,” Lester said.

“How?” Amanda asked.

“I want to know everything, too.”

Amanda took out a nightshirt and Abby started unbuttoning her blouse. Lester turned to go.

“It’s so wonderful to have you here,” Lester said at the door. “I just can’t tell you. I’ve always thought about you. I wanted to know how you were doing, what you looked like, who your friends were…”

“So why didn’t you ever write?” Amanda asked angrily. She took a picture out of her purse and threw it down on the bed. “This was all we had of you for fifteen years—and we had to rescue it from the trash can.”

Lester picked it up. Someone—Sally—had carefully cut him out of a photograph, and someone else, just as carefully, had taped him back in. He was dressed in a tuxedo. Two silhouettes on Sally’s side were similarly missing.

“This was our wedding reception,” Lester said.

“So we gathered,” Abby said. “Who else was cut out and tossed away?”

“Bernie and Boris,” Lester said. “Your uncles.”

“What did they do?” Abby asked.

“I don’t know,” Lester said. “I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you ever write?” Amanda asked again.

Lester said nothing for a few moments. “I could say that your mother had sole custody,” he finally said, “and that the court didn’t permit me to have any contact with you. But that wouldn’t explain anything, or excuse it, either. I should have written—you’re right. But after I left prison I kind of crashed. When I finally got sober I felt bad about not being in touch, but it too hard to do anything about it.” Lester looked up, saw that Abby hadn’t stopped unbuttoning her blouse, and then looked down again. “I understand your anger, your hurt. Believe me, I do. I’m so grateful that you decided to get in touch despite it all.”

“You can thank Uncle Rick for that,” Abby said.

“Uncle Rick?”

“He gave us the money to come to Israel,” Amanda said.

“Mother would never have done it,” Abby added.

“He told us to investigate our roots,” Amanda said.

“I think he meant King David and Jesus and people like that,” Abby said. “He didn’t want to give us your address. And Mother thinks we went straight to a dorm.”

“Not that she really gives a shit,” Amanda said. “When she starts up with a new lover the whole world can go to hell. Yesterday she called a taxi from her bed, told us to take some spending money out of her purse, blew us a kiss to share, and told us to have a good time.” Amanda looked up. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“How the hell could a judge give sole custody of two children to a woman like Sally Jordan?” Amanda asked.

“Because he couldn’t give custody of two children to a man like Lester Norris.” Lester walked back towards the bed and kissed both of his daughters on their cheeks. They deferred to this little intimacy. He took a good hard look at Amanda’s little mole just above the left corner of her lip before he stepped away.

“Good night, girls,” Lester said. “I’m so happy to have you here.” He left the room and closed the door. He washed his face and brushed his teeth at the kitchen sink and then spread a sheet and a blanket on the couch. He turned off all of the lights but the faint one in the hall, took off his shirt and pants and got under the sheet and blanket. There were two protruding springs that he could avoid if he lay on his right side. He closed his eyes and listened to murmuring voices down the hall, muffled steps between the bedroom and the bathroom, all the unfamiliar noises of someone other than himself in his home. When it was quiet he would go to the toilet. Best to wait until the last minute so that, maybe, he wouldn’t have to get up again in the middle of the night. He didn’t want to run into his daughters in the darkness.

Lester turned to the other side, but it was worse. He usually took advantage of his insomnia to write—but everything was in his room, in his daughters’ room. He hadn’t planned well. Now he would have to be alone with his thoughts, and because of the actual presence of Abby and Amanda—not only his imaginations of them—he resigned himself to another night of sleeplessness.

Neighbors’ radios grumbled. Cars zoomed by outside the terrace window. The laundry line one floor up squeaked as someone hung things out to dry; Lester could hear drips on the corrugated fiberglass that covered his own wet clothes, folded over the cords knotted on jammed corroded pulleys. Lester started to worry. What kind of accommodations would his daughters have in the dormitory? Would they learn enough Hebrew to attend their classes, or were all of them in English? What kind of people came on junior year abroad? Would Abby and Amanda bring their dates for him to inspect and approve? Lester imagined terrible scenarios: dehydration, kidnapping, rape, earthquakes, terrorist bombs, liver cancer, senility. It was never worth getting close to anyone, because something might happen, something would ruin potential happiness. Suffering, and pain, and death, were always lurking.

Perhaps an hour passed, perhaps two. Lester couldn’t read the face of his watch in the dark, and he was just close enough to sleep that he didn’t want to turn on the light, but the anxiety about not knowing the time was enough to jolt him awake each time he thought he might be sinking into slumber. And always there were noises to disturb him, especially the soft sounds of talking from his bedroom, his daughter’s sibilants piercing the darkness. Lester became aware that he had to go to the bathroom. He put it off as long as he could, and then he padded down the hall, went into the toilet room, and kept his foot against the door so no one would think it was unoccupied because he hadn’t turned on the light.

He flushed before remembering about the noise. Hoping he hadn’t disturbed his daughters, he started walking down the hall. The bedroom door opened; Lester’s heart jumped.

“You can’t sleep either?” one of his daughters asked.

“I’m not a great sleeper,” Lester said. She was wearing a nightgown, and Lester was suddenly reminded of Sally’s evocative fragrance when he would meet her after a show: faded perfume and perspiration, and, later, the sour smell of sex. He had known, of course, that his daughters were twenty years old, but he had kept the image of them as he had last seen them: five-year-old dolls running and chattering, content in their safe, frilly world. He hadn’t adjusted to thinking of them as women, any more than he had accepted that he had destroyed the innocence of their childhood.

“So come in and visit for a while.”

“I’m only wearing underwear.”

“You can find something to put on. We left you a drawer.”

“Abby?” Lester guessed.

“Two bingos in one night. How did you know? And in the dark, too.”

“You’re a joker.”

“Mother calls it being a wise ass.”

“I’ll be right there.” Lester returned to the living room, quickly put on his clothes, and then dragged a kitchen chair down the hall. He knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” Abby asked. “Were you expecting visitors, Amanda?” Lester walked in. Abby and Amanda were side by side in bed. Amanda was wearing glasses and had a book propped on her knees. The suitcases were both open on the floor; Lester moved one aside with his foot to make room for his chair.

“By the way,” Amanda said, taking off her glasses, “Uncle Rick asked us to give you something as soon as we arrived.” She leaned over, picked up a large manila envelope, and handed it to Lester. “He said it was important.”

Lester took the heavy, thick envelope, and his heart began to beat quickly, the way it always did when he got a letter from his lawyer or received one of his SASEs back from a magazine. His mind raced. Could Rick have changed his will again? Could this mean a reconciliation? Rick was ninety-two, after all, though the last time he had seen him—five or six years ago—he had looked fit enough for another sixty years or more. Lester read the front of the envelope—Hand-Deliver to Lester Norris—in that precise Germanic script that he remembered so well from all the hortatory letters and memos that his uncle had regularly sent him until their estrangement.

Lester opened it and dumped sealed envelopes on the bed, addressed to all of the distant relatives he had avoided since moving to Israel nine years ago. Uncle Rick’s important package: letters he wanted mailed from here so he could save on US postage. Lester would have laughed if he hadn’t felt so ill from his pounding heart.

“Wanted to save fifty cents a shot, huh?” Abby asked.

“Yeah,” Lester said.

“At least he put Israeli stamps on them,” Lester said. He started putting them back in the envelope.

“Not all of them,” Amanda said, picking one up and handing it to her father.

“This one’s for me,” Lester said. “Why waste a shekel-fifteen when you can get hand-delivery?” His heart started up again, but he had a good idea what it was. He tore it open. Inside was another, ungummed envelope, and in that one an SASE and a printed invitation.

“Your cousin Jeremy is probably getting married,” Lester said.

“He got married two years ago,” Amanda said. “Uncle Rick told us. It was a quiet ceremony. They just had close family.”

Lester swallowed this insult, as he had swallowed so many others—not that, on some level, he didn’t deserve them. But he had been more of a father to Jeremy than Uncle Rick, who, at seventy-eight, hadn’t had much energy for a toddler. After the army injury when Jeremy lost his sight, Lester had visited him regularly until his father moved him to a private rehab clinic on the Dead Sea and made it clear that he wasn’t welcome. And neither of them had bothered to tell him he got married.

Lester opened the invitation.

The honor of your presence is requested
at the marriage of
Ms. Cruzada Doncella
to
Mr. Rick Norris
Thursday, September Ninth, Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Nine
Nine a.m.
Bet Hadassah, Hebron.

“Let’s see, let’s see,” Abby said, pulling Lester’s hand towards her so she and Amanda could read the invitation. They examined the engraving, the creamy paper, the thick raised panel.

“Do you have a pen?” Abby asked.

Lester reached over towards the small desk near the window and handed her one.

Abby took out the response card. “Are we all going?”

“I don’t think we’re invited,” Amanda said.

“We are,” Abby said. “It says ‘Lester Norris and Family.’ What do you say, Dad?”

Lester looked at the invitation again. “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think so. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“Tell us why not,” Amanda asked.

“You can go by yourselves if you want to,” Lester said. “I’m sure it will be very nice. Uncle Rick knows how to throw a party. You were too young to remember Jeremy’s bris: it was lavish. A wedding will probably be something to remember.”

“We’ve been to a wedding,” Amanda said.

“We’ve been to dozens of weddings,” Abby added. “Most of them with your ex-wife as the bride.”

“I just want to know why you don’t want to go,” Amanda said.

“That’s right,” Abby added. “Tell us.”

“It’s always been very mysterious,” Amanda said. “Uncle Rick sending us checks when the money ran out. Aunt Adele and her miraculous pregnancy. Rumors about a bastard son stuck away somewhere in Mexico.”

“Tell us, tell us, tell us,” Abby said.

“It’s complicated,” Lester said.

“We’re used to complications,” Amanda answered.

“We’re part of the complications—aren’t we?” Abby asked.

Lester didn’t say anything for a while. “What do you want to hear about first?”

“Let’s start with Uncle Rick’s bastard,” Abby suggested.

“Manuel,” Lester said. “His mother was Aunt Adele’s maid.” Lester shuffled through the envelopes and pulled out one of the invitations. “This one is for him.”

“Wow,” Abby said. “That certainly augments the definition of ‘extended family.’”

“Uncle Rick is marrying his mother,” Lester said. “Cruzada.”

Neither woman spoke for a moment.

“Closure,” Amanda said reverently.

“Were they carrying on an affair all of these years?” Abby asked.

“I couldn’t say, but I don’t think so,” Lester said. “Aunt Adele had Cruzada deported after Jeremy was born. She was from Mexico—a Mayan Indian. She didn’t have a green card. Manuel was about ten when they left.”

“Why did she wait so long to kick her out?” Amanda asked.

“In her place I would have called the INS when she had too start letting our her belt,” Abby said.

“I was twenty-one when Cruzada started working for Aunt Adele,” Lester said. “It might have started then. Aunt Adele had a—gynecological problem. It had something to do with—menstruation. I never asked, but when I was thirteen Uncle Rick gave me a birds and bees talk; he spent most of the time explaining the rules of family purity, about how I should never have contact with a woman who was bleeding.” Lester paused for a moment. “Uncle Rick and Aunt Adele had separate bedrooms. I hardly remember seeing them touch.”

“She menstruated all the time?” Amanda asked.

“My God, the poor woman,” Abby said. “And that was before tampons, too.”

“But that doesn’t explain why she let her husband’s mistress hang around,” Amanda pointed out.

Lester took a breath. “I think that Aunt Adele encouraged it. Either that or closed her eyes to it. She and Uncle Rick had gone through a lot together—hiding from the Nazis in Berlin, sneaking through the British blockade into Palestine, fighting during the war of independence, picking up and moving to the States, all the while taking care of me. They loved each other, even if it wasn’t physical. Aunt Adele knew that a man has—physical needs. She wanted him to satisfy his—urges—somehow.”

“You’re blushing,” Abby said.

“You’re doing fine,” Amanda said. “Go on.”

“You sound like a psychologist, Amanda,” Lester said.

“She ought to,” Abby said. “She’s been to enough of them.”

“And you haven’t been to enough of them.”

“Just because I laugh at what you find so damn serious.”

“It sounds kind of heartless,” Amanda said, ignoring her sister. “What Aunt Adele did, I mean.”

“I can’t pass judgment,” Lester said. “Uncle Rick wanted a son, an heir. Maybe they thought that they could adopt Manuel—I don’t know. I was kind of sweet on Cruzada myself; she had a nice personality, very pretty. Maybe Uncle Rick started to fall for her and that was why Aunt Adele kicked them out. She and Cruzada had begun to argue; Cruzada didn’t think she had to keep cleaning and cooking after Manuel was born. And he was a difficult child. Destructive. Wild. Maybe even Uncle Rick was glad to see them go. But one thing I’m sure about: he was certain that what he did was moral.”

“You were Uncle Rick’s heir for a while, weren’t you?” Amanda asked.

“That’s right.”

“What happened?”

“It’s complicated,” Lester said.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” Abby said. “You did all right with the bastard story.”

“He’s not finished with it,” Amanda said. She picked up the envelope and handed it back to her father. “What’s Manuel doing in Jericho?”

Lester looked at the envelope. “He was one of the leaders of the Zapatista rebellion in Chiapas. In 1994. You might have heard him on CNN; they called him their foreign minister because he has American citizenship.”

“That explains Mexico,” Abby said. “It doesn’t explain Jericho.”

“They sent him to learn how to organize a popular uprising.”

“Intifada school?” Amanda asked.

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“Molotov Cocktails 201,” Abby recited. “The proper mix of gasoline and air; rag fuses; computing a trajectory. Lab fees required. Prerequisite: Stone Throwing 101 and Introduction to Group Chanting. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Revolution Hall.”

“How do you know all this?” Amanda asked.

“We exchange letters a couple of times a year,” Lester said.

“You have a support group?” Abby asked. “The walking wounded of Rick Norris?”

Lester laughed. “Something like that.”

“So maybe Jeremy will join up in September?” Amanda suggested.

“No,” Lester said. “Jeremy’s the heir. Definitely. Rick’s son by Adele. What they always wanted.”

“How can he be sure that she didn’t slip one in on him?” Abby asked. “I might have in Aunt Adele’s place.”

“No,” Lester said. “No, they are as certain that Jeremy’s their child as anyone can be. It was IVF. Jeremy was the second test-tube baby born in the world.”

“That was the miracle,” Amanda said.

“That was the miracle,” Lester agreed.

“And then you were kicked out on your can?” Abby asked.

“No, it wasn’t that.” Lester thought. “It wasn’t that.”

“It wasn’t that, it wasn’t that,” Abby repeated.

Lester stood up. “I’m really getting tired, girls,” he said.

“We’re not going to get that story,” Amanda told Abby.

“It would take more than an evening. More than a day.” Lester closed his eyes. “I know. I’ve been working on explaining it to myself for years.”

“Give us a clue,” Abby said.

“How much do you two know about computer science?” Lester asked.

“It’s my major,” Amanda said. Lester looked over to Abby.

“Mine’s literature, of course,” Abby said. “Can’t stand all those ones and zeros.”

Lester turned to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of paper. “I guess you could call these my memoirs,” he said. “A pompous name for the maunderings of a confused man, I guess, but I have to call them something. If there are any answers, I suppose that they are here.” He put it on the bed. His manner suddenly changed from repentant father to anxious author. “It’s in fourth draft. I hope you can make out the proofreaders marks. I really need a good editor…”

“We’ll manage,” Amanda said.

“Do you have a red pencil?” Abby asked. “I already see a typo.”

Lester handed his daughter a red pen, and then put all the invitations back in the manila envelope—except for his own, which he threw in the trash can. Amanda had already put her book away and settled the manuscript in her lap. Abby covered the typescript with her hand so she couldn’t read without her.

“What about the wedding, Dad?” Abby asked. “You never explained why you weren’t going to go.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Amanda asked her sister.

“No it’s not,” Abby answered.

“She’s right,” Lester said. “It’s not obvious. If the wedding were a day earlier I might have gone—if only to take you.”

“Is your social calendar all filled up?” Abby asked. “Somehow I didn’t think you planned so far in advance.”

“That’s what your great-uncle Rick always used to say about me, too,” Lester said.

“You’re being mysterious,” Amanda said.

Lester took a deep breath. “Don’t laugh.”

“You’re warning the wrong person,” Amanda said. “I don’t laugh.”

“Don’t worry,” Abby said. “I’ll laugh if you say anything funny.”

Lester turned to Amanda. “Do you know anything about the Y2K bug?”

“Who hasn’t?” Amanda asked.

“Even I have,” Abby said. “But this is August.”

“9-9-99 is what they call a magic date,” Lester said. “Some programmers used all nines in a date field as a special flag to kludge a workaround or to test a sub-routine. It could mean anything: ‘end of file,’ ‘purge data,’ ‘shut down system.’ Anything.”

“I thought they had fixed all those problems,” Abby said.

“Impossible,” Lester answered. “There’s no way. There are too many magic dates—and most programmers just made them up as they went along.”

“You’re not one of those crazies who are planning to go out in the woods at the end of December with food and guns, are you?” Abby asked.

“If anything’s going to happen it will be long before December,” Lester said.

“What do you think is going to happen?” Amanda asked.

“I don’t know. Something.”

“For example?” Abby asked.

“Well,” Lester said, “what happens when the ballistic computer at a missile base gets an order to shut down? Is it interpreted by another part of the system as an attack? Are missiles launched? If a nuclear power plant purges all data about safety procedures will they be restored before the reactor melts down? I don’t know. No one does.”

“So what are you going to do?” Amanda asked.

“I have a place,” Lester said. “A safe place.” He put his hands out to help him describe it, but then let them fall to his side. “You’re both welcome to sit it out with me. A couple of days—that’s all.”

“With all due respect,” Abby said, “I think you’re nuts.”

“That’s a contradiction,” Amanda told her sister.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Abby told her. “With all due respect.”

“Why would Uncle Rick schedule his wedding on a magic date?” Amanda asked.

“It couldn’t be his sense of humor,” Abby said.

“I don’t know,” Lester said. “He always had a reason for everything he did. I’m sure he can justify marrying his old mistress with his wife less than two years in the ground.”

Lester walked to the door. “You’re welcome to come with me even if I am nuts. You don’t have to decide right away.” Lester yawned deeply. “I have to go to sleep. Goodnight.”

“I want a kiss,” Abby said. She poked Amanda in the side.

“Me too.”

Lester came back to the bed and kissed both daughters on their cheeks, and then left the room and closed the door. Amanda took Abby’s hand off of the manuscript and put on her reading glasses.

“Dysfunctional family,” Amanda said.

“Pot calling the kettle black.”

“I wasn’t excluding myself,” Amanda said. “Or you.”

“Thanks for being inclusive.”

Amanda started reading.

“I don’t see what Mother saw in him,” Abby said.

“Be quiet.”

“He thinks too much, for one thing.”

“What about Brad?” Amanda asked. “He thinks too much, too.”

“Brad’s a good dancer.”

“And probably bisexual.”

“Hey,” Abby said. “You can’t have everything. Or, actually, maybe in his case you can.”

“Sometimes you can’t have anything.”

“Amanda Norris,” Abby said in a deep voice, “I believe you are expressing self-pity. Why don’t you redirect your emotional energies to something more beneficial?”

“Try Amanda Jordan.”

“What’s wrong with Amanda Norris? It has a nice ring to it.”

“I don’t know yet.”

“It has to be better than Jordan.”

“How would you know?” Amanda asked.

“How do you know it’s not?” Abby countered.

“I just have a bad feeling,” Amanda said.

“Oh, you and your feelings. What do you get out of your feelings? What are you trying to do?”

“I’m trying to read.”

“Well, I’m trying to distract you.”

“You’re succeeding.”

“Good.” Abby sat back and looked at the page that Amanda had finished in the meantime and put face down on the bed. She pulled the red pen out from behind her ear. “I don’t know how cruel he wants me to be,” she said as she rearranged a split infinitive. She put the paper and the pen down on the bed.

“I don’t feel like doing this,” Abby said.

“See,” Amanda said, putting down another page. “You do have feelings.”

“Yeah. And I know what I feel like doing. Tell me if the story picks up.”

Abby slipped off her nightgown and burrowed under the covers. She pulled up the edge of Amanda’s nightshirt and started caressing her thighs. She twisted the single curl of pubic hair out of the way and began to lick and kiss her sister’s shaven labia.

“What are you doing?” Amanda asked. Her voice was muffled through the sheet and blanket, and Abby couldn’t tell if she was annoyed or bored.

“Trying to get over my jet lag.”

Abby rubbed her breasts against Amanda’s legs and waited. Finally she heard a dull thunk as the manuscript was placed on the nighttable. Then, with relief, Abby heard a deep chuckle.

“OK, Sissie,” Amanda said. “You win.”

“See, Sissie,” Abby said as Amanda turned off the reading lamp and joined her under the covers, “you do know how to laugh.”

“But not at anything funny,” Amanda said. “That’s the problem.”

“Have you thought about getting therapy?”

“What good would that do? I won’t tell them what I do know and I can’t tell them what I don’t remember.”

“There you go again,” Abby said. “The only thing to think about is what’s happening this very second.”

“Mmmm,” Amanda said after a few seconds. “Mmmm.”

Abby took a break. “That’s easy for you to say. But nothing is happening to me this very second.”

“Well,” Amanda said, “I guess I have to be fair.”

“Should I take out the toys?”

“I don’t think we need them tonight, do we?” Amanda asked.

Abby and Amanda Jordan—or Norris, they hadn’t quite decided—made love to the only person who they knew that they could trust. Lester Norris tossed and turned on the couch, disturbed by the rustling sounds from his bed and the thoughts that those sounds aroused, knowing, deep inside, that he was responsible.

My father, Chantel Narrsohn, (Lester wrote), had his pick of a purple triangle or a yellow star. I would like to think that he chose the symbol to match what he was wearing, but I understand that he confined his forays to the early hours of the morning and tried to pass, as he always had, as something he was not. My father was an entertainer, first on the stage, and then in small clubs, and then for private parties, and then one-on-one. It brought in money and food, and I suppose it gave him pleasure—or as much as any Jewish homosexual could expect in Nazi Germany. He was beaten to death only months before the Russians rolled into Berlin.

Of my mother I can tell you nothing, not even her name. She died at my birth; I was raised by my aunt and uncle and they never spoke of her. What little I know about my father Chantel—Uncle Rick’s younger brother—I learned from my Aunt Adele when her husband was out of earshot. Uncle Rick rarely spoke of the war, and Aunt Adele only under duress. She had a soft spot for her brother-in-law, however; he somehow made their existence hiding under Hitler’s nose more tolerable, perhaps even joyful.

Terrence Narrsohn, my grandfather, planned to lead his two sons and their wives from Poland to Palestine; they spent a year in a Zionist training farm near Warsaw waiting for their immigration certificates. My uncle once said that he preferred watching sheep and milking cows to plowing and harvesting—and sitting and thinking more than anything else. Rikard Narrsohn had already made a name for himself in mathematical circles because of a paper about prime generation. Perhaps he felt his opportunities to research number theory and mathematical logic would have been stunted in Palestine, which, understandably, was more concerned about nurturing the more practical sciences than flights of numerological fancy. In any event, they stopped in Berlin in 1933, the year Hitler became Reich Chancellor. I could never understand why they stayed in Germany, of all places, of all times, but that is the difference between knowing the past and seeing the future, and since Terrence died soon after they arrived he can’t be blamed for not being a prophet. By the time the Nuremburg laws were passed and the gates were closed Rikard was submitting papers under the name of a former German colleague who, on the strength of my uncle’s work, had been placed in charge of codes and ciphers for the Third Reich.

Enigma—Germany’s encryption machine—was designed by Rikard Narrsohn. It perfectly described himself: the brain behind the Nazi professor who sheltered the two Jewish couples in his attic. It also suggested the built-in logical flaw that made it easy for the British to crack the code. Perhaps I am being ingenuous, for though I have not a little talent in cybernetics, and am even considered one of the early pioneers of the information age—for those who pursue computer trivia—it took the genius of an Alan Turing to break my uncle’s code. They had read each other’s papers and corresponded before the war; perhaps they considered it a sophisticated tête à tête. Though Uncle Rick never spoke of it, I would like to believe that this was his contribution to shortening the war.

I have no memory of the attic where I was born, but Aunt Adele once described the dark room, a mattress in the corner, a paint can for a chamber pot, her husband thinking at a desk or writing on a blackboard. How my mother’s body was disposed of after her death, or how they fed me and kept me quiet after I was born, they never told me. Towards the end of the war an allied bomb gutted the lower floors of the house, killing our patron, but leaving our attic hiding place intact. My father and my aunt would leave in the small hours of the morning to trade what they had for food while Rikard Narrsohn continued his pursuit of the Entscheidungsproblem: the method by which all mathematical questions could be decided.

My first real memories are of a ship, of being held above the waves, of salt water on my lips; the fear of a knock on the door—though the danger was now deportation to Cyprus, not a train to Auschwitz. I remember staring into the eyes of a cow on the kibbutz where we were hidden from the Mandate police—perhaps the very same kibbutz where my grandfather had intended on settling the family. A few other scattered memories: a woman urging me to speak a language I didn’t understand, a room of children, bunkbeds lined along the wall, eating at low tables, nineteen kids sitting on nineteen potty seats all in a row. Aunt Adele appeared every afternoon, and sometimes Uncle Rikard in his uniform and rifle, home on leave from the war that was raging all around us.

I also remember the day—I was five years old—when the women in the baby-house stopped talking to me because we were leaving for the fleshpots of America. We settled in Philadelphia and Rikard Narrsohn changed his name to Rick Norris. He joined John von Neumann’s team to help design EDVAC—the Electronic Discrete Variable Computer. We moved to Boston a year later because von Neumann, according to Uncle Rick, was an idiot. After he helped design the IBM 701 he left IBM, too. They were all idiots.

Uncle Rick had visualized the perfect computer during those long dark days in Berlin, and was impatient with anyone who didn’t share his vision. He actually felt that he had designed a brain; he only called it a computer so lesser minds would understand what he was talking about. Building on Alan Turing’s conception of a machine that could perform all mathematical operations, he had developed an algorithm that would examine any problem and program itself to find a way to solve it. He claimed that he had discovered something that had always existed—not unlike Michelangelo’s assertion that his sculpture only revealed the form imprisoned in the stone. The program had no limits except those posed by hardware: the mechanical card sorters, slow vacuum tubes, limited register memory, primitive storage devices of the day. Uncle Rick didn’t believe in designing for current engineering. He rejected the distinction between program and data, between software and hardware. I think that that’s what he meant when he said that he was designing a brain; if he could have worked in blood and protein instead of electrons and copper he might have been able to build what he conceived in his mind.

When I had enough schooling to understand what he wanted to do, I told him that he would have to link every computer in the world together to get enough transistors to handle the job. This was the first and last time that I impressed my uncle; he said that that was the solution: a network of computers working in parallel. Not suffering fools, but willing to put up with me, we built two mini-computers, linked them together by phone, and let them talk to each other using the software that he had designed—or discovered: EI/NS—Evolving Intelligence / Networking System. He published a paper and waited.

On its own it was slow and clumsy. Perhaps it could program itself, but, if so, Uncle Rick was the only person who could ask it questions—he rejected the words “program instructions”—and only he seemed to understand what it was saying. It certainly wasn’t a commercial product. He gave it away to anyone who expressed an interest. Our house was always open to mathematicians or computer scientists who wanted to talk and exchange formulas. After Aunt Adele developed asthma we moved to Albuquerque for the desert air, and when the war reparations money began to run out Uncle Rick and I incorporated and began taking on software contract work.

Or, rather, I did. Uncle Rick continued tinkering with EI/NS, and I hired what would today be called computer geeks to do the programming. It’s not entirely fair to say that Uncle Rick did nothing, though; he could debug our programs with a glance, and since he didn’t want to be bothered by lesser minds he asked EI/NS to create what would today be called a mainframe emulation, ran our programs through it, and gave us a printout of what to fix. Now this was a product we could sell, I told him, but Uncle Rick categorically refused. “EI/NS for IBM,” he said, “is a lobotomy on my system performed.” He refused to limit his vision by the current state of the art. He anticipated, in his mind, a personal computer on every desktop, linked by phone lines, sharing information on a vast world-wide web. But he wouldn’t compromise with reality. He was a visionary without missionizing zeal. He was satisfied with a few converts here and there, purists who built a computer, attached it to his network, and gave the entire system more of its evolving intelligence. “Everything it sees,” Uncle Rick said. “But what it says we don’t always understand.”

A hall of fame of computer whizzes passed through the Norris Software Group, though Uncle Rick wasn’t impressed with any of them. They would proudly show him a piece of particularly tight code and he would berate me for an hour that the year field had been compressed into two digits. “What after 1999 is going to happen?” he asked me. I had no idea, and moreover I didn’t care. After Korea and the Berlin airlift and the Bay of Pigs and the Cuban missile crisis and the war in Vietnam who knew if we were even going to make it to 1979, let alone the new millennium? Everything we did would be redone anyway, I told him, long before the problem ever came up. “Your generation has of history no understanding,” he said. And that was true. I didn’t care about the distant future; I needed to make money for the immediate present. I had discovered the thrills of gambling, had learned to enhance its excitement—and kill the disappointment—with drink. I plowed my share of the company profits into poker chips; strategic planning consisted of making it to my bed before passing out and working through the next morning’s hangover. NSG was considered the firm you had to leave before you accomplished anything. As soon as we got a programmer up to speed he would go off and start his own company. Fortunes were being made all around us but I was too spaced out to notice, and Uncle Rick was too involved in infinity to care.

I met Sally Jordan at the Sands in Las Vegas one night when I won back half of the fortune I had lost the night before. It was 1977. Sally Jordan leaned over me, watching my growing pile of chips at the blackjack table. Sally was a showgirl getting tired of performing; she was looking for a meal ticket, a sugar daddy. When instinct told me that I should take no more chances, Sally put her arm through mine as if she had been the pile of chips I had been gambling for; I pocketed my winnings, proving once again that a gambler’s instinct was not always to be trusted.

We shared everything: compulsion, infatuation, lust, jealousy—perhaps even love, though I could never be sure. She satisfied my every fantasy, descended to whatever depths of depravation I imagined. When Uncle Rick and Aunt Adele made an extended visit to Israel I moved the business to Las Vegas so I could be closer to Sally—and the casinos—and when she found herself pregnant I married her and sent Rick and Adele a letter announcing that they would soon be a great-uncle and great-aunt; Uncle Rick wrote me back saying that sixty-four year-old Aunt Adele was with child and that I would soon have a cousin.

As a husband and father and cousin, and in the midst of the first of many attempts at sobriety, I began hearing rumors that IBM was designing a personal computer and that they were looking for both hardware and software outside of the company. It was then that I received a flash of my uncle’s vision. I understood that we were at the start of a new era, and that this was my chance to be in at the beginning—but I had nothing to offer IBM but our single, all-but-unsellable product: EI/NS. It was unforgiving, hard to use, strict in its application, practically unteachable. Unlike my uncle, though, I had no problem compromising with reality. I decided to lobotomize it, package it for idiots, and perfection be damned.

IBM offered us a generous contract: NSG would get a royalty for each copy of PC-EINS that went on every personal computer. We would have the rights to upgrade the software and could sell it separately. I could see, in my own mind, how I could fulfill my uncle’s dream as some future version of NSG-EINS became identical to his program. But on the day I was to sign the contract Uncle Rick appeared; he tore it up without a glance. “EI/NS is not for sale,” he said. “It is free to those whose eyes are open.” IBM left, tried to buy CP/M, but when no one was home they bought DOS, 307 undocumented bugs and all. And the rest, as they say, is history.

“You are no longer my heir,” Rick told me. “Our association is dissolved. If you choose to live here, I will live in Israel. If you go to Israel I will remain here. That is your choice, the last I will give you.”

“Get out of here, old man,” I said. And from that day to this I never spoke to him.

The next five years are a blur. I have only snatches of memories: the beginning—not the end—of parties, waking up on a stranger’s couch or in the street, my daughters frightened of my drunken rages, money thrown away in every casino on and off the Strip, desperate sales of possessions to buy drink or drugs. I hardly cared when I found another man in my bed when I arrived home from a drunken evening. I suppose I shouldn’t have been shocked when Sally sued me for divorce, and my lawyer’s argument that an alcoholic was a more suitable parent than a promiscuous ex-showgirl didn’t convince the judge. Sally was given sole custody of our daughters, and she didn’t let me see the girls for almost two years.

Things were looking up for me when Sally finally relented. I had sobered up again; NSG had contracted to code part of the first version of Windows. I took my daughters for a weekend; we had a picnic and went to the zoo, and I indulged them with cotton candy and ice cream. On the way home I felt so good I decided to drink a beer. When I next awoke I was in jail, charged with unspeakable crimes. After I was released from prison I slept in the streets, selling what I could steal, or giving what I could sell, for enough money to keep my mind from thinking.

In the end I was rescued by Uncle Rick—or, rather by two of his emissaries—who helped me escape from the monsters that pursued me, the armies of ancient evil that had captured my mind and held my body ransom. I escaped from Las Vegas as if from hellfire. I became a Satmar Hasid, entered a rhythm of prayer and study, returned to Israel, the place of my first conscious memories. I sobered up for good, and then lost faith.

My encounter with religion, however, gave me the insight to understand Uncle Rick’s doctrine of a single, overriding principle, and his decision to sacrifice everything for it. Indeed, the acolytes of EI/NS—I can hardly call them anything else—have grown more numerous and more fanatic through the years. They are a small but influential group; they feel that it is only a matter of time before everyone will come around to their way of thinking. It is a messianic hope, and one that I have no energy to consider or maintain. I cannot believe in one overriding principle. Everything can be divided. God is created in the image of man, and because man is flawed, his creations are even more so. If Uncle Rick had known such weakness—or had recognized such weakness in himself—we could have controlled people’s minds and desktops. We would have the monopoly on how people seek information, how they interact with each other, organize their work, form their thoughts. Sometimes I think that it is fortunate that a real visionary is rarely given such power. If I could credit Uncle Rick with omniscience I would say that he showed great wisdom when he destroyed my life and sent me hurtling towards the gutter.

Loud knocking on the door awakened everyone in the apartment. Lester looked at his watch: it was almost nine. As usual he felt as if he had just fallen asleep. The knocking continued, louder, angrier. Lester sat up and pulled on his pants. Abby and Amanda walked down the hall.

“You ought to get a more traditional alarm clock,” Abby said.

Lester smiled and stroked her cheek. He went to the door, buttoning his pants as he walked.

“Who is it?”

“Reb Sanz,” came the voice through the door. “Open up.”

“Why?”

“You brought two prostitutes into the apartment last night.”

“Nonsense,” Lester said. “Those are my daughters.”

“I don’t believe you. You have shamed yourself and profaned the neighborhood.”

“I’ve done no such thing. My daughters have come to study.”

“You have no daughters.”

“I was divorced when they were little.”

“Let me see them.”

Lester turned from the door. Abby and Amanda were no longer in the hall. He walked to his bedroom and knocked on the door.

“Abby, Amanda, can you come out?”

“Why?”

“A man wants to see you.”

Lester heard the harsh mechanical click of the lock. He went back to the front door.

“Reb Sanz,” Lester said, “you’re being unreasonable.”

“Open the door.”

“We’ll be leaving the apartment soon. None of us got much sleep last night. You can see them then.”

Lester heard a key being turned; he only just managed to close the security chain before the door was pushed open. Reb Sanz’s red face and his long beard was framed between door and lintel. He pushed as if he thought he could squeeze through.

“Let me in!” He stepped back and hit the door with his shoulder.

“They’re innocent girls,” Lester yelled. “What do you want from them?”

“I want to see them. I want to know what they are.”

“I’m not letting you in.”

Reb Sanz stopped trying to break down the door. “Listen to me,” he said, breathing heavily. “Leave this place, leave this house. You have two hours. Then I am coming back with the whole committee.”

“You can’t throw me out of my apartment.”

“You have already left the community, and now you are corrupting everyone who sees you sinning. You have two hours, and then we are coming.”

Reb Sanz left. Lester slammed the door shut. He looked at the apartment. He had almost nothing here—some clothes, some food, some books. All he had of value—and that dubious—were his manuscripts. He should have moved on years ago, but the neighborhood reminded him of the religious discipline that had sobered him up—and he didn’t like changes; they might be dangerous. But now he had no place to go. Lester felt a wave of panic as he thought about living on the streets, finding shelter from the weather, getting hand-outs; going weeks and months without bathing, trying to ignore sores, skin infections, lice; illnesses that had to run their courses; random violence, infrequent compassion. Lester felt weak. He sat down and put his head in his hands.

In a few moments he sat up. What was wrong with him? He had money. He had a car. He was sober. And he had to take care of his daughters. But what was he supposed to tell them? Lester slowly got to his feet and walked towards his bedroom, first glancing at the clock hanging on the wall. He didn’t have time to come up with a story or an explanation. When he had first decided to write about his life he had stared at the blank pad of paper for hours, for days. And then he started, and the words poured out. He read what he had written and he wrote it again. After four drafts it explained everything the way he wanted things known. He didn’t trust himself with unrehearsed feelings, with impromptu speech. But now he had no choice. He knocked on the bedroom door.

“Can I come in?”

There was no answer, but Lester could hear the sounds of crying inside.

“Amanda? Abby? I’m all by myself. I’m alone. No one else is here.”

He waited for almost a full minute, aware that his time was running out, but knowing that he couldn’t pound on the door like Reb Sanz. Finally he heard steps. The key turned in the lock and Abby opened the door.

“Nice neighbors you’ve got there,” she said.

“Don’t worry. I’m moving.”

“Good choice. When?”

“In two hours.”

“Very funny.”

Abby stepped away from the door. Amanda was sitting on the bed, facing the wall. Abby sat next to her and rubbed her back.

“I’m sorry,” Lester said.

“You certainly spend enough time saying that you’re sorry,” Amanda responded.

Lester walked closer to the bed. “What made you so upset, Amanda?”

“It was something you said. It reminded me of something.”

Abby looked up at Lester. “Something always reminds her of something.”

“Not always,” Amanda said.

“How long would it take you two to pack?” Lester asked.

“Since we didn’t unpack it wouldn’t take very long,” Abby said. “Why? Are you kicking us out?”

“No,” Lester said. “I’ve been kicked out.”

“By who?” Amanda asked.

“There’s…” Lester started. How could he phrase it?

“There’s?” Abby repeated.

“There’s a morals committee in the neighborhood. They object to my lifestyle and they want me to leave.”

“I have to admit you’ve got a pretty radical lifestyle,” Abby said.

“I do for this neighborhood. I moved to Meah Shearim when I was religious. I fit in then. Now I don’t.

“When did you change?” Amanda asked. “Last week?”

“Two years ago.”

“Why didn’t they give you notice then?” Amanda asked.

“They thought I’d come back.”

“When do you have to leave?”

“Before eleven.”

“In your finer hotels check-out time is noon,” Abby said.

“This isn’t one of your finer hotels.”

“Well, just fuck ‘em,” Amanda said. “You’ve got your rights. They can’t just tell you to up and go.”

“They can. If I’m not gone in two hours they’ll beat me up. They’ve done it to others.”

“Call the police.”

“They won’t do anything.”

“Some neighborhood,” Abby said. “If I were you I would move.”

“Will you help me bring things to the car?” Lester asked. “And afterwards I’ll drive you to your dorm.”

Amanda and Abby exchanged a glance. “We’ll help you take things to the car,” Amanda said.

The two women quickly dressed and then made several trips while Lester packed. Truly there wasn’t much to take, most of it paper: manuscripts, documents, correspondence. Everything he really needed fit into two suitcases. He dragged them to the front door when Amanda and Abby returned with empty produce boxes from the greengrocer down the block. One of his daughters was wearing jeans and a halter top, the other a blouse and skirt. Lester tried to be inconspicuous when he looked for Amanda’s mole.

“Thank God some man is looking at us,” Abby said. She tossed down the boxes, took Amanda’s head in her hands and moved her close to her father so he could see the mole above her lip. “I’ve never been so ignored in my entire life.”

“They’re not supposed to look at women,” Lester told her. “Especially not dressed the way you are.”

“Maybe we should find an apartment here,” Abby told Amanda. “Think of all the money we waste now on clothes and make-up.”

“Should I pack up the kitchen?” Amanda asked.

“I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

“Why not?” she asked, throwing open a cabinet. “It’s only a quarter to eleven.”

She hadn’t even started before the door burst open and Reb Sanz lead a dozen younger men, all dressed in black and white, into the apartment.

“Out!” Reb Sanz yelled.

“That’s not fair!” Abby responded. “We still have fifteen minutes.”

Reb Sanz acted as if Abby didn’t exist. The other men started pulling books off of bookcases, upending the furniture.

“Stop it!” Amanda yelled. The men ignored her. One of them knocked Lester down; another threw a suitcase out the window.

“Hey, look at me!” Abby yelled. She ripped off her halter top and thrust her bare breasts at the men. They averted their eyes towards the kitchen.

Amanda lifted her skirt. “Panties!” she yelled.

“Let’s go!” Abby said. She helped Lester to his feet; Amanda picked up the other suitcase. In the hall the men surged after them, but Abby turned, held her breasts in both hands, and pointed the nipples at the men as if she were aiming a double-barreled shotgun.

“You better watch out,” Abby called to them. “They’re loaded.” They continued down the stairs; every time one of the men got too close Abby or Amanda would make a move at him and he would back away. People on the street scattered when they saw them approach. Abby threw the suitcase in the back seat of the car and they all got in the front.

“Step on it, Dad,” Abby said from the seat next to the door. “We’re running out of ammunition.”

Lester started up the car and drove away. Abby screamed in laughter as men on the sidewalk closed their eyes to her nakedness. Amanda joined Abby in her laughter, and then Lester. He finally had to pull up to the curb.

“Maybe you should cover yourself,” Lester suggested when he got his breath.

“I lost my halter,” Abby said.

“One of them got it,” Amanda said. “I saw. He stuck it in his pocket.”

“It’ll be cold by the time he gets a chance to use it,” Abby said. She leaned over, opened a suitcase, and pulled out a blouse. She put it on as Lester continued driving.

“This is Amanda’s,” Abby said, buttoning up. “Is that going to confuse you?”

“I’ll never get you two confused again.”

“Just wait.”

“I haven’t had that much fun for months,” Amanda said.

“Yeah,” Abby answered. “Let’s do it again.”

“Once is enough for me,” Lester said.

“Imagine what Dickie could do with that scenario,” Abby said.

“It’s in bad taste,” Amanda answered.

“Since when did Dickie worry about taste?”

“Who’s Dickie?” Lester asked. “A boyfriend?”

“Hardly,” Amanda said.

“He’s a director,” Abby continued. “Does strip shows in an old burlesque house off the Strip.”

“A friend of your mother’s?”

“Nope,” Amanda said. “He’s not Mother’s style.” No one said anything for a few moments.

“In the lit biz this would be called a pregnant pause,” Abby said. “Everyone is waiting for someone to say something.”

“Thanks, Abby,” Amanda said. “That was very illuminating.” Still no one spoke.

“Well, OK,” Abby said. “Never was much interested in pregnancy—literary or otherwise. Amanda and I work the peep shows and strip joints for spending money.” Lester said nothing. “Hey, Dad—I don’t want you to get pregnant, too. That would be revolting.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Lester said.

“We have a class act,” Abby said. “First I go out, partially strip, exit, and seconds later Amanda comes out in a completely different outfit. She goes a little farther, leaves, and I come out fully dressed in another costume. No one in Las Vegas can do a quick-change like we can. We whipsaw the audience. They throw money on the stage.”

“Silver,” Amanda added. “Bills.”

“I’m sorry you have to do that,” Lester said.

“You’re being sorry again,” Amanda said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s right, Dad. It’s not hard work. Clothes are expensive. And we’re still virgins.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Amanda added.

“Well,” Lester said, “what would you like to do today?”

“Avoidance activity?” Abby asked Amanda.

“That’s what I’d call it.”

Lester joined a long line at a short left turn signal. “Are you girls hungry?”

“When all else fails,” Amanda said, “talk about food.”

“You must still be jetlagged.”

“Either that or change the subject,” Amanda said. They moved forward several car-lengths.

“When can you move into your dorms?” Lester asked. The lights changed one more time. “Pregnant pause?” Lester finally asked.

“Well, Dad…” Abby said. “You take it, Amanda.”

“We’re not really on our junior year abroad,” Amanda said.

“What are you?”

“We’re fed up,” Abby said. “Fed up with Mother, fed up with Vegas, fed up with school.”

“Fed up with life,” Amanda added.

“We wanted to take a break,” Abby said. “And here we are.”

“Does your mother know this?”

“Does she care?” Amanda asked. “No, is the answer. We’ve been cramping her style for twenty years—the best years of her life. About time we decided to make a move, she figured. ‘Go to Israel—see if I care.’”

“That’s what she said?”

“Words to that effect.”

“Of course,” Abby said, “we thought that things would be a little more sedate in the Holy Land. I wasn’t expecting to pop my boobs on my second day.”

“And certainly not for free,” Amanda added.

They finally made it through the intersection. Lester turned down a wide road and then into the parking lot of a supermarket.

“Well, I have an idea,” Lester said. “Let’s buy some food and have a picnic.” Lester opened his door and stepped out. Abby joined him. Amanda stayed inside.

“Aren’t you coming in?” Lester asked her. Amanda didn’t answer.

“Leave her alone,” Abby said, taking her father by the arm and leading him towards the front door. “Something reminded her of something.”

Lester thought for a moment. “Something reminded me of something, too.”

“Fight it, Dad,” Abby said. “I don’t have the energy to deal with two recovering amnesiacs.”

1:5

Abby pushed the grocery cart back towards Lester’s car, leaning on the handle and lifting her feet in the air behind her as she let it take her forward. Lester had to trot to keep up.

“I can’t wait to tell Amanda that you can actually buy Texas fruitcake in Jerusalem,” Abby said. “We used to sell them for our high school marching band.”

“You can get anything in Israel now,” Lester said, puffing with exertion. “What did you play?”

“Bassoon.”

“What did Amanda play?”

“Contra bassoon.”

“How do you march with a contra bassoon?”

“You mean how did Amanda march with a contra bassoon?”

“That’s what I meant.”

“You don’t. You don’t march with a bassoon, either. We played glockenspiel during marching season, and during our senior year we were twin drum majors. Not that anyone could tell that from the stands—but the director had the hots for us. It didn’t help; no goodies for him.”

A young man was leaning through the window of Lester’s car when they arrived. Amanda hadn’t moved at all from her position in the middle of the front seat; she stared straight ahead, oblivious to the come-on lines in broken English. Abby tapped him on the shoulder.

“She’s made of plastic,” Abby said. “I’m the real one.”

He turned and blinked.

“One in 350 live births,” Abby said. “Actually two in 175 depending on how you figure.”

“You are twins?” he asked.

“Very perceptive,” Abby said. “That would put your IQ right about in the mid-eighties, I would say.”

“Pardon me?”

“I will.”

Abby opened the door and used it to shove the young man aside. He took a step back and almost fell over Lester’s leg.

“Have a nice trip?” Abby asked him. The man walked away, glancing back once as Abby put the bags of groceries in the back of the car.

“I’ll return the cart and get your nickel back,” she said when she finished.

“Five shekels. It’s worth almost two dollars.”

“I’ll try not to drop it.”

“He’s waiting by the entrance,” Amanda said.

“Don’t worry,” Abby told her. “I’ve got a zinger ready for him.” She scooted across the parking lot, taking long leaps while leaning on the cart.

“I’m sorry he bothered you,” Lester said.

“Did you send him?”

“No.”

“So don’t be sorry.”

“I feel responsible.”

“It’s about time.”

Lester sat down in the car. They both watched Abby as she slammed the cart home and retrieved Lester’s coin. The young man approached her.

“He’s a Palestinian,” Lester said.

“If that’s supposed to be a warning you’re in the wrong place to do anything about it, aren’t you?”

Before Lester could open his door Abby turned, slowly settled herself on bent knees, arrayed her arms to the sides, and then lifted one leg in a slow motion kick. The young man started walking, very quickly, in the other direction. They could hear Abby’s laughter as she approached the car. She came in and slammed the door.

“See, Amanda,” she said. “I told you all I needed was the free introductory lesson in Tai Chi.” Lester started the car and Abby leaned over the seat to rustle through the plastic grocery bags. “Did Dad tell you that we found Texas Fruitcake?”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“Did you Tai Chi him, too?” She settled back in the seat and opened a paper bag. “There was an appetizer counter. They made us sandwiches for the picnic.” She started eating.

“For the picnic?” Lester asked.

“I can’t wait. Fighting off wolves always gives me an appetite.”

“It makes me lose mine,” Amanda said.

“More for us.”

“So where do you want to go?” Lester asked.

“What’s there to do?” Abby asked him.

“We could go to the zoo,” Lester said.

“Not the zoo,” Amanda said.

None of them spoke for a couple of blocks.

“No,” Abby said. “Not the zoo. What’s that over there? It looks like a park.”

“Har Herzl,” Lester said. “It’s the national cemetery.”

“And that tree-lined road next to it?”

“It leads to Yad Vashem. The Holocaust Memorial.”

“I’d prefer the cemetery,” Amanda said.

Lester went into the parking lot.

“She was kidding,” Abby said.

“There’s actually a nice place to picnic just inside,” Lester said. “Unless you want to go somewhere else.”

Amanda opened the door, climbed out over her sister, and started walking towards the entrance.

“Terrific choice, Dad,” Abby said, leaving the car to follow her sister. “A cemetery.”

Lester killed the engine. He took the bags of picnic food and then looked at the suitcase that Abby and Amanda had helped him save. Lester slammed the doors, made a show as if to turn the broken locks, and followed his daughters through the stone entranceway.

Abby and Amanda were sitting under a large tree in the middle of a yellow lawn. Lester put the food down.

“I should have brought a bedspread or tablecloth to sit on,” he said. Lester carefully let himself down on the grass and opened his mouth to continue speaking. Amanda interrupted him.

“I’ll remember next time,” Amanda said.

“I’ll remember. . .” Lester started to say. “I…”

“Look’s like you forgot,” Amanda said. “Again.”

“Oh, lighten up, you two,” Abby said. “Eat your sandwiches.” She tossed a plastic bag at each of them and opened up a package of potato chips. “So who’s buried here?”

“Buried?” Lester asked.

“Yeah, buried. That’s what cemeteries are for, aren’t they?”

“Soldiers, heroes,” Lester said. “Presidents. All the prime ministers except Ben Gurion. He’s in the Negev—not too far from where your cousin Jeremy lives.”

They nibbled their sandwiches—everyone except for Abby, who had already finished hers; she took bites of everyone else’s, and kept putting the chips under her father’s and sister’s noses. “Eat them quick before I finish them,” Abby said. “Want a beer?” she asked Lester.

“I don’t drink,” he said.

Abby popped open a can of beer, offered it to Amanda, and then passed her a diet Coke. “You must get pretty thirsty.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant. I don’t drink liquor. I wrote about it.”

“We didn’t get that far,” Amanda said.

“You didn’t?” Lester tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“I skimmed most of it this morning,” Abby said. “I thought it was pretty anemic, Dad. You tried to pack too much meaning and emotion into unsupported words: sober, spaced-out, compulsion, infatuation, lust, jealousy. It’s not good to put a burden on the reader. I needed more detail to make it come alive. What does it mean to live in the gutter, for example?”

“I don’t remember many of the details,” Lester said. “Every day I would rummage through trash bins to collect aluminum and glass. I slept in a cemetery for six months.”

“There,” Abby said. “That’s a significant detail.”

“Mother saw you there once,” Amanda said.

“There’s another.”

Amanda ignored her sister. “She gave you a five dollar bill.”

Lester closed his eyes. “I seem to remember the five dollars,” he said. “I don’t remember that it was your mother who gave it to me.”

“But she remembered,” Abby said. “It made her day. She used that example every time she thought we were getting in her peach liqueur.”

“Did it work?” Lester asked.

“What do you think?” Abby asked as she finished her beer.

“Big talker,” Amanda said. “We used her example instead.”

“Does your mother drink?” Lester asked.

“Only when her current boyfriend or husband doesn’t supply enough cocaine and pot and pills,” Amanda said. She pointed at Lester. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”

“I won’t. I’m learning.”

“Good.”

“But I am sorry.”

“You need more lessons,” Amanda said. She took a large bite out of her sandwich and took a handful of potato chips. Both Abby and Lester relaxed.

“When you’re finished we can go visit Yitzhak Rabin’s grave,” Lester said.

“I’ll pass,” Amanda said.

“Me, too, Dad—unless you wanted to check out the accommodations.”

“Excuse me?”

“Where are we going to live now that we’re homeless.”

Lester suppressed a gasp.

“Sorry,” Abby said. “Didn’t mean to strike a nerve.”

“Now you’re sorry,” Lester said.

“Not really,” Abby said. “You’ll learn.”

“I can’t believe you’ll let them get away with it,” Amanda said. Her features grew red with anger. “A bunch of hooligans broke into your apartment, roughed you up and threw your things out the window. Aren’t you going to do anything?”

Lester said nothing.

“You can still call the police, you know,” Amanda said. “We passed a public phone on the way in.”

“I can’t.”

“Don’t you know who they were?”

“That’s not the reason.”

“So what’s the reason?” Abby asked.

“They might arrest me,” Lester said.

“What did you do?”

“Snuck into Israel without a visa.”

“Why?”

“I have a criminal record.”

“That means you could be deported just like Aunt Adele’s maid,” Abby said. She looked over at her sister. “We could claim the reward and split it two ways.”

“There’s no reward,” Lester said.

“I think he’s nervous,” Abby told Amanda.

“So where are we going to go?” Amanda asked.

“Well,” Lester said, “why don’t we take a little vacation? Do some touring? Where do you want to go? Hiking on the Golan? Snorkeling at Eilat? Tanning at the Dead Sea?”

“The Dead Sea appeals to me,” Amanda said.

“It would,” Abby said.

“It’s the only place in the world where you can sit in the sun all day and not get burned,” Lester said.

“That sounds good,” Abby said. “Stripping at night and sleeping all morning and going to school every afternoon didn’t leave us much time to get any color.”

“Stay here,” Lester said, standing up. “I’ll try to get some reservations.”

“Let’s just go,” Abby said. “I don’t want Amanda to spend any more time in a cemetery. Gives her ideas.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ignore her,” Amanda said. “Yellow grass doesn’t do it for me. I want my ashes spread over the ocean. Let’s go. We can check into any hotel with a vacancy.”

“That’s the spirit,” Abby said. “Let’s live dangerously.”

“I’d rather call,” Lester said.

Abby and Amanda took Lester’s arms and escorted him past the payphone to the car. They all got in the front seat.

“Onward,” Abby said.

“No looking back,” Amanda added.

Abby pushed the grocery cart back towards Lester’s car, leaning on the handle and lifting her feet in the air behind her as she let it take her forward. Lester had to trot to keep up.

“I can’t wait to tell Amanda that you can actually buy Texas fruitcake in Jerusalem,” Abby said. “We used to sell them for our high school marching band.”

“You can get anything in Israel now,” Lester said, puffing with exertion. “What did you play?”

“Bassoon.”

“What did Amanda play?”

“Contra bassoon.”

“How do you march with a contra bassoon?”

“You mean how did Amanda march with a contra bassoon?”

“That’s what I meant.”

“You don’t. You don’t march with a bassoon, either. We played glockenspiel during marching season, and during our senior year we were twin drum majors. Not that anyone could tell that from the stands—but the director had the hots for us. It didn’t help; no goodies for him.”

A young man was leaning through the window of Lester’s car when they arrived. Amanda hadn’t moved at all from her position in the middle of the front seat; she stared straight ahead, oblivious to the come-on lines in broken English. Abby tapped him on the shoulder.

“She’s made of plastic,” Abby said. “I’m the real one.”

He turned and blinked.

“One in 350 live births,” Abby said. “Actually two in 175 depending on how you figure.”

“You are twins?” he asked.

“Very perceptive,” Abby said. “That would put your IQ right about in the mid-eighties, I would say.”

“Pardon me?”

“I will.”

Abby opened the door and used it to shove the young man aside. He took a step back and almost fell over Lester’s leg.

“Have a nice trip?” Abby asked him. The man walked away, glancing back once as Abby put the bags of groceries in the back of the car.

“I’ll return the cart and get your nickel back,” she said when she finished.

“Five shekels. It’s worth almost two dollars.”

“I’ll try not to drop it.”

“He’s waiting by the entrance,” Amanda said.

“Don’t worry,” Abby told her. “I’ve got a zinger ready for him.” She scooted across the parking lot, taking long leaps while leaning on the cart.

“I’m sorry he bothered you,” Lester said.

“Did you send him?”

“No.”

“So don’t be sorry.”

“I feel responsible.”

“It’s about time.”

Lester sat down in the car. They both watched Abby as she slammed the cart home and retrieved Lester’s coin. The young man approached her.

“He’s a Palestinian,” Lester said.

“If that’s supposed to be a warning you’re in the wrong place to do anything about it, aren’t you?”

Before Lester could open his door Abby turned, slowly settled herself on bent knees, arrayed her arms to the sides, and then lifted one leg in a slow motion kick. The young man started walking, very quickly, in the other direction. They could hear Abby’s laughter as she approached the car. She came in and slammed the door.

“See, Amanda,” she said. “I told you all I needed was the free introductory lesson in Tai Chi.” Lester started the car and Abby leaned over the seat to rustle through the plastic grocery bags. “Did Dad tell you that we found Texas Fruitcake?”

“He didn’t say anything.”

“Did you Tai Chi him, too?” She settled back in the seat and opened a paper bag. “There was an appetizer counter. They made us sandwiches for the picnic.” She started eating.

“For the picnic?” Lester asked.

“I can’t wait. Fighting off wolves always gives me an appetite.”

“It makes me lose mine,” Amanda said.

“More for us.”

“So where do you want to go?” Lester asked.

“What’s there to do?” Abby asked him.

“We could go to the zoo,” Lester said.

“Not the zoo,” Amanda said.

None of them spoke for a couple of blocks.

“No,” Abby said. “Not the zoo. What’s that over there? It looks like a park.”

“Har Herzl,” Lester said. “It’s the national cemetery.”

“And that tree-lined road next to it?”

“It leads to Yad Vashem. The Holocaust Memorial.”

“I’d prefer the cemetery,” Amanda said.

Lester went into the parking lot.

“She was kidding,” Abby said.

“There’s actually a nice place to picnic just inside,” Lester said. “Unless you want to go somewhere else.”

Amanda opened the door, climbed out over her sister, and started walking towards the entrance.

“Terrific choice, Dad,” Abby said, leaving the car to follow her sister. “A cemetery.”

Lester killed the engine. He took the bags of picnic food and then looked at the suitcase that Abby and Amanda had helped him save. Lester slammed the doors, made a show as if to turn the broken locks, and followed his daughters through the stone entranceway.

Abby and Amanda were sitting under a large tree in the middle of a yellow lawn. Lester put the food down.

“I should have brought a bedspread or tablecloth to sit on,” he said. Lester carefully let himself down on the grass and opened his mouth to continue speaking. Amanda interrupted him.

“I’ll remember next time,” Amanda said.

“I’ll remember. . .” Lester started to say. “I…”

“Look’s like you forgot,” Amanda said. “Again.”

“Oh, lighten up, you two,” Abby said. “Eat your sandwiches.” She tossed a plastic bag at each of them and opened up a package of potato chips. “So who’s buried here?”

“Buried?” Lester asked.

“Yeah, buried. That’s what cemeteries are for, aren’t they?”

“Soldiers, heroes,” Lester said. “Presidents. All the prime ministers except Ben Gurion. He’s in the Negev—not too far from where your cousin Jeremy lives.”

They nibbled their sandwiches—everyone except for Abby, who had already finished hers; she took bites of everyone else’s, and kept putting the chips under her father’s and sister’s noses. “Eat them quick before I finish them,” Abby said. “Want a beer?” she asked Lester.

“I don’t drink,” he said.

Abby popped open a can of beer, offered it to Amanda, and then passed her a diet Coke. “You must get pretty thirsty.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant. I don’t drink liquor. I wrote about it.”

“We didn’t get that far,” Amanda said.

“You didn’t?” Lester tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

“I skimmed most of it this morning,” Abby said. “I thought it was pretty anemic, Dad. You tried to pack too much meaning and emotion into unsupported words: sober, spaced-out, compulsion, infatuation, lust, jealousy. It’s not good to put a burden on the reader. I needed more detail to make it come alive. What does it mean to live in the gutter, for example?”

“I don’t remember many of the details,” Lester said. “Every day I would rummage through trash bins to collect aluminum and glass. I slept in a cemetery for six months.”

“There,” Abby said. “That’s a significant detail.”

“Mother saw you there once,” Amanda said.

“There’s another.”

Amanda ignored her sister. “She gave you a five dollar bill.”

Lester closed his eyes. “I seem to remember the five dollars,” he said. “I don’t remember that it was your mother who gave it to me.”

“But she remembered,” Abby said. “It made her day. She used that example every time she thought we were getting in her peach liqueur.”

“Did it work?” Lester asked.

“What do you think?” Abby asked as she finished her beer.

“Big talker,” Amanda said. “We used her example instead.”

“Does your mother drink?” Lester asked.

“Only when her current boyfriend or husband doesn’t supply enough cocaine and pot and pills,” Amanda said. She pointed at Lester. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”

“I won’t. I’m learning.”

“Good.”

“But I am sorry.”

“You need more lessons,” Amanda said. She took a large bite out of her sandwich and took a handful of potato chips. Both Abby and Lester relaxed.

“When you’re finished we can go visit Yitzhak Rabin’s grave,” Lester said.

“I’ll pass,” Amanda said.

“Me, too, Dad—unless you wanted to check out the accommodations.”

“Excuse me?”

“Where are we going to live now that we’re homeless.”

Lester suppressed a gasp.

“Sorry,” Abby said. “Didn’t mean to strike a nerve.”

“Now you’re sorry,” Lester said.

“Not really,” Abby said. “You’ll learn.”

“I can’t believe you’ll let them get away with it,” Amanda said. Her features grew red with anger. “A bunch of hooligans broke into your apartment, roughed you up and threw your things out the window. Aren’t you going to do anything?”

Lester said nothing.

“You can still call the police, you know,” Amanda said. “We passed a public phone on the way in.”

“I can’t.”

“Don’t you know who they were?”

“That’s not the reason.”

“So what’s the reason?” Abby asked.

“They might arrest me,” Lester said.

“What did you do?”

“Snuck into Israel without a visa.”

“Why?”

“I have a criminal record.”

“That means you could be deported just like Aunt Adele’s maid,” Abby said. She looked over at her sister. “We could claim the reward and split it two ways.”

“There’s no reward,” Lester said.

“I think he’s nervous,” Abby told Amanda.

“So where are we going to go?” Amanda asked.

“Well,” Lester said, “why don’t we take a little vacation? Do some touring? Where do you want to go? Hiking on the Golan? Snorkeling at Eilat? Tanning at the Dead Sea?”

“The Dead Sea appeals to me,” Amanda said.

“It would,” Abby said.

“It’s the only place in the world where you can sit in the sun all day and not get burned,” Lester said.

“That sounds good,” Abby said. “Stripping at night and sleeping all morning and going to school every afternoon didn’t leave us much time to get any color.”

“Stay here,” Lester said, standing up. “I’ll try to get some reservations.”

“Let’s just go,” Abby said. “I don’t want Amanda to spend any more time in a cemetery. Gives her ideas.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ignore her,” Amanda said. “Yellow grass doesn’t do it for me. I want my ashes spread over the ocean. Let’s go. We can check into any hotel with a vacancy.”

“That’s the spirit,” Abby said. “Let’s live dangerously.”

“I’d rather call,” Lester said.

Abby and Amanda took Lester’s arms and escorted him past the payphone to the car. They all got in the front seat.

“Onward,” Abby said.

“No looking back,” Amanda added.

Abby finished off the last bag of potato chips and threw the remains of their picnic in a dumpster as they drove away. They entered cross-town traffic and Lester began pointing out landmarks.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Abby said. She put her head on Amanda’s shoulder; Amanda used it as a pillow and they both fell asleep.

They left the city, drove through the Eztion tunnel, and were soon passing through parched hills of cultivated pines alternating with native scrub. As they drove further south the landscape changed from green to brown; Lester recalled the long drive from Boston to Albuquerque as he stared out the window at the bobbing telephone lines, watching forests give way to plains and then to desert. This part of Israel always reminded him of home: the Sonoran desert, and the barrenness around Las Vegas. The landscape fit his mood.

After an hour he pulled into a gas station. Amanda lifted her head, looked around, and then closed her eyes again.

“Looks like southern Nevada,” she said.

“We must have slept for a long time,” Abby said. “Is that the Strip up ahead?”

“It’s Arad. Not much in the way of excitement, I’m afraid.”

Lester paid for the gas. “Where do you get your money?” Amanda asked. “You don’t have a job or anything, do you?”

“Sometimes I tutor English.”

“Don’t tell me you sell your stuff to magazines,” Abby said.

“No,” Lester said. “Not yet. I’m trying to get an agent…”

“Who would buy it?” Abby asked. “Oh, sorry. Touched another nerve, eh?”

“I’ve been thinking about publishing it myself,” Lester said.

“Are you going to buy it yourself, too?”

“Shut up, Abby,” Amanda said. Lester started the car and pulled back onto the highway.

“Where do you get your money?” Amanda asked after a few minutes.

“Now who’s being rude?” Abby asked.

“It’s all right, Abby,” Lester said. “My father—your grandfather Chantel—had life insurance.”

“He was covered for gay-bashing?” Abby asked.

“His policy was suspended when he went into hiding and stopped making payments. I was part of a class-action suit against the Assicurazione Generali Insurance Company. He also inherited some property in Poland that was confiscated by the Nazis; I’m trying to recover that, too. He owned several paintings that are now hanging in the Louvre. And I’m getting payments from the Swiss humanitarian fund for the stolen gold they bought from Nazi Germany.”

“Living on handouts, eh?” Abby asked.

“I’m a holocaust survivor,” Lester said. “A war refugee.”

“How old were you when the war ended?” Abby asked.

“One.”

“So you don’t remember anything about it, do you?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Amanda asked her. “It still happened, even if he doesn’t remember it.”

They drove towards Arad in silence.

“Do either of you want anything?” Lester asked when they entered the city limits. “Snacks? Bathroom? There isn’t much between here and Sodom.”

“Is that where you’re taking us?” Abby asked.

“That’s where the hotels are.”

“I don’t know if Mother would have let us come if she had known.”

“On the other hand,” Amanda said, “she might have recommended it.”

“Hey,” Abby said. “That was pretty quick, Sissie.”

“Now I remember,” Lester said. “You used to call each other ‘Sissy’ all the time.”

“We don’t do it anymore,” Amanda said.

They drove through the town and approached an intersection that led to the Dead Sea. “Why don’t you mail Uncle Rick’s invitations before we get too far from civilization,” Amanda suggested.

Lester pulled to the side of the road and Amanda leaned over the seat. She opened her father’s suitcase and rummaged through his things.

“You put them back in the manila envelope, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Except for mine.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Oooh,” Abby said. “Uncle Rick’s going to be mad.”

Lester turned around and started looking through the suitcase too. Abby waited for a few moments and then joined them.

“Hey, this is fun,” Abby said, tossing her father’s clothes in the air. “This stuff looks like castoffs from Goodwill,” said. “With the money from your father you should invest in underwear.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Amanda told him. “The invitations aren’t there.”

“I’m looking for my manuscripts.” Lester overturned all of his clothes. “They must have been in the other suitcase,” he finally said.

“What are we going to do about the invitations?” Amanda asked.

“Someone will find them on the sidewalk,” Lester said. He turned around and faced forward. “They’ll get mailed.”

“I bet they just steal the stamps and throw away the envelopes,” Abby said.

“No, they wouldn’t do that,” Lester said. “They’re very honest in that neighborhood.”

“Right,” Abby said. “We saw. They’re probably dancing around a bonfire of your papers right now to exorcise our image from their minds.”

“They should have burned this stuff instead,” Amanda said, looking at an open seam in a shirt. She closed the suitcase and turned around. “I guess you better call up Uncle Rick and tell him.”

“Call Uncle Rick?”

“Ignore her,” Abby said. “She’s everybody’s conscience.”

“He didn’t even send in his RSVP!” Amanda said angrily.

“Leave him alone,” Abby said. She patted her father’s head. “He lost his life’s work. They were your only copies, I guess.”

“Some of them were out,” Lester said.

“Well, let’s hope that you put enough return postage on the SASE. And that your neighbors forward your mail to wherever it is that you’re going to live. Not much chance of that, I guess.”

“Not much.”

“Then you’ll just have to write draft five, huh? We’ll help you. Want a pencil?”

“What about the invitations?” Amanda asked.

“I suppose I could tell Jeremy,” Lester said after a few moments. “He can tell his father.”

“There’s a payphone,” Amanda said, pointing.

“Jeremy lives in Arad,” Lester said. “We can drop in. You ought to meet him, anyway. He’s your cousin.”

“First cousin once removed,” Amanda said.

Lester took out his wallet, looked through scraps and business cards, and then handed a much-folded grocery receipt to Amanda. “Here,” he said. “These are the directions to his house.” Amanda read as they drove through new neighborhoods on the northern edge of the town. Some of the lots had brave attempts at lawns and trees; most were landscaped in gravel and succulents. They followed curving roads until Amanda spotted the address. The driveway was full of pushtoys, balls, scooters, blocks and broken pieces of colorful plastic. Lester parked by the curb and led his daughters up the sidewalk. Before he pressed the bell the door was pushed open and a naked toddler backed down the stoop and headed for the street.

“Stop him!” came a voice from inside the house. Lester ran after the child and picked him up; he struggled and twisted to get away, and Lester almost dropped him on his head. A woman came out of the house with a diaper in her hand, and Lester suddenly realized why she was holding it; the child’s buttocks and legs were covered with yellowish excrement, and now, after his vigorous struggles, so were Lester’s hands and arms and clothes. Abby was leaning on Amanda and laughing.

The woman walked up to him. “Thank you,” she said, “whoever you are.”

“I’m Lester Norris,” Lester said. “Jeremy’s cousin.”

“Ah, so you’re cousin Lester,” she said, switching to English. “I’m cousin Riv.”

She was in her late thirties, attractive in a harried way, inclined to chubbiness. Her clothes were rather too long and voluminous for the desert heat; she wore a beret.

The child made another furious effort to free himself.

“Let’s take him to the backyard and hose him down—if you can manage.”

“I can manage.” She walked towards the side of the house and unlatched a tall metal gate. They all slipped through, and Lester dropped the child to the ground after Riv slammed it shut. She picked up a hose and sprayed the naked child; he screamed in delight as he toddled in and out of the stream of water. When he was thoroughly rinsed Riv turned off the hose, ran after him, wiped him off with her apron, and quickly taped the diaper on his bottom. He ran towards the sandbox, stopping first to push the swings and to throw a ball up a slide.

“Here, give me that,” Abby said, reaching for the hose. “Go on, Dad—start running.”

Riv looked for the first time at the two young women.

“Oh, sorry,” Lester said. “These are my daughters: Abby and Amanda.”

“Amanda.”

“And Abby. If I were you I wouldn’t shake Dad’s hand just yet.”

“I’ll wave from here,” Riv said. She turned to Lester. “How did you ever manage with twins?”

“Well…”

“Oh,” Riv said. “You haven’t met number two—although Harry’s enough for three.” She walked to a small dome tent in the middle of a patch of yellow grass and unzipped the door, revealing another toddler. He was slight, dressed in overalls and shoes, light hair and fair skin. His brother, now throwing sand in the air, had ruddy skin and tight curls of red hair.

“This is Kobi,” she said of the one in the tent. Riv took a deep breath. “I guess girls were easier.”

“I guess,” Lester said.

“Come on inside,” Riv said. “You can wash up.”

“I’ll get you a change of clothes from the car,” Amanda said, walking towards the gate.

“Latch it shut!” Riv called out as she opened the sliding back door and lead them into a more crowded version of their driveway and backyard; toys and blocks and Duplo and stuffed animals and laminated cardboard books were strewn over the floor and the furniture. Cabinets were latched with white plastic kiddylocks. Harry’s reach could be extrapolated by the level of the breakables.

“Here’s the bathroom,” Riv told Lester. “You might want to take a shower. I’ll soak your clothes.”

“Maybe you should throw them away,” Lester said.

“Oh, if I threw away all the clothes that got soiled with baby poop and spit-up and pee I’d be as naked as Harry. Hand them to me through the door.”

Amanda walked in and put a stack of clothes on the basin. “If you don’t throw them out I will,” she told Riv.

Riv closed the bathroom door.

“The toilet is right here if you need to use it,” Riv said, opening a second door. “You’ll find the kitchen; make yourselves at home. I’ve got to go back outside and find out what’s going on; it’s too quiet.”

When Lester came out of the shower Riv, Abby and Amanda were sitting in the living room, space having been carved out of the toys. Harry jumped from lap to lap, listening to a few words of a story and going on to something else. Kobi held his mother’s skirt as he watched with solemn eyes. Lester found a place on the couch. Harry picked up a book, slammed in on his lap, climbed up, climbed down, and then headed for Amanda.

“Jeremy will be out in a minute,” Riv said. “He’s just finishing up something.”

Presently they heard a shuffling sound from the hall. A medium-sized man, dressed in running pants and a loose shirt, came forward. A small knitted kipah was clipped to his balding skull. He swept away unseen obstacles with his feet before setting them down. He wore dark glasses; his cheeks were scarred. Lester was reminded of his Uncle Rick when they had first moved to America; to Abby and Amanda thought of Lester’s wedding picture.

“Hi, Lester,” he said. “This is an unexpected surprise.” He put out his hand and Lester stood up to take it. Harry toddled across the room and launched himself against his father’s legs; Jeremy lost his balance and fell backwards into his easy chair. Harry crawled onto his lap.

“You met Riv,” Jeremy said.

“I did. And also your children. At least Harry. Kobi hasn’t decided he wants to make friends yet.”

“He’s a real Momma’s boy,” Jeremy said. Harry jumped up and down on his father’s lap; Jeremy laughed as he threw him in the air, keeping one hand on his stomach so he wouldn’t lose him.

“These are my daughters,” Lester said. “Abby and Amanda.” They came towards the blind man. He took Abby’s hand in both of his.

“A pleasure to meet you, Abby,” he said. “Do you mind?” He reached up to touch her face, gently felt out her features. “You don’t look much like your father,” he said.

“Only luck,” Lester said.

“You said it,” Jeremy said, letting Abby go. “Amanda?” Amanda stepped aside and pushed Abby back towards Jeremy. He went through the same procedure again.

“That’s right,” Jeremy said, releasing Abby for a second time. “I had forgotten that you were identical twins. How did you tell them apart when they were small, Lester?”

“Abby used to have braids.”

“Clever,” Jeremy said. “Of course, we don’t have any problem telling ours apart.” Harry hit his father on the cheeks and knocked his glasses off.

“Harry!” Riv admonished from the other side of the room. Harry slipped off his father’s lap, picked up the sunglasses, climbed back up, and set them in some fashion back on his father’s face. Riv and Abby watched; Amanda and Lester looked away from the deep red scars where Jeremy’s eyes used to be. Jeremy adjusted the glasses. Harry started crying.

“That’s all right, son,” Jeremy said, stroking Harry and kissing his face. “You didn’t mean it.” Harry stopped crying and resumed bouncing.

“How have you been, Lester?” Jeremy asked.

“Pretty well. You’re looking fine.”

“Thanks. Keeping busy.”

“I can see.”

“Oh, not only with this,” Jeremy said, holding Harry upside down by the feet and blowing on his belly. “Not that it isn’t a full-time job.”

“A job and a half,” Riv said.

“Do you want to see what I’ve been doing?” Jeremy asked.

“Sure.”

Jeremy got to his feet. Riv walked over and took Harry away from her husband. “Don’t forget to lock the door,” she told him.

“I won’t forget,” Jeremy said. “I remember what he did last time he snuck into my office.”

Lester and his daughters followed Jeremy down the hall. He unlatched a door.

“He’s coming!” they heard Riv call. They all went in and Jeremy slammed the door and locked it. In a few seconds they heard small pounding fists near the baseboards.

“Where’s the light?” Amanda asked.

“Here,” Jeremy said. He flipped the switch but nothing happened.

“The bulb is out,” Amanda said.

“I’m not surprised,” Jeremy said. “I don’t need it and I won’t let Riv come in. When she cleans up I can’t find stuff for weeks.” The only light in the room came from what filtered through the closed blinds and the flashing green text from monochrome monitor sitting on an old IBM XT. Jeremy sat down at a desk upon which rested another computer and put his fingers on the keyboard.

“I’m not sure that you knew, Lester,” Jeremy said, “but Abba was once in negotiations with IBM about providing the operating system for their first PC. Back in the early eighties.”

“I knew,” Lester said, looking at his daughters.

“He never told me why the deal didn’t go through. But he had worked out a dumbed-down version of EI/NS for them to use. If he had only signed the contract we’d own half the world.

“Anyway,” Jeremy continued, “I’ve adapted it for Windows. It’s already got voice recognition and speech capability, and now I’m working on a graphical interface for the visually impaired.”

“Excuse me?” Abby asked. “Isn’t that a contradiction?”

“No, Abby, it’s not,” Jeremy said. “Here—look. You can see that I’m on the internet,” he said, pointing to a blank monitor. He put his hand on a white plastic rectangle next to his keyboard. “In addition to outputting signals for a cathode ray tube, my program sends small electrical signals to this tablet. Everything’s here. Text is converted to Braille. I can feel out graphic images like I do with people’s features. Here, try it.”

Abby put her hand on the tablet. “It tickles,” she said. “Your turn, Amanda.”

“I need to leave the room.”

Jeremy stood up and went to the door. “Watch out for Harry.” He opened the door and Amanda grabbed an arm as Harry burst through. Jeremy latched the door and they returned to the living room.

“It’s called System for Limited Sight,” Jeremy was telling Lester. “SLS. I hope to go public by the end of the year.”

“Did you like Jeremy’s lair?” Riv asked.

“Very impressive,” Lester said.

“It hasn’t been dusted since we moved in,” Riv said. “There are massive spider webs in all the corners.”

“It’s a good thing the light was burned out,” Abby said. “Amanda goes ballistic when she sees bugs.”

Amanda had grown pale. “Who likes bugs?”

“Harry does,” Riv said. “When he can catch them he eats them. He doesn’t understand the laws of kashrut yet.”

“I remember when you two you lived at our house,” Jeremy said. “Do you?”

“We lived at your house?” Amanda asked.

“When Lester and Sally were getting divorced my parents had temporary custody.”

“I don’t remember that at all,” Abby said.

“I vaguely remember living in a house where I didn’t understand what anybody said,” Amanda said.

“That was us,” Jeremy said. “My parents always spoke Hebrew. Everywhere we lived was like a little Israel. I didn’t even hear English until I went to kindergarten.”

“They didn’t stay with you for very long,” Lester said.

“Six months,” Jeremy said.

“Really?” Lester couldn’t remember. He had a vague recollection of a proposal to give his aunt and uncle custody of the girls since neither parent was fit, but in the end the judge ruled in Sally’s favor.

“Too bad it didn’t work out,” Jeremy said. “Even though you wouldn’t play with me and I we couldn’t talk. There are distinct drawbacks to being an only child, especially to elderly parents. You were my only cousins; I was sad when you disappeared. And you disappeared, too, Lester. I never knew why.”

“I was in prison,” Lester said.

“You were?”

“Didn’t your parents tell you?”

“They said you had moved.”

Abby turned to Amanda after a few moments of silence. “Pregnant pause,” she whispered.

“What did you do after you got out?” Jeremy asked.

“Avoidance activity,” Amanda whispered to Abby.

“I lived on the streets until I became religious and came to Israel. Your parents never said anything about it?”

“No. I was over-protected, I guess.”

“You don’t have to guess,” Riv said. “You were also over-pampered and over-served. You couldn’t make a cup of instant coffee.”

“Speaking of which,” Jeremy said, “did you get our guests anything to eat or drink?”

“We don’t need anything,” Lester said.

“Nonsense.”

“If you hold that monster in your lap,” Riv said, “I’ll escape to the kitchen and put something together.”

“OK, you,” Jeremy said, grabbing Harry across the waist and tickling him. Riv walked to the kitchen; Kobi followed, the hem of his mother’s skirt still in his hand.

“I’m surprised to see you, Lester,” Jeremy said. “After your long silence.”

“Long silence?”

“Well, I haven’t heard from you in two years. You didn’t come to our wedding—didn’t even acknowledge it.”

“I didn’t know about it, Jeremy. I wasn’t invited.”

“Of course you were.”

“I only found out that you were married when Abby and Amanda told me yesterday.”

“Why wouldn’t you be invited to my wedding?”

“I suppose your father didn’t want me there.”

“Stop trying to turn me against my father,” Jeremy said. His face flushed red. Riv left the kitchen with a tray of food and drink.

“Why doesn’t everyone come and sit down?” she asked. Everyone quickly stood up. Harry jumped to the floor, fell on his face, and then rushed over to the table. Riv had already set Kobi in a high chair; she picked up his brother, put him in a matching seat and strapped him in. Harry reached for food his mother had set beyond his grasp. Jeremy swept away toys with his feet and took his place at the head of the table; Lester and his daughters sat in the unoccupied chairs, first tossing toys and books to the floor.

“Lester says he didn’t get an invitation to our wedding,” Jeremy said.

“I’m not surprised,” Riv said. She turned to Lester. “The whole thing was arranged in a week. I was pregnant with those two and his father hoped he could avoid a scandal.”

“So much for Abba’s hopes.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Riv continued. “I threw up under the hupah.”

“You did not,” her husband said.

“I felt like throwing up, anyway. I lost twenty kilos during that pregnancy. I couldn’t keep anything down. I was on an IV for the last three months. I wanted to die”

“Where did you two meet?” Lester asked.

“I was his occupational therapist,” Riv said. “I really did teach him how to make a cup of coffee. And tie his shoes. And dress himself. But I’ll never convey the concept of picking up his socks.” She gave everyone a piece of cake, put one on her husband’s plate and put a fork in his hand.

“You still are my occupational therapist.” Jeremy cut his cake and brought it to his mouth. “Riv and Ima were distantly related, you know.”

“Really?”

“My father’s name is Onhar Weiss,” Riv said.

“Onhar Weiss?” Lester repeated. “From Poland?”

“That’s right,” Riv said. “He fought with the partisans during the war. He was a member of the Communist Party until he was purged sometime in the fifties.”

“We used to send you packages,” Lester said.

“Really?”

“When Aunt Adele found out about Onhar surviving the war she sent you used clothes, food items, soap, medicines.”

“Really?” Riv asked. “I don’t remember my father talking about packages from America. Anyway, she must have stopped sending them before I was born.”

“Abba figured that we are third or fourth cousins,” Jeremy said.

“It would have made your mother happy to know that you married a Weiss,” Lester said.

Harry screamed and threw his cup across the table. It hit Lester in the chest; the top flew open and soaked his shirt with juice. Harry struggled to get out of his chair so he could reach the plate of cookies. When he saw that it was impossible he hit his brother Kobi, who was still calmly eating.

“Harry, stop it!” Riv said sternly. “I already gave you a cookie. You can’t have another, and you can’t take your brother’s.”

Harry screamed even louder.

“Do you want a spanking?” Riv asked him.

Kobi broke a crumb off of his cookie and handed it to Harry. He stopped crying and stuffed it in his mouth.

“That’s a good boy, Kobi,” Riv said. “You’re so nice to your brother.”

Abby started laughing.

So what brings you to Arad?” Jeremy asked.

“Well…” Lester started.

“It wasn’t for the scenery.”

“I’m kind of embarrassed to tell you,” Lester continued. “Your father sent mail with Amanda and Abby.”

“And?”

“It got lost. I thought you could tell him for me.”

“You can tell him yourself,” Jeremy said. “He flew into Israel this morning.” Jeremy opened the crystal of his watch and felt the time. “He should be here in a couple hours. You’re welcome to wait here and relax—if such a thing is possible in this house.” Jeremy closed his watch. “It’s almost time for Minha,” he said. “Lester, do you want to go to minyan with me? The synagogue is about two blocks away.”

“No, thanks.”

“Did you already daven?”

“I’m not religious anymore.”

“Since when?”

“About two years ago.”

“I see.” Jeremy got to his feet. “Well, I have to get going or I’ll miss it. We can talk later.”

Lester stood up. “We have to be going, too,” he said. “I’m giving Abby and Amanda a tour of Israel. We have to get down to the Dead Sea and find a room.”

“You just don’t want to speak to Abba,” Jeremy said.

“Thanks for your hospitality,” Lester told Riv.

“Of course,” Riv said. “Anytime.” She had just handed two more cookies to her sons; when she turned to answer Lester Kobi grabbed his brother’s cookie away; Harry began to scream again. Riv pulled Harry out of the high chair and slapped the bottom of his diaper; it made a dull sound but not much impression. Riv lifted Harry in the air and sniffed.

“Ooof, you went again. That’s the last time I give you apricots. Make sure you close the door tightly when you leave,” she said, going down the hall with her struggling, screaming son.

They walked to the front door. Jeremy took his white cane and led the way down the sidewalk. Abby was still laughing.

“It was nice to see you two again,” Lester said, turning to Amanda. “How long will you be in Israel?”

“I don’t know,” Amanda said. “We have an open-ended ticket.”

“You’re welcome to come down to us whenever you want,” Jeremy said. “A weekend. Holidays. Call us up. Family is important. We ought to keep in touch.”

Jeremy walked around the obstacles on the sidewalk.

“Please tell your father that I’m sorry about the mail,” Lester said.

“I just hope he’ll remember who he wrote to,” Jeremy said.

“I’m sure he will. They were the invitations.”

“Invitations?”

“To the wedding.”

“What wedding?”

Lester paused for a moment. “Your father’s wedding. To Cruzada.”

Jeremy said nothing, but his face turned red again, outlining his scars in jagged white lines. “Were you invited?” he finally asked.

“I was.”

“But you’re not going.”

Jeremy turned before getting a response. He walked quickly down the sidewalk and disappeared around the corner.

Abby was still laughing when they left the city and started down the twisting road to Sodom. Every time she started to explain she would start laughing again.

“Come on, Abby,” Lester said. “Let us in on the secret. I could use a laugh, too.”

Abby eventually settled down. “He’s my kind of boy,” she finally said.

“It’s remarkable what Jeremy’s managed to accomplish.”

“No,” Abby said. “I was talking about Kobi.”

“Kobi?” Amanda asked. “The quiet twin? What about him?”

“You didn’t see?” Abby asked. She started to laugh again but managed to control herself. “When no was looking he kept stealing his brother’s cookies. When Riv got mad at Harry for protesting, Kobi gave him a piece of his own cookie to shut him up.”

“Eventually Harry will learn how to talk,” Amanda said.

“So will Kobi. I’m betting on him. He’ll go far.”

“He might have to,” Amanda said. “If I were Harry I’d kill him.”

“You didn’t kill me,” Abby said.

“Did you steal your sister’s cookies?” Lester asked.

“I would have,” Abby said, “but girls don’t traffic in cookies.”

“We deal in friendships and secrets and feelings,” Amanda said.

“Didn’t you two get along?” Lester asked.

“Eventually we found a modus vivendi,” Abby said.

“After we realized that we better get along because the world was handing us shit.”

Lester drove down a twisting road with a view of craggy peaks and Bedouin encampments in narrow valleys. In the distance they could see the white salt pans of Sodom and the milky-blue water of the Dead Sea.

“How did Jeremy lose his sight?” Amanda asked.

“In the army,” Lester said. “He wanted to join a combat unit but he inherited his mother’s asthma. They didn’t want to take him at all, but Uncle Rick managed to pull some strings. He always wanted his son to join the IDF. Even when he was a little kid, living in America but speaking Hebrew, Uncle Rick would always talk about what he should do ‘after the army.’” Lester downshifted to first as he followed a dump truck crawling through hair-pin turns. “After basic training Jeremy was assigned to a border patrol unit that was used to show a military presence in Area B, where Israel is in charge of security. It was his first patrol. Jeremy was in the back of the Jeep. They entered a village called Al Marah—not too far from Jerusalem—and for some unknown reason a riot started. Someone threw a firebomb into the Jeep. Jeremy was evacuated by helicopter. He was in intensive care for weeks; Aunt Adele died before Jeremy came out of his coma.” Lester shook his head. “A terrible sacrifice.”

“He’s adjusted well,” Amanda said.

“Now his wife takes care of him instead of his mother,” Lester said. “I think Aunt Adele would have gone on patrol with him if she could have gotten permission.”

“And Uncle Rick would have taken the firebomb,” Amanda said.

“I doubt it,” Lester said.

“You were trying to turn him against his father, weren’t you?” Abby asked.

“It’s not fair of you,” Amanda added.

“No, it’s not,” Lester said. “I suppose Uncle Rick tried to be a good father. He was always distant, but maybe that’s what it means to be a genius. He was generous and hospitable; he would sit with his guests while Aunt Adele prepared food and I served it quietly like a perfect gentleman. But he could never accept criticism, and once his mind was made up there was no way to get him to change it. He would argue with God himself if he thought he was right—and if it turned out that he was wrong he could prove that he had actually been of the other opinion. When I adapted Uncle Rick’s program for the first IBM PC he wrote me out of his will—and he told Jeremy that it was his idea. It was mine! I thought of it! I wrote the program.”

“Do you want options in his company?” Abby asked.

“No,” Lester said. “Not that I’d get any, either. I’m finished with computers, and I’m out of the family.” Lester gave a bitter laugh. “Jeremy said his father figured that he and Riv were fourth or fifth cousins, right?”

“That’s what he said,” Amanda answered.

“Onhar Weiss is Aunt Adele’s brother. Jeremy and Riv are first cousins.”

“What about it?” Abby asked. “That’s not against the law.”

“No,” Lester said, “but it’s not exactly acceptable, either. Better to make up a story than tell the truth, I guess. When Adele found out about Onhar surviving the war Uncle Rick said it was too bad the Nazi’s Polish operations hadn’t been a little more efficient.”

“What a terrible thing to say!” Amanda said.

“Uncle Rick tried to keep her from sending her brother packages,” Lester said. “He used to say that Onhar had his head screwed on backwards—whatever he did he tried to do dishonestly. Onhar never sent thank-you notes; he complained about the quality of the merchandise. He wanted Aunt Adele to send him new Levis so he could sell them on the black market. He initiated the purge against the Jews in the Polish Communist Party, though he didn’t count on being caught up with it. I’m surprised Uncle Rick didn’t forbid the marriage.”

“They seem very happy,” Abby said.

“I’m sure Riv was relieved to find a husband.”

“She has a pretty face,” Amanda said.

“As she gets fatter it will be easier for him to find her,” Lester said. “I just hope they don’t make the same mistakes that Jeremy’s parents did raising him.”

“And raising you,” Amanda said.

Lester shut up.

When they reached the bottom of the road they turned north and drove into the parking lot of the Sodom hotel. They walked through the searing heat and entered the air-conditioned lobby.

“I’m camping out on this couch if there aren’t any rooms,” Abby said, flopping down. Amanda sat down beside her. Lester spent a long time at the front desk, then returned and sat down opposite his daughters.

“No vacancies,” Lester said. “They called all the hotels on the beach. Every one is booked through the weekend. Nothing is available. Tourism has picked up since Ehud Barak became Prime Minister.”

“Goody for him,” Abby said.

“So what do we do?” Amanda asked.

“We have a nice cool drink and decide afterwards,” Abby said. “You ought to get air conditioning in your car, Dad.”

“I’ve thought about it.”

“Do they have a bar here, or will a waiter come?” Abby asked.

Lester turned around, lifted his hand and snapped his fingers towards three men in white coats standing near the front desk. They seemed to discuss among themselves who had the duty. One of them left the group and Lester turned back to his daughters.

“Typical Israeli hospitality,” Lester said. “They’re doing us a favor by coming to take our order.”

The waiter opened three menus in front of them and took out a small pad.

“Something to drink first?” the waiter asked.

“Coke.”

“Diet Sprite.”

“Tap water for me,” Lester said. “Lots of ice.” He collected the menus and handed them up.

“What’s the problem?” the waiter asked. “Too cheap to order Perrier?”

Lester’s face turned white. He turned to look at the waiter.

“You’re going to pay for the ice anyway,” he said. “May as well get the mineral water. We stick in a wilted mint leaf at no extra charge.”

“Manuel?” Lester asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Manuel said.

“I’m showing my daughters the sights,” Lester said. “Abby—Amanda, this is Manuel Cruzada. I told you about him.”

“None of it’s true,” Manuel said, shaking both women’s hands. “They don’t look much like you,” Manuel told Lester.

“They have my eyes,” Lester said.

“If you want we’ll give them back,” Abby said.

“You look like a young Uncle Rick,” Amanda said.

“With a tan,” Abby added.

“Except that this is natural,” Manuel said, touching his skin. There was a loud burst of Arabic from the kitchen. Manuel turned.

“I’m going to get fired if I don’t get a move on,” Manuel said. “I’ll be back with your order right away.”

Manuel left, adding to the cacophonous argument at the kitchen door. He returned in a few moments with a tray of drinks and a plate of canapés.

“I know, Lester, I know,” Manuel said. “You didn’t order them. You don’t have to pay for them, either. I took them from a bris in the Blue Room. Thank the Cohens on your way out if you see them.”

“What are you doing here?” Lester said.

“Research.”

“Does that mean you’re going to plant a bomb in the hotel?” Abby asked.

Manuel laughed. “Not that kind of research.” He was called to the kitchen again. “I’ll tell you later; I’ve got to go. What’s your room number? I’ll come and visit with you after I get off duty.”

“We don’t have a room,” Lester said. “We can’t get a reservation anywhere.”

“We thought we’d just take a chance,” Abby said. “To live dangerously.”

“Wrong season to do that,” Manuel said. “Besides the usual dermatology patients, you’ve got your pre-millennium tourists trying to beat the rush and the Israelis taking advantage of the last weekend before the school. I hear that the camping sites are full as well.”

“So what do we do?” Amanda asked Lester. “We can’t go back to Jerusalem. And you don’t want to go back to Arad.”

“Well, I don’t think I want to go there either,” Abby said. “Harry probably bangs cabinet doors at two in the morning, jumps in your bed and pees on you.”

“Harry?” Manuel asked.

“One of Jeremy’s twins,” Amanda said.

“Sounds like a terror.”

“He is. Just like you when you were his age,” Lester said.

“Really? No wonder Adele had us exiled.” Manuel was called again from the kitchen. He ignored them.

“You know what?” he said, sitting down. “You could stay with me. Not very luxurious, and it’s kind of far from the beach—not that I could ever understand why anyone would want to go into hot slimy water in the first place.”

“That’s very nice of you,” Lester said.

“And the price is right.” Manuel stood up. “I’m going to tell my boss to go screw himself. I’ve already been on duty thirteen hours. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Manuel returned with a large plastic garbage bag; he had replaced his white starched uniform for jeans and a colorful guayabera shirt. “Come on,” he said, leading them out of the hotel. “Give me your keys, Lester,” he said. “I’ll drive you. It’s too far to walk, although they make us do it twice a day.” All four of them crowded into the front seat and Manuel drove to the back of the hotel, went through a drainage tunnel under the highway, and then up a path on the mountain. After ten bumpy minutes he drove along an archeological excavation; its sheer walls were covered with tarpaulins and held in place by sandbags. Inside the hole were the remains of ancient walls, and, set in an open space in the center, four trailers arranged in a square. Manuel parked the car and set the brake.

“Welcome to the underside of the Israeli hotel industry,” Manuel said as he returned the keys to Lester. “Here’s where they keep the illegal workers from Rumania and the Philippines and Thailand who keep it all going.” They got out of the car and looked down into the hole.

“The police raided the place a few weeks ago and deported my roommates, so you’re in luck. The hotel has since imported some Thais, but they like to stay together.”

“What is this place?” Amanda asked.

“Some ancient town or other. The Zionists dig everywhere they can until they find some meager trace of Jewish settlement, and if they don’t find it they cover it up and pretend it doesn’t exist.

“This is Zoar,” Lester said.

“Zoar?” Manuel asked. “How do you know?”

“I’ve been here. I’ve driven this road.”

“Is this the way to your Y2K shelter?”

“Go ahead and laugh…”

“I will.”

“We did, too,” Abby said. Lester started to pull the suitcases out of the back.

“Go ahead and leave them,” Manuel said. “Tonight I’ll drive you over to the health club for a good shower.”

“The health club?” Lester asked.

“After it closes. I have the key. Stop worrying.” Lester slammed the door and then started walking down the ramp.

“Come back,” Manuel said. “It’s best to take the long way around—believe me.” Manuel led them back along the dirt road and then through a break in the walls.

“So this was probably a Jewish city, huh, Lester?” Manuel asked. “From the Second Commonwealth, continuous Jewish settlement, right of return, blah, blah, blah. Right?”

“No,” Lester said. “Zoar was a Canaanite town.”

“Very enlightening, Dad,” Amanda said. They walked across the packed dirt compound. Manuel unlocked one of the trailers, walked in, and turned on a fan. He put the garbage bag on a small table, opened an old refrigerator and started putting canapés and bar-b-qued chicken wings and half-carved cheese balls and other catered remains into the fridge. Abby and Amanda stood in the cold air.

“No AC?” Abby asked.

“I’ve been told that we should be happy to have electricity and running water,” Manuel said. “Sometimes I hose myself down three or four times a day to cool off. Go ahead if you want to. Make yourselves at home.”

Lester washed his face and hands; Abby and Amanda dunked their heads in the sink and walked around in the dry air to cool off. Manuel set a table with hors d’oeuvres.

“Have a seat,” Manuel said. “Beer, anyone?”

“Not for me, thanks,” Lester said. “Go ahead, girls—if you want.”

Manuel took out three cans of beer.

“So what are you doing as a waiter?” Lester asked.

“That’s right,” Abby said. “Dad said you were learning how to be a revolutionary.”

“I already am a revolutionary,” Manuel said, picking through some cocktail hotdogs. “Or was one. The Zapatista movement split after I left: there’s the Popular Insurgent Revolutionary Army, the Mexican Peasant Worker Front of the Southeast, the Popular Movement of National Liberation and the Revolutionary Insurgent Army of the Southeast. I don’t know who I belong to anymore—and I’m not sure what I’ve learned is really applicable to Chiapas. I don’t know that it’s applicable here either, anymore.” Manuel lifted the plate with a crushed cheeseball. “Eat something, you two. You’re skinny as sticks.”

“Your mother always used to say that to me,” Lester said.

“That’s what she said to me, too, especially after we left Albuquerque and it was hard to keep food on the table. Rick would send a couple of checks, then stop, and Mama would sneak across the border to Albuquerque for a few months. When she came back—or was sent back—she was usually pregnant. A couple more checks and then the cycle repeated itself.” He put some more food on Lester’s plate. “You look shocked,” he said.

“I didn’t know they kept in touch.”

“That’s really keeping in touch,” Abby said.

“Rick had six children by my mother,” Manuel said. “I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t.”

“I guess it’s only right that they’re finally getting married,” Amanda said.

“What?”

“Ooops,” Abby said.

“What did you say?”

“Uncle Rick is marrying your mother,” Lester said. “Didn’t either of them tell you?”

Manuel didn’t answer. He stood and walked towards the door. The wiring, running through green corrugated pipes, could be seen through numerous holes in the fiberboard wall. Manuel punched a new hole, paused, and punched a second with his other fist.

After a few moments he returned to the table.

“I lost the invitations,” Lester said to break the silence. “I was supposed to send them out for him.”

“Can we change the subject?” Manuel snapped. He put more food on his guests’ plates and they all ate. “Who wants another beer?” Manuel asked. “I feel like getting drunk.” He took out more beers, drained one, and then sat back.

“I couldn’t afford psychotherapy,” Manuel said after he let loose with a sigh. “And the police don’t look kindly upon punching people out, even if they deserve it.”

“Doesn’t it hurt your hands?” Amanda asked. She stood up and felt the edge of the fresh new holes. She made a fist and pushed it against the wall to test its firmness.

“I’ve trained for years,” Manuel said. “Fiberboard is a good surface for releasing hostility. Pops right out if you get the proper angle.”

“Don’t try, Amanda,” Abby said. “You might get to like it and we’d never keep a lease.”

“Do you have problems with anger?” Manuel asked Amanda.

“Sometimes.”

“Don’t let ‘em give you Prozac or anything like that,” he said. “Keep that anger. Use it.”

“Being a revolutionary must have been very satisfying,” Amanda said.

“It was at first,” Manuel agreed. “Marching on the streets, confronting the police, raiding from the hills. But it lost its appeal when I realized that we couldn’t win. Too many years of subjection. We should have thrown off the Spanish yoke four hundred years ago. We could have picked the Conquistadores off, one by one, as they got off their ships. Organized both continents against the invaders. Instead we thought they were gods. Some gods.” He opened another beer and slurped it down. “And it’s too late here, too. Instead of organizing massacres a hundred years ago we left it to Bedouin thieves who were more interested in booty than their homeland. But we just kept farming, tried to make accommodations, moved over a little, gave up a swamp here and a barren valley there. By the time the riots finally started there were too many Jews and they had too big a PR organization. Of course, if the Allies hadn’t turned Rommel aside at El Alamein it would have been a different story. But we lost our chance.”

“Who is ‘we’ Manuel?” Lester asked.

“‘We?’” Manuel asked. He took a deep sip of beer. “I guess I’ve transferred my loyalties to Palestine,” he said. “You know I got married to a Palestinian woman from Egypt.”

“No, I didn’t know that. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. She lives in Alexandria with my in-laws. It’s hell trying to get her a residents permit. The Zionists think that if they let in one Palestinian it will open the door to a million refugees. I only get to see her every couple of months.” He rubbed his knuckles as if he were considering giving them another workout on the wall. “I feel at home here—or at least as much as I feel at home anywhere. It was exciting to learn about the fundamentals of intifada. At first I tried to figure out how to transfer the knowledge to Chiapas; I sent long letters to Sub-Comandante Marcos with tactics and plans, but he stopped answering. I think he had gotten jealous of my air-time on the news; I realized that he had actually sent me into exile. So I decided to work against the Zionists.”

“Did you actually have classes?” Abby asked.

“Of course.”

“Was one of them Molotov Cocktails 201?”

“It wasn’t called that, but we covered the subject. We had theoretical classes, guest lecturers, labs, field exercises, exams. Even a final project.”

“This is mind-boggling,” Abby said. “I thought that revolutionaries met in dark cellars, had secret passwords, organized an underground…”

“They tell me that that’s the way it used to be,” Manuel said. “But after Oslo was signed Fatah set up a proper campus, hired faculty, recruited foreign students. I was in the last graduating class.”

“It closed because of the peace process?” Lester asked.

“We call it the ‘so-called’ peace process,” Manuel said. “Yeah, that was the reason.”

“So you’ve beaten your swords into plowshares,” Amanda said.

“No, not at all,” Manuel said. “There are still plenty of swords hanging around, and pruning hooks to use as spears, too. But everyone’s exhausted. They closed the school for lack of interest. No one wanted to go into rebellion anymore. Young people want to start businesses, get import and export concessions from the PA, set up joint enterprises with Israelis. I practically had to beg to do my final project.”

“What was it?” Abby asked.

“Organizing a spontaneous riot. I radicalized a quiet village in Area B: set up stockpiles of rocks, prepared firebombs. One night when a routine Israeli patrol came in we attacked. They didn’t know what hit them. I barely got away.”

“That must have been much more satisfying than punching holes in the wall,” Amanda said.

“You know what?” Manuel said, opening another beer. “It wasn’t. I threw a firebomb into the Jeep but it didn’t make me feel any better. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it was too planned. I didn’t feel any real anger. Impromptu rage is much better; gets the adrenaline flowing. This was like a drill; it went entirely according to plan. I got my certificate but haven’t done a thing with it.”

“Where was the village?” Lester asked. “When did it happen?”

“I doubt if you heard of it,” Manuel said. “It was in February ‘97, the day that two Israeli helicopters crashed into each other on the Lebanese border. Crowded me right out of the news. Al Marah—not too far from Jerusalem. Anyone want anything else?” Manuel asked. “Another beer?”

No one said anything until Manuel finished his beer. Then Abby spoke.

“You said before that you were in training,” she said. “What for?”

“Oh, yeah,” Manuel said. “We got side-tracked, didn’t we?” Manuel walked to a small metal cabinet and pulled out a folder. “TriCon Global Restaurants” was embossed in an arch over a picture of a Chihuahua. Manuel opened the folder.

“I’m planning to buy a Taco Bell franchise,” he said. “I’m going to build it near the security crossing into Jericho on the way to the new casino. I’ve already paid the bribes to lease the land; now all I need is some more financial backing. The company needs a minimum investment of three million dollars. Want to come in with me, Lester?”

“I don’t have that kind of money,” Lester said.

“I didn’t think so. Not for family, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Lester asked.

“Forget it. I think I’ll get Rick to bankroll it. The least he can do.”

Abby started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Manuel asked.

“Taco Bell!”

“Quiet, Abby,” Amanda said. “You have to forgive her, Manuel. She can be incredibly rude.”

“Come on,” Abby said. “You don’t think that it’s funny? The Jericho Taco Bell?”

Manuel took out a data sheet. “They have franchises all over the world,” he said. “Guam, Honduras, Chile, Costa Rica, Guatemala, Ecuador, Peru, Jamaica, Poland, Japan, Egypt, Oman, Saudi Arabia, Qatar. Why not Palestine?”

“Why anywhere?” Abby asked. “Have you ever eaten in one?”

Manuel closed his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to make your own tortillas? You can’t get them here, of course; you can’t even get masa harina. Whatever I do, however finely I grind cornmeal, whatever I add to the dough, my tortillas always burn and crumble. They just don’t taste right. And without tortillas you can’t make tacos, or enchiladas, or flautas, or sopa, quesadillas, tapatillas, chilaquiles…” Manuel’s voice faded.

“But Taco Bell?” Abby asked again.

Manuel looked at Abby. “It’s as close as I’m going to get.” Manuel stood up. “Who wants another beer?” He brought three more to the table.

There was a knock at the door; Manuel set the beers down and opened it to three thin men with Oriental faces, straight black hair, and only a half-dozen English words among them. Manuel, apparently, knew the same amount of Thai; they communicated with lively gestures and abundant hand motions. The men nodded vigorously and left.

“They have a dog and want to invite us all to dinner,” Manuel said.

“What does one have to the do with the other?” Abby asked.

“Everyone loves the food they grew up on,” Manuel said. “It’s not bad, actually. At least dogs are easier to find than tortillas.”

“They eat dogs?” Amanda asked.

“When they can catch them.”

Amanda stood up and went to the door. “This I’ve got to see. Want to come, Abby?”

“Call me if it’s a Chihuahua,” Abby said.

Amanda left the trailer.

“Is it safe?” Lester asked.

“They’re sweet guys,” Manuel said. “Wouldn’t harm a fly. Here, I want to show you the blueprints.”

Lester stood. “I think I should see what’s going on.”

“Go ahead, Dad,” Abby said. “I’ll look at building plans with cousin Manuel.” Lester went to the door, but before he stepped out Abby called out to him. “But maybe you shouldn’t leave me alone with him. He’s a revolutionary, you know. And he’s drooling.”

“It’s because I thought of quesadillas,” Manuel said. “Do you know that Taco Bell serves 92 million pounds of cheddar cheese in a single year?”

“Do tell.”

“And 5.2 billion tortillas.”

“I bet half of them are flour tortillas.”

“Couldn’t be that many. Want another beer?”

Lester closed the door and stepped outside. The only illumination was from the hotels down the mountain and the beginnings of a fire in the compound. Lester found Amanda standing just outside of the glow watching three young men struggling with a large fleshy dog that alternated between growls and ingratiating whines. A dozen other Thai men sat on low walls outside the circle of light, calling out words of encouragement. The snapping dog was finally lifted onto a rough stone platform. One of the men drew his knife across the dog’s throat, and then slit the abdomen. A black mass flowed over the stones; they reached inside and pulled out entrails, tossing them, steaming, onto the ground. Lester looked away and saw Amanda’s eyes sparkling in the firelight. She looked just like Sally, standing in the wings, ready to warm up the crowd for Joe E. Lewis or Alan King, Tom Jones or Englebert Humperdink. Lester’s initial nausea was replaced by a sudden memory of desire, and both feelings merged to an almost overwhelming fatigue.

“What’s wrong?” Amanda asked.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“Your loss,” Amanda answered. “Hey! Look!”

Lester turned. The chattering men held the carcass over the fire. The hair burned off, rising in sparks in the dark sky.

“Like fireworks,” Amanda said.

“I don’t think I can stay here,” Lester said.

“Don’t you like Thai food?” A cloud of burnt hair wafted over them. The dog was returned to the altar; the man with the knife sliced off limbs and pieces of side meat that his friends arrayed on spits and skewers, sprinkled with spices and then held over the fire. The smell of roasting flesh merged with the stench of burning hair.

“I’m going to be ill,” Lester said. “I have to go in.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be OK.” Lester looked at Amanda again, the memories swirling in his mind, the roasting meat that both attracted and repelled, the passion that had turned to hate, the love to evil.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m going to help them make dinner.” Amanda left her father. Lester turned away and went back to Manuel’s trailer. More beer cans were on the table. Manuel was standing next to Abby, pointing at the blueprints.

“What’s the matter, Dad?” Abby asked. “You look pale.”

“Lie down, Lester,” Manuel said. “Take it easy.”

Lester sat down on one of the beds, and then put his head down and closed his eyes. He kept his feet on the floor.

“Put your feet up,” Abby called over.

“I have shoes on.”

“Go ahead,” Manuel said. “I was going to swipe some new sheets tomorrow, anyway.”

“Oh, you men are just too much,” Abby said. “Did either of you ever think about the possibility of taking the shoes off?”

“I’m just resting,” Lester said.

Abby walked over to the bed, lifted her father’s legs, pulled off the shoes without untying the knots, and dropped them on the bed.

“Don’t expect me to take off your socks,” Abby said. “There’s a limit to what even a daughter will do.”

“Thanks,” Lester said.

“You already look better. A much healthier, pasty white.”

“I want to show you the restroom layout,” Manuel said.

“That’s what I’ve been waiting for all evening.”

Lester’s legs tingled. No one had touched them—even as roughly as Abby had—for more years than he could remember. He had barely shaken hands with anyone for two years. He should write something about it. But then he remembered that he had lost his manuscript. It was gone. Gone forever. Perhaps it was best that it was lost. Who said that anyone should understand themselves?

Lester almost dozed off, but he kept being awakened by Abby’s voice, feigning interest in Taco Bell. He could hear Abby’s sarcasm as she asked questions about cash flow and overhead, tax breaks and inventory; Manuel was oblivious to her tone. Lester used to tell Sally about his work; she would pretend to listen for a while, get bored, pull off her clothes and make love to him, or, later on, go off to find some other man to screw. Lester’s heart began to pound in his chest. Was Abby playing with Manuel, flirting with him? or was she doing it to make her father’s heart pound against his ribs? Lester didn’t know if he should pretend to sleep or exaggerate his restlessness, but before he could decide the door burst open. Amanda came in, followed by several young men with plates piled high with steaming meat. Lester sat up. Manuel rolled up his blueprints. He offered around more beers.

“They have a dog graveyard,” Amanda told her sister. “It’s like a field of battle, or a mass execution. Dried blood, and rotten guts, and flies. The stench is unbelievable.”

“You must have been in heaven,” Abby said. “How did the slaughter go?”

“It was so primal. I feel I’ve been a witness to an ancient rite.”

“Have food,” one of the men said, handing Abby a plate of meat.

“It’s spicy,” Amanda said. “Get a beer ready.”

“Want to share?” Abby asked Lester. Before he could answer Amanda spoke.

“He’s a vegetarian.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Abby asked. “What kind of dog was it?”

“Labrador retriever.”

Abby lifted a piece of meat. Grease dripped down her fingers as she bit into it. “Ooh, it is hot.”

“His name was Pookie,” Amanda said.

“Her name.”

“His. I saw.”

“How do you know?” Abby asked.

“I’m not that innocent, you know.”

“I know you can recognize a prick, for God’s sake. I wanted to know how you knew his name was Pookie.”

Amanda pulled out a charred leather collar from her pocket. “Pookie” was engraved on a silver tag, along with a Long Island address and phone number.

“Pookie could have been the name of the owner.”

“Good point.”

Abby took another bite. “Oh God, my mouth is burning! Manuel! A beer! Quick!” Manuel opened another beer over and brought it over her. She took a long drink and then lifted the can.

“A toast to our benefactor!” Abby called out. “To Pookie!”

The other men lifted their beers and echoed Abby’s toast.

“Do you see the small little guy,” Amanda said, pointing. “The one who’s laughing?”

“Let me guess,” Abby said. “He has a prick too.”

“He must. His name is Rinan, or something like that. He offered me one of Pookie’s balls.”

“As a keepsake?”

“To eat.”

“I trust you turned him down. You spend enough money on electrolysis as it is.”

“I declined. He ate them both himself.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t jump you,” Abby said.

“It must take a while to kick in.”

“Oh, look,” Abby said. “He’s hugging Manuel. Should we warn him?”

“Just keep an eye on Dad,” Amanda said.

“More beers, everyone!” Manuel called. He gave out more cans of beer, emptied one quickly himself, and then started another.

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much,” Lester said to Manuel. He was putting his shoes on.

“I can hold my liquor,” Manuel said. “I can hold it better than anyone I know.”

“That’s what I used to think about myself,” Lester said.

“Big man,” Manuel said. “I heard about you and your holding your liquor.”

“That’s just the point…”

“Oh, yeah? Well, let me tell you something, Lester Norris.” Manuel raised his finger to make a point, then clapped his hand across his mouth and stumbled out of the trailer. Everyone followed; the Thai workers fell over themselves laughing as Manuel collapsed into his own vomit. Lester walked over to Manuel.

“Let me help you up,” Lester said. Manuel slapped his hand away.

“Leave me alone, old man,” he said. He threw up again, rolled over on the ground, and then called out. “Who’s going to get me another beer?”

His Thai friends brought him another can and another plate of food.

“You wanted to know what living in the gutter was,” Lester told Abby. “That’s it.”

“It’s disgusting,” Abby said. “And he’s a relative.”

“And the worst thing,” Lester said, “is that you don’t care—you just don’t care. The greatest joy is being in a state where you don’t even mind rolling in your own filth.” Manuel tried to stand and fell over again. “You care in the morning, but you can forget right away. It’s easy. It’s so easy to forget.”

Rinan helped him to his feet. Manuel began to sing “Guadalajara.” He hugged Rinan and urged him to dance.

“Do you think we should warn Manuel about Pookie’s testicles?” Abby asked.

“He wouldn’t care,” Amanda said. “And he won’t remember, anyway.” Amanda put her hand over her mouth. “Won’t remember…”

“Oh, stop it, Amanda,” Abby said.

“Stop what?” Lester asked.

“You know. Something reminded her of something. Have a beer, Sissy. Forget about it. Join the party.”

Abby left them and entered the circle of men dancing around Manuel and Rinan.

“Hey,” Abby yelled. “Who wants to learn the macarena!” Abby called out to Amanda. “How does it start, again?” Abby arranged the men into a line and was just starting to teach them the hand motions when they heard tires crunching on the dirt road; flashing red and blue lights were added to the glow of the fire. The men ran quickly to their trailers. Manuel, support gone, fell to the ground.

“What’s happening?” Amanda asked Manuel, who was struggling to his feet.

“I bet it’s the Pookie Patrol,” Abby said.

“Immigration!” Manuel yelled. “They’ve come to deport us.” Manuel leaned against the wall of his trailer. “We can fight them!” he called out. “This is our chance!”

“Should we pop our boobs again?” Abby asked. Lester looked at the red and blue sparkles reflecting in her eyes.

Manuel picked up a rock and threw it towards one of the police cars. It missed the windshield but hit a policeman. Manuel fell to the ground from the effort.

“The intifada of the foreign workers!” he yelled.

He stood up, pulled men out of the nearest trailer, gave them all rocks and led an attack. There was a hollow gunshot and something arched into the compound and hit the altar. After a flash of yellow light smoke started to rise like incense from the piled stones.

Manuel pulled a stick out of the fire and fanned it into flame as he ran by them. “Get out of here,” he said. “It’s not your fight.”

“They blocked the way,” Lester said.

“I can get us to our car,” Amanda said.

“Don’t let your face get into the tear gas,” Manuel said, putting the torch against the side of his trailer.

“Come on,” Amanda said. She took her sister’s hand and together they pushed Lester past the bloody altar. They entered a maze of ruined walls and collapsed roofs and passed through, on the other end, what must have once served as the city gate.

“This is the doggie graveyard,” Amanda said. “Don’t breathe.” Lester and Abby were recoiled by the smell of corruption, of ancient death, of the gasses of decaying flesh. Strands of muscle clung to skulls and cracked long bones.

“I think I’d prefer the tear gas,” Abby said. Amanda grabbed her sister’s hand and led them through the ghastly field. Lester stepped on something that collapsed into corruption. He tripped and fell; his daughters helped him back up and half-carried him forward. They climbed a steep incline lined with tarpaulins. A cloud of tear gas approached them through the ruins.

“Don’t look,” Abby said. She led them past piles of rubble towards Lester’s car. They got in, slammed the doors and closed the windows.

“OK,” Amanda said. “Let’s go.”

Lester started the car. Abby adjusted the rear view mirror. Behind them the trailers were burning; the encampment was in flames. Headlights were bobbing up the dirt road; the hotels along the Dead Sea were ablaze in white phosphorus glow.

“Jesus,” Abby said. “It looks like the end of the world.”

“Where are we going to go now?” Amanda asked.

“Wherever it is,” Abby said, “Dad has to shower. And you do, too; your hands are covered with blood.”

Lester turned onto the dirt path. He didn’t drive back towards the Dead Sea, but up the mountain.

“Where are we going, Dad?” Amanda asked.

“To my shelter,” Lester said.