There were a dozen white shirts hanging in the closet, all starched and ironed, each paired with a tie of his wife’s choosing. His pants were hanging on special hangers. He picked out a pair of black slacks, chose a shirt, placed a tie around his neck, and decided he’d tie it later. Putting on his shoes, he called Samah.
“Hi, Samah, good morning. I’m running a little late. Something came up. Yes, I know, I spoke with Tarik already. What else is on the agenda for today? Okay. I’ll be in by nine. Wait, just a second, that ID number you gave me yesterday, do you still have it on you? Yes, exactly, Amir Lahab. Send the number to our guy in the court system and ask him to find a current address, please. And tell him not to take his time this time. Be assertive with him. Tell him I don’t want to wait until tomorrow. Okay, great, can I bring you a cup of coffee? Oh, and Samah, do me a favor and keep this between us.”
The lawyer’s carefully laid plans began to go awry as soon as he got into his car and fielded a telephone call from his wife.
“Where are you?” he yelled toward the speakerphone.
“At work. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. Did you leave for work already?”
“Yes, sure, is everything okay? Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said. “Everything’s fine. I took the kids in, everything went smoothly. I’m heading into a meeting now and I won’t be able to use the phone so I figured I’d give you a call before it started, see if you decided to stay home.”
“No, no, I’m in the car.”
“You on the way to court?”
“Court?”
“You said you have a hearing at eight thirty, remember?”
“Oh, right, sure. I’m on my way to the district court,” he said, and immediately felt that she was checking to see whether he was tied up and if he might beat her to the punch and file first.
“Okay, so I’ll give you a call later?”
“Yeah, yeah, ’bye.”
The lawyer felt like he was choking. He cranked up the AC in the car and opened the window. Was it possible that his wife was smarter than he was? Craftier than he was? She had never before called him in the morning to see how he was doing, to find out where he was and whether he’d made it to court or not. He envisioned her standing outside the Israeli civil court for family matters, which opened at eight thirty, fully aware, as was he, that her financial future hung in the balance. “She’s never called me in the morning before,” the lawyer said out loud. “Never asked me about my fucking job. So why now? And the kiss? And the sweet talk in the morning? Since when does she touch my forehead to see if I’m running a fever?”
The lawyer, waiting in traffic, cursed the car ahead of him. He had to stop himself from leaning on the horn. Maybe she was just trying to soothe him. Maybe she was just shaken by the fact that he’d found the letter, maybe she was afraid he didn’t believe her? And with good reason. He imagined her laughing out loud, in a voice that wasn’t even hers.
“I just talked to him,” he heard her tell the man by her side. “He’s on the way to court, nothing to worry about. He bought the whole story, doesn’t suspect a thing.”
The lawyer tried to find a shortcut and turned off Hebron Way toward Talpiot. He wasn’t sure where to go — to family court, to catch her in the act? But what would he do then? Laugh? Cry? What would he do when she tossed him that scornful look, proud for having beaten him? She’d be safe there. What could he do to her in front of all those policemen and courthouse security guards.
And maybe the best thing was to simply go to the Sharia court this instant and file for divorce there. But that wouldn’t help either. If she was already at family court then it was over, the civil court system had jurisdiction. The lawyer decided to drive by her work to see if her car was parked outside. That way he could continue on with his plan. “Just a little wrinkle,” the lawyer mumbled to himself. “Just a little wrinkle.”
He replayed the brief conversation with his wife. What were the noises he’d heard in the background? He wasn’t sure. Was there that kind of din in the family court already at this hour? Did he even hear much noise? Actually it had been completely quiet. Was her office completely quiet? Where did she work on Sunday morning anyway? At the clinic? Or the office? What an idiot. What an ass he’d been all these years. He didn’t so much as have his wife’s number at the office. Now he knew why she always called the office and not his celclass="underline" so she’d know exactly where he was at any given moment. “No,” he’d heard her say, “it’s because I never know when you’re available.”
The lawyer tried calling her back on her cell. At the very least this time he would make a point of listening to the background noises. But what would he say? Would he ask her if she wanted to meet for lunch? That would be unprecedented. What would he ask her: Where are you working today? Why did he want to know that? The lawyer couldn’t come up with a convincing reason and, at any rate, she didn’t pick up. A meeting; the lawyer smiled and told himself he had married someone with a superior mind. The first thing he would do was look for her car outside the social services office in Talpiot. She went in to that office at least twice a week, of that he was certain. If not, then he’d go to that fucking mental health clinic of hers. And if he didn’t find her car there, either? Well. . He honked at the car in front of him.
CORPSE
Pushing the key into the lock, I hoped that nothing had changed. The weekend edition of the paper waited beside the door, wrapped in a plastic bag, covered in dew. I picked up the paper, shook off the drops, and opened the door.
Ruchaleh was on the couch, awake, looking terrible. Her eyes were puffy, her gaze was fixed on the ceiling, and there were two empty bottles of red wine on the table. The sun had risen but the blinds were still shut and the only light in the room came in from the kitchen. I said nothing. I stood in the entryway and waited for her to turn toward me. There was no need for me to go up to the attic. Something clearly had changed. Moving slowly, Ruchaleh turned and looked at me. Then, making a great effort, she smiled and moved her head up and down, again and again.
“Do me a favor,” she said, “and don’t stare at me with that pitying look.”
I froze, even though what I wanted to do was run to her and hug her and tell her that I loved her. I wouldn’t care if she said something like, I can’t stand histrionic people, or What a pathetic Arab. I wanted to fall into her arms, console her, be consoled, receive a warm hug, and hear her whisper in my ear, “Don’t worry, Mommy’s here,” in a voice that would soothe all my fears.
“What are you doing standing there like a golem?” she said. “It’s over, it’s done.”
“It’s just beginning,” I found myself saying, completely unsure of what I meant.
“I can’t stand,” she chuckled, and then she was quiet for a moment before adding, very softly, almost apologetically, “Come here, you little dunce.” I walked over to her and she hugged me harder than ever before and she wasn’t even taken aback when I lay my head on her chest. She hugged me as though I were hers, and I, on my knees, on the floor, burying my head in her chest, tightening my grip, tried to make myself more and more hers. I didn’t look up but I knew she was crying. She groaned in pain and her body shook. “What are you doing crying like a little kid?” she asked me in a wavering voice, stroking my hair. I knew she was silently saying, “Stay here, stay here with me.” I stayed until she fell asleep and only then did I break her embrace.