The Girl on the Fridge: Stories (10 page)

Danny was about six years old the first time he came across the Weekly Paint-by-Color. The children were supposed to help Uncle Isaac find his lost pipe and to color it in with cheerful colors. Danny found the pipe, colored it in with cheerful colors, and even won the prize that was raffled off among those who had solved it correctly—a
National Landscapes
encyclopedia. That was just the beginning. Danny helped Yoav find his puppy, Hero, and helped Yael and Bilha find their baby sister, and helped Policeman Avner find his missing pistol, and Amir and Ami the soldiers find their missing patrol jeep, and he always made sure to color things in with cheerful colors.

He helped Yair the hunter find the hidden rabbit and helped the Roman soldiers find Jesus, and helped Charles Manson find Sharon Tate, who was hiding in the bedroom, and helped Sergeant Jones find Saddam Hussein, who was at large, and he did it all without ever forgetting to color them in with cheerful colors.

He knew people called him Snitch behind his back, but he didn’t care. He went right on helping. He helped George find Noriega, who’d been lying low, and helped the Nazi henchmen find Anne Frank, and helped the Romanian people find the elusive Ceau
escu, and always made sure to color the fugitives with cheerful colors.

Terrorists and freedom fighters the world over realized it was no use hiding. Some of them, in sheer desperation, even colored themselves in cheerful colors. All in all, most people lost faith in their power to fight against their destiny. The world became a pretty depressing place. Danny himself wasn’t very happy either. Searching and coloring didn’t interest him anymore, and only inertia kept him going. Besides, he no longer had anywhere to store the seven hundred twenty-eight copies of the
National Landscapes
encyclopedia. Nothing stayed cheerful but the colors.

Everyone in the class was looking forward to Naama’s birthday party. Her parties always involved something really special. Two years ago, it was at the national park and they played Scavenger Hunt in paddleboats, and last year they had it at Skate Land, and the national skating champion, who was her dad’s friend too, came and handed out autographs. Naama’s father is a very important person who always wears expensive clothes and a tie, and carries a briefcase. Rafi said he was like a prime minister or a member of the Knesset, but that couldn’t be, because he looked so young and you can’t be in the Knesset till you’re old. He’s really nice, Naama’s dad, and always has this big smile on his face, and he’s blond too, and he always has jokes to tell, or scary stories. Naama told me once—it’s a secret—how her dad goes to other countries a lot, but not just to ordinary places like France or London. He goes to secret countries, they’re called stuff like Colombia and Magadascar…special places. He does important things there and they pay him a million billion for it, and all his friends from his job talk in funny languages and bring Naama lots of presents. My dad isn’t secret at all. He’s got a shoe store on Herzl Street, and his friends talk Hebrew, and they never bring me presents. All they do is whack me on the shoulder till it hurts and tell me I’m a big man now or ask me how it’s going at school, stupid stuff like that.

This year Naama’s birthday party was at her house. She’s got a cool house with three floors and a swimming pool with a water-slide and a separate gate for the car, the kind you open with a remote. And Naama’s dad was really cool and he let us open and close the gate. And when Yuval and Miron pushed Elad the nerd into the pool and he climbed out all wet, Naama’s dad laughed with everyone and didn’t start lecturing us like my dad, who’s always telling us to stop fooling around. And then he asked their Finippino housekeeper to bring the refreshments because the sun was out, and there were two clowns who had this great show they did and organized all these different contests. Naama told me as a secret how Shimon Peres was coming later, and maybe also Uri Geller, from TV, who’d known her dad since they were in high school. And the Finippino brought in a big, big birthday cake with sparklers on top. Naama showed me the rest of the house. They have three toilets, and every one of them is as big as our bathroom at home. And there’s a fountain next to each of them that you could turn on and watch, so you don’t get bored when you’re taking a shit.

On our way back to the yard, I saw Naama’s dad standing there in the doorway talking with two men. There was a cigarette in his mouth, and he looked sick and kind of sad. “Could you just wait another ten minutes? My daughter’s having a birthday party. I’ll just tell the kids that the party’s ending early…I wouldn’t want to ruin her day.”

The men in the doorway nodded, and the fatter one said, “Okay. You have ten minutes. We’ll be waiting in the car.”

Naama and I sneaked back into the yard. Elad was there, even wetter than before. Miron had thrown him back into the water. They’d almost finished the cake; only some crumbs were left. Naama’s dad came out into the yard. He had sweat on his forehead, but otherwise he seemed better than before and he was laughing again and smiling. And then the Finippino came out carrying a tray with lots of goody bags, the kind that have pictures of Popeye on them. We didn’t want to take any at first, because goody bags are for little kids. But Naama’s dad said they weren’t ordinary goodie bags and that there was magic inside, which he’d brought from the other side of the world. What you had to do was take the bag home without opening it, put it under your pillow at night, and think really hard about the present you wanted to get more than anything else. The next morning you were supposed to bring it back without opening it, and tell Naama’s dad what present you’d wished for. And Naama’s dad would bring the bag to his personal magician, who would pull the presents out of the bags. Then on Saturday we’d all go over to their house and our presents would be there waiting for us. We all grabbed the bags, and Naama’s dad reminded us not to show the bags to anyone and not to peek, because otherwise the magic would get out.

Walking out of Naama’s house on our way home, I waved nicely at the people in the car, who’d agreed to wait an extra ten minutes so we could get our presents. Miron had filled a bag with water and wanted to throw it at the car, but Mickey talked him out of it. So Miron threw it at Elad instead. Elad said it was all bull, there was no such thing as magic and that he was just going to open his bag right now to see what it had inside. Miron grabbed the bag out of his hand and said that if Elad wanted to waste the magic, he’d take the bag away from him so he could get two presents. Elad cried and wanted his bag back, and Miron slapped him and said that if Elad told his parents or anything, he’d really let him have it.

Tonight I’ll put the bag under my pillow and dream about an Alba skateboard. And even if there’s no magic, I’ll get it as a present, because Naama told me as a secret how you could always count on her dad.

My best friend pissed on my door last night. I live in a fourth-floor walk-up. Dogs do that sometimes, to mark territory, to keep other males away. But he’s no dog, he’s my best friend. And besides, it’s not his territory, it’s the door to my apartment.

A few minutes earlier, my best friend had been waiting for the bus. He didn’t know what to do. Slowly his bladder started to get the better of him. He tried to fight it, reminding himself the bus would be there any minute, except that was what he’d reminded himself twenty minutes before. Then it suddenly occurred to him that I, his best friend, lived just a few blocks away, at 14 Zamenhoff, in a fourth-floor walk-up. He left the bus stop and took off walking toward my apartment. Not exactly walking, really, more like half-running, then he broke into a sprint. And with every step he had a harder time holding it in, till he thought of sneaking into someone’s back yard and peeing against a wall or a tree or a gas tank. He was less than fifty meters away from my house when he got that idea, but it struck him as both crude, in a certain way, and wussified. There are a lot of bad things you can say about my best friend, but one thing he’s not is a wuss. So he forced himself to go another fifty meters and then started climbing the four floors to my place. With every step his bladder was getting bigger and bigger, like a balloon about to burst.

When he finally made it up all the stairs, he knocked on my door, then he rang the bell. Then knocked again. Hard. I wasn’t home. Now of all times, in his hour of need, I, his best friend, had forsaken him for some pub—was doubtless hanging out at the bar, hitting on any girl unlucky enough to swim into my ken. There my best friend stood at my door, in desperation. He’d trusted me blindly, and now it was too late. He’d never make it all the way down those four flights of stairs. The only thing left to do, afterward, was leave me a crumpled note that read: “Sorry.”

The moment she saw the puddle, the girl who’d agreed to come home with me that night had second thoughts. “Number one,” she said, “it’s gross. I’m not stepping in that. Number two, even if you mop it up, it will have stunk up the whole house. And number three,” she added with an ever-so-slight curl of the lip, “if your best friend pisses on your door, that says something.” After a brief silence, she clarified: “About you.” And after another silence: “Not something good.” Then she left.

She’s the one who mentioned that this is how dogs mark territory. When she said it, she paused a little after the word
dog
, and gave me a meaningful look, from which I was supposed to deduce that my best friend had a lot in common with a dog. After that look, she left. I brought a floor rag from the kitchen porch, and a pail of water, and as I mopped it up, I hummed “We Shall Overcome.” I was so proud of not having slapped her.

Sometimes Dad would leave the house for a few days, pack some things in a brown plastic bag that said Adidas and disappear.

Where’d Dad go? I’d ask Mom. “To the Dead Sea,” she’d answer impatiently. What’s he doing in the Dead Sea? “Ach, you’re full of questions today,” Mom would say. She’d be mad. “Go do your homework.”

So I asked Dad. “Where am I going?” Dad would say. “I don’t really remember. Where did Mom say I’m going?” To the Dead Sea. “Oh, yeah. Now I remember,” Dad said, and he smiled. “That’s where I’m going. The Dead Sea.” What are you going to do at the Dead Sea? “What did Mom say I’m going to do?” Dad asked. I shrugged. She wouldn’t tell me. Is it a secret? “Of course it’s a secret,” Dad whispered. “It’s top secret. But you know what, I’ll whisper it in your ear if you swear not to tell.” I swear. “It’s not enough just to say ‘I swear,’” Dad said. “You have to swear on something.” Okay, so I swear on my mother. “Your mother?” Dad said, laughing. “Okay, for what it’s worth. Come here.” I went over to him, and he whispered in my ear, “I’m going to the Dead Sea to fish.” To fish? “Sssh…” Dad put his hand over my mouth. “Not out loud.” But how can you fish? You don’t have a rod. “Rods are for pussies,” Dad said. “I catch the fish with my hands.” What are pussies? And what do you do with the fish after you catch them? And why do you even go fishing? Dad’s face got serious. “Those are really very good questions,” he said, “but I can’t answer them. Except the one about pussies. The others are just too secret.” But I won’t tell anyone. I swear on Mom and on Tsiyon too. “On Tsiyon too?” Dad asked, and he whistled. “On Tsiyon Shemesh?” I nodded. “Well, now I’m sure you won’t tell,” Dad said. “But they could kidnap you and inject you full of truth serum that’ll suck all the secrets out of your head before you even know what’s going on.” Who? I asked. Who do you mean? “The pussies,” Dad whispered. Mom came in. “When are you heading out?” she asked, lighting a cigarette. “Now,” he said, picking up his bag. “Don’t forget,” he said, and he winked, putting his finger on his lips. “Not a word!” he said. Not a word, I won’t say a word, even if they pump me full of all the serum in the world. “What serum?” Mom asked, looking hard at my father. “What kind of junk are you filling the kid’s head with?” “Not even to Mom,” Dad said with a laugh, and he left. I knew he trusted me.

Two days after Dad went away, Mickey came. Mickey always came when Dad went away. Most of the time, he came very late at night, when he thought I was sleeping, and stayed over. Tsiyon Shemesh said he was probably fucking my mother. Tsiyon’s four years older than me and knows about things like that. So what should I do? I asked him. “Nothing,” he said, “that’s just how women are. They always want a dick, and a dick is a boomerang.” Why? Why do they always want it? “That’s just how it is,” Tsiyon said. “Women are whores. It’s their nature. Even my mother’s like that.” But why is a dick a boomerang? And what does that have to do with their being whores? “What do I know?” said Tsiyon. “My brother always says that. I think it means there’s nothing you can do about it.” So nothing’s what I did.

I always hated Mickey. I don’t know why, even though when he came in the morning, he brought me chocolate. He was always trying to make friends. “What’s happening, big guy?” Mickey said when I opened the door. “Is your mom home?” I nodded. “And your dad?” he asked, looking around the apartment. No. “Where is he?” he asked, still looking around. “On a trip?” That’s when I started to get suspicious. If he came to fuck Mom, then how come he’s asking about Dad? I didn’t say anything. Mom came out of the kitchen, Mickey put his black leather bag on the floor and went over to her. She was awfully surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Are you crazy?” “I told my wife I was going to the hospital,” Mickey said. “I had to see you.” “Are you crazy?” Mom asked again. “What if Menachem was here?” “I would’ve said I was bringing you your medicine,” Mickey said. “What’s the problem?” He went over to Mom and grabbed her hand. “Can’t a doctor visit his patient?” Mom tried to pull her hand away, but not really. He didn’t let go. “What about the kid?” she asked in a whisper. “The kid?” Mickey said. “I brought him some chocolate.”

When they went into the bedroom and closed the door, I opened his bag. There were all kinds of bottles and papers, but way down on the bottom, in a secret pocket, was the needle with the serum. My hands were shaking, but I picked it up and ran to the bedroom door. It was locked and I started banging. Mom, Mom, be careful! I yelled, don’t tell him anything. After a while, Mom opened the door, all out of breath. “What’s wrong?” she asked. She was very mad, I could tell. It’s Mickey, I shouted, he doesn’t really want to fuck you. He’s an undercover pussy! Here’s the needle, he had it in his bag. Don’t tell him anything.
Don’t tell!
Now Mom looked scared, and Mickey came to the door too. “Why do you make up all that crap?” Mom yelled. She grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. I didn’t make it up, Dad told me. That’s when I started to cry. “Dad? Where is he?” Mickey asked. I won’t tell you even if you kill me, you pussy. Mickey grabbed his bag and took off, his shoes in his hand, his shirt unbuttoned. The needle stayed with me. Mom tried to grill me later, but I kept quiet because I could see she didn’t know about the pussies, and I knew Dad didn’t want to tell her, and that pretty much fit in with what Tsiyon Shemesh said about women, about their nature and how they always want a boomerang. When Dad came back, Mom talked to him for a while and he was really mad at her for letting a pussy in the house. I know, on account of he slapped her and threw his brown bag out the window. I didn’t hear exactly what they said because they closed the door, but after that, he didn’t go away anymore. That night, he told me that himself. “I can’t leave your mother alone for a minute,” he said. But what about the fish? “What fish?” You know, Dad, the fish in the Dead Sea. “Give it a rest with the questions!” he said. “Go do your homework.”