Chapter 17

His ringing cell phone woke us two and a half hours later. He spoke in rapid Hebrew for a few moments before hanging up. “Work. They know I’m back in town.”

I curled around him to satisfy my craving for the feel of his skin against mine. “Mmmm,” I mumbled. “Don’t move. I’m imprinting the texture and heat of your skin on my brain. The memory will be my survival tool on cold Pittsburgh nights.”

He responded by pulling me in even tighter. “It doesn’t have to be a memory. You could stay here, with me.”

My sweet, brilliant dreamer didn’t understand that his place and my place were farther apart than Pittsburgh and Jerusalem, in more than physical distance. “We’re not talking about that. Let’s get a shower and go find food.”

“I’ll race you to the bathroom, and I know a great steak place.”

I bolted for the bathroom, arriving before he managed to get out of bed. “Don’t ever try to out run me,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “And no, we’re going to the supermarket and buying groceries.”

“We still have eggs.”

“Nope, it’s time for your oven to lose its virginity. You can chop Israeli salad while I cook up some real food.”

The expedition to the supermarket was a repeat of our first supermarket adventure. I went to the meat department and the produce department, and he wandered off to the candy and cookie aisle. “It’s amazing your teeth haven’t rotted out of your gums.” I clasped his elbow and led him to the checkout.

The young clerk blushed as she said, “Hi, Avi.”

He chatted with her, calling her by her first name. As she scanned the chicken and vegetables, he put them into plastic bags. I reached into my purse for my wallet, and once again, he nudged me aside.

“Not this time,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m buying you dinner tonight.”

An hour and a half later we sat across from each other, devouring rosemary chicken, saffron rice, broccoli, and Israeli salad. “You chop an excellent salad,” I said, holding a forkful of tiny chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and cilantro.

Together, we cleaned the kitchen. I cleared the table. He loaded the dishwasher and scrubbed pans. When the countertops gleamed, and the dishwasher was turned on, he poured two glasses of wine. “Let’s drink these on the balcony.”

The night air was infused with the scents of the neighborhood. The restaurant a few doors down fried falafel and French fries. The exhaust from the buses and cars intermingled with the sweet scent of rugalach baking somewhere in the building.

We sat in matching white plastic chairs, separated by a small plastic table, sipping wine and enjoying a faint breeze.

“Tomorrow morning, we’re scheduled for the eight a.m. Old City Tunnel Tour. We’ll need to be up by seven o’clock at the latest if we want to have coffee and breakfast first. After the tour, we can wander the backstreets of the Jewish Quarter for a while. In the afternoon, I’ll play soccer, and you can bake.”

“I still want to run.”

“I’ll call Rivka. She’s the runner in the family. Maybe she can tell me where to take you.”

“Will I get to meet her at Aviva’s house tomorrow night?”

“No, Aviva said Rivka is working in Haifa until Wednesday. I’m not sure she even knows I’m home.”

We sat together talking as if we had known each other for our entire lives. Nothing about being with him felt awkward. The conversation never hit a lull, and there wasn’t a moment my body didn’t crave his.

“How does this sound for a game plan? On Saturday, we drive north to the Kinnert for two days. Then, we can head south to Tel Aviv, stopping in Akko and Safed, unless you prefer going north to Haifa.”

“You’re the sexy tour guide.”

“Two nights in Tel Aviv. We can hit the beach for a day and do the touristy stuff for a day. Then back home for a night before driving down to the Dead Sea on Thursday. We’ll be back on Friday afternoon in time to shower and get to Aviva’s house for Shabbat dinner.”

“Which day do we get to spend in bed?”

“Next Saturday, before you fly out. Unless you decide to extend the trip.”

***

On Friday morning, I laced up my sneakers, coated my face with sunscreen, and went straight to the coffee maker. As I made coffee, he finished shaving and dressing. The sun lit the apartment. Its warmth reflected off the cream walls and the marble floors. It amazed me how fast this apartment switched from being overwhelming to feeling like home. So many times, in our conversations, I stopped myself from referring to it as “home” instead of “your home.”

“I smell coffee,” he said, wandering into the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless.

Just watching him walk and seeing his bare chest caused my heart to flutter. He looked good in his simple T-shirts, but shirtless--delicious.

I lifted my mug in a salute, set it down, and poured him a cup. He came around the countertop and kissed me behind the ear. “I love you,” he whispered softly before kissing it again.

My insides trembled, and my heart pounded gratitude that this magnificent man wanted to be with me. “I love you too, and if you keep kissing me like that, the only walls we’ll see today are the ones in the bedroom. So, drink your coffee and stop tempting me.”

“I’m doing this touristy stuff for you. If I had my way, you wouldn’t be allowed out of that bedroom for ten days.”

Tough choice--see Israel or spend ten days in bed with him. Actually, not such a hard choice, but it would be awkward writing an email saying: Hi, Dad, Haven’t seen much of Israel. Spent the week in bed with Avi. The airport is nice. Love, Julie

***

Our tour guide almost left without us. After finishing our coffee, we stalled in the bedroom. At seven-forty-five, we sprinted to the Old City. Avi knew a short cut that sent us trotting through narrow stone streets that would never pass a safety inspection in the United States. Not one stone laid level with another.

The tour guide flashed us a dirty look when we arrived, breathless, as she was finishing her introductory speech. We stood at the back of the line as the group passed through the archway leading into the tunnels.

The millennia-year-old walls of the tunnel wrapped us in a stone hug. As we traipsed through, it was hard to imagine, but Jews had been walking this path since the time of King David. The history overwhelmed me. Jack was the history lover in the family. To me, the people in the Bible were no different than the characters in fairy tales.

I never gave any thought to the history of the Jewish people, but listening to the tour guide lecture on these historical greats and being inside this tunnel, deep in the earth of Jerusalem, made their world as real as my own. I thought about the women of the time and how difficult their lives must have been. What did they pray for when they touched the stone? Love? Hope? Sustenance? Health for their families? I was sure they, too, mourned the loss of loved ones.

Grief is strange. It’s like the thestrals in the Harry Potter novels, mysterious animals that can only be seen by people who have witnessed death. Only people who have grieved can genuinely empathize with the intense pain of loss experienced by others.

I identified with the pain of those long-gone women and silently asked them to help ease my pain over losing Jack.

They came here to be close to their God. Would they be willing to reach out and help me find mine?

“Hey, are you still here? You’re too quiet.” Avi clasped me around the waist and pulled me close, hip to hip.

“I’m here.”

“Just checking,” he said.

The tunnel tour ended deep within the Old City. At the exit, the tour guide introduced the group to an armed soldier, flashing a nose ring and a Mickey Mouse watch. “This is Nofar. She’ll be leading the group back to Jaffa Gate. It’s important that you stay with her and not wander off. Portions of this area are not as safe as others.”

The group clumped around Nofar and began the hike back. Avi tugged on my hand, leading me in the opposite direction. “It’s okay. The tour company doesn’t want to be responsible for tourists wandering off into places where they don’t belong. I grew up running around this place. We’re taking a shortcut.”

The narrow stone passageways of the Old City twisted and turned from street to street, leading us under ancient archways and by open windows, providing us with a glimpse of families carrying out their daily routines. I thought about the bygone stonemasons, on their knees, laying stone after stone in the hot Jerusalem sun. “Wow, I just thought of something,” I said. “The men who set these stones must have boiled in the hot sun, day after day.”

“Yep,” he nodded, reaching for my hand.

“They didn’t even have ice water--no electric, no refrigeration, nothing.”

He launched into an overview of ice making in the middle east, from the BCE Period, all the way to the invention of what we know as true refrigeration in the 1750s. “Anyway, we get a few snowflakes in the winter,” he said, ending the speech.

“Snow? Well, that’s just great. Now I feel bad that they had to work in the cold.” We walked for a few steps. “Why don’t you kiss me and pull my thoughts away from those poor stone masons?”

He pulled me close and planted a quick kiss on my lips.

“What kind of kiss was that? Suddenly you’re not a fan of public displays of affection?”

“Not in this place. One, I don’t want to risk anyone snapping a picture and selling it to a magazine--it’s happened before. Second, when I’m here, I try to be respectful of the sensibilities of the orthodox community.”

“I understand, but you owe me one real kiss.”

He smiled in agreement, and we continued walking through the labyrinth of the old city, stopping at a small grocery store that Avi called a makolet. We went inside and replenished our water supply.

Back on the street, we continued to follow the stone path until it took a sharp turn, leading us to a stepped passageway that sloped downward. “Welcome to the Arab Market,” Avi announced, pointing at the stalls lining the road. Mizrahi music blared, and I could imagine veiled belly dancers emerging from the shops. A few vendors sat on small stools outside their shops, chatting with each other, or shouting into their cell phones. Their wares spilled out onto the stone steps of the road--exotic tapestries, hookahs, brass menorahs, and Christian and Jewish symbols carved out of olive wood.

As we passed, shopkeepers came out to the street, hawking everything from pottery, which they claimed was made during the BCE period, hand-made rugs from the far east, and whispered offers of hashish.

“It’s just like markets in Thailand, except this one has more tempting wares and hashish,” I said, peeking into a scarf shop.

Avi smiled, leading me down the ancient steps until one shop owner began speaking to him in Hebrew. I meandered inside and perused the gold and silver bracelets and rings. Necklaces hung on racks attached to the back wall. One flashing red caught my attention. I quickly reached for it and lifted it from its tiny metal hook. My heartbeat quickened as the silver chain fell between my fingers. The red cloisonné pomegranate pendant rested in my palm as I remembered...

***

I sat on my mom’s sofa watching Jack pull dirty laundry from his backpack. “It’s here. I know it is.”

“Whatever it is, it probably smells like the armpits of your T-shirts.”

Jack flashed me what I referred to as his “shut up, Julie” face--twisted mouth and rolled eyes. His laundry digging expedition continued, as I reached for the remote control and turned on the television.

“Turn that off. I want to tell you about my trip. Jules, you have to go to Jerusalem.”

I turned off the television and looked at him. “Really? I haaavvveee to go.” I dragged out the word have.

“Don’t be sarcastic. I’m serious. The place is beyond amazing. The history, you can feel it in your bones. Let’s save our money and go together. Ten days in Jerusalem and you’ll appreciate being a Jew.”

“I appreciate being a Jew,” I shot back.

“You’re agnostic at best, and you barely connect to Judaism culturally.”

“I don’t eat pork, and I don’t mix meat and milk. That’s something.” I leaned into the soft back of the sofa and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

“If I remember correctly, you said that you only did those things because of childhood conditioning--not because you connect with the mitzvot.”

I tried to think of something Jewish that I did regularly and drew a blank. “Whatever,” I said--my go-to response when I had no response.

“Here it is.” He held a small foil bag. The light from the table lamp caused it to flash blue--the color of the Star of David on the Israeli flag,

I reached out and took it from his hand. The lip of the bag was folded over and creased sharply. It rested on the palm of my hand.

“Open it,” Jack said, his eyes wide with excitement.

I reached in and pulled out a silver chain bracelet. Dangling from the links were small cloisonné pomegranates. I flipped it around in my hands, feeling the coolness of the metal and the smoothness of the cloisonné. “It’s beautiful,” I said, meaning it.

“I bought it in the Arab shuk in Jerusalem. I even haggled over the price.”

“What? I’m not worth full price?” I joked.

“Sure, you are, but it’s a tradition to haggle with the shopkeepers. That’s the fun part of shopping in the market, and it looks like something straight out of The Arabian Nights.”

“Can you put it on me?”

He clasped it around my wrist. “Jules, promise me that someday you’ll go to Jerusalem.”