Freefall Read Free

the commander’s shouts, or even me. It’s Shira’s silver Star of David, which swivels seductively above the sunflower seed dish. Like a spelunker caught in a narrow cavern, Ben is lost inside a maze of cleavage.
    Shira straightens up. She catches Ben ogling, and giggles.
    â€œWe’re in the lead by seventeen!” shouts Ron.
    â€œTriple double! Triple double. Come on, Tal.”
    Shira dives for the spot on the floor in front of the TV. Behind her, on the worn, black leather couch, Ben and Ron sit side-by-side. Shira’s head is close enough to rest on Ben’s knee should he scoot up behind her. It should be my spot. I try and catch Ben’s attention, but he is leaning forward, his body rigid as our offense gets the ball and heads down the court.
    I hesitate. I’m sure Shira doesn’t mean anything by it. But I feel benched, watching from the sidelines. Surprised and winded.
    Maybe what happened in the taxi was just my imagination—or maybe now I was only imagining the way he looked at Shira.
    It’s the beginning of the second quarter. I listen to the squeal of running shoes, watch the flash of yellow jerseys as our players spin and dash around the court determined to hold on to their advantage.
    â€œWin or die! Win or die!” Ben hollers.
    â€œHey, Aggie,” says Shira. “Can you bring in some more beers?”
    â€œSure,” I say, deciding to make light of it.
    As I head for the kitchen, I hear strums of an old Dylan refrain drift in off the porch. Noah is still playing. Peeking outside, I see it’s stopped snowing. I feel cheated that I’ve missed it. Maybe the only snowfall Jerusalem will have all year. Easing open the screen door made for flies in the summertime and not this winter’s cold, I step out onto the porch. A scooter screeches down the narrow alley and stops below the house.
    â€œHey, Noah. How’s it going?” yells the driver.
    â€œOkay and you?”
    He revs the motor in reply. “You’re going back?”
    He revs the motor in reply. “You’re “Yeah. I’m closing this weekend.”
    â€œToo bad. There’s a party by the port in Tel Aviv tomorrow. Next time,” he calls over his shoulder as he speeds off .
    Noah continues strumming on his guitar as he looks up at me. He’s got his dad’s light hazel-colored eyes and his mom’s tanned complexion. He is a perfect meld of east and west. “ For the times they are a-changin’ ,” he sings in a voice that’s deeper and rougher than Shira’s but just as strong.
    I hover by the doorway. He hasn’t asked me to join him but hasn’t turned his back on me either.
    â€œNot a basketball fan after all?” he asks me.
    â€œWin or die! Win or die!” The rousing chorus from inside spills onto the porch.
    â€œShame to miss the snowfall,” I say. “Maybe the only one we’ll have for the next couple of years.”
    Leaning back, his guitar resting on his thigh and his head cocked to the side, he’d look like a hippie if it weren’t for the army uniform and military haircut. He’s wearing his boots, and sometime between when I said hi and now, he’s polished them and packed up. The duffel bag lies by his foot like a faithful pet. His M16 is propped on the banister. I’m still leaning against the door, catching Shira’s giggle followed by Ben’s muffled reply.
    â€œI wish I knew what I wanted.” I sigh. “Shira’s lucky she’s so talented. She’s perfect for the entertainment troop. I’m sure she’ll get in.”
    He picks a few bars of a new song then pauses. “You can’t know what you want until you can’t have it.”
    â€œAre those Dylan lyrics?”
    â€œNot exactly.” He reaches for his guitar case. “When something slips out of your grasp and you realize it’s gone, that’s when it hits you. If