The Book of Israela. Rena Blumenthal

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      She reached an arm out to pluck another tissue from the box, then grimaced in pain, rubbing the side of her neck with the other hand.

      “Is something wrong?”

      “The muscles go into spasm when I’m upset,” she said, massaging her neck with her left hand as she dried her eyes with the right. “My husband complains about it all the time. He thinks I do it on purpose, for sympathy, or as an excuse not to listen to him. But that’s totally unfair. It just happens whenever I get upset.”

      This threatened to release a new wave of sobs. I went to my desk, picked up a notebook and pen, and sat back down on the edge of the couch. “Israela,” I said in a firm tone. “Why don’t you tell me, as clearly and succinctly as you can, what makes you seek treatment at this time.”

      She calmed down instantly. The paper and pen was a great trick, I’d found. Helped even the most histrionic women focus, at least for a little while.

      “Well, like I was telling you, my husband, he’s the center of my life. He’s everything to me. But the truth is, he doesn’t treat me very well.”

      “In what way?” I jotted a note, then let the pen hover over the paper for effect.

      “It’s not his fault, really. He’s very insecure, that’s all.”

      “And how does he show that insecurity?”

      Her eyes were darting around the room, the telltale sign of a battered wife. I’d bet my last shekel she was another bruised-up woman about to protect her beloved abuser.

      “Well, for one thing, he’s very secretive. He’s almost never home, but even when he is, he sneaks around like a thief.” She sighed deeply. “He doesn’t like showing his face.”

      “He’s that shy?” I asked.

      “Oh no, not at all. He’s just . . . well . . . sensitive.”

      Yeah, right. So sensitive he’d probably kick her around the room if she happened to be standing in the way.

      “I see. And does he show this ‘sensitivity’ in other ways as well?”

      “Yes, well . . . he can be very jealous. He’s always imagining that I’m having affairs. He even brags about how jealous he is to his friends, as if it were proof of how much he loves me.”

      I made my voice soft and sympathetic. “Does he threaten you?”

      “Well, sometimes, I guess.” The tears were welling up, but this time she fought to keep them down. “Yes,” she whispered, “he threatens me a lot.”

      “What does he threaten you with?”

      “Oh, terrible things. How he’ll hurt me, humiliate me, destroy our house. But not directly, he never threatens me directly.”

      “What do you mean?” I asked.

      “Well, like I said, he’s hardly ever around. Months can go by and not even a word from him. He doesn’t call, doesn’t tell me where he is. So he sends messages, through his friends, the ones who are stalking me.”

      “Threatening messages?”

      She nodded, absentmindedly rubbing her neck.

      “Have you ever reported these stalkers to the police?”

      “Oh, no, of course not. They’re his friends; they’re just trying to help him. And they’re doing it for my own good, I know.” She lowered her eyes, a delicate crease forming between her eyebrows.

      “Has he ever carried out any of his threats? Has he ever gotten violent with you?” I asked gently.

      “Well, sort of . . . But none of this is really his fault! I haven’t been a good enough wife. I haven’t been the kind of wife he wanted.”

      “That would hardly give him the right—”

      “I know.” It was barely a whisper. We sat a few moments in silence.

      “When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.

      “Oh, my goodness, it’s been such a long time. I’m not even sure. Maybe a year? Or even longer.”

      That was straining credulity. “You haven’t seen or heard from him in over a year? Are you sure he’s OK?”

      “Of course he’s OK,” she said. “His friends see him all the time.”

      There was something very odd going on here. I needed a new line of inquiry.

      “What kind of work does he do?” I asked.

      “He’s a . . . an entrepreneur.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Oh, it’s kind of hard to explain. He’s always busy with one thing or another. Got his finger in a million pies.” She smiled weakly, as if to apologize for the obvious evasion.

      The husband was starting to sound like a shady character. I wondered if he might be part of the Israeli Mafia. Sometimes these Mafia types had to go underground for long periods of time, keeping their whereabouts unknown even to their wives. That would explain the lackeys with their violent threats. But was she covering up for him, or did she really not know? Now I was genuinely curious.

      “Do you have any idea where he’s been this past year?” I asked.

      “Not really. Even before that, he was never around much. He has an office in the house, with a separate entrance. Sometimes I think I hear him shuffling around down there, but I’m never sure. The office has a couch, but I don’t think he ever sleeps there anymore. Maybe his friends put him up. He must hang around with them a lot; you should see how they worship him.” She looked embarrassed. “Like I said, I don’t really know where he is.”

      “Do you think he may have another woman?” I asked gently.

      She broke into a pained laugh. “Him? With another woman? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the only love of his life.”

      Even for a battered woman, that level of denial was extreme. I’d seen my share of absentee husbands, usually with a mistress or two in town, sometimes a slew of kids, and the wife sitting at home all innocent and surprised. Did he really sneak into his office, send threatening messages? It seemed much more likely that the guy had set up a whole new life, that she imagined his little visits, had made up the whole story about the stalking to convince herself that she was still married. Could an intelligent woman really be so blind?

      And she did seem intelligent. I’d heard a lot of bizarre tales in my time, but something about her had caught my attention. There was the sharp, penetrating way she looked at me, even through her tears, that was disconcerting. I wondered if she was trying to hear my mind’s commentary, to see through my pretense. It was a question that usually didn’t concern me much, but I was feeling a little sensitive myself these days. It occurred to me that from the couch there was nothing much to look at other than the mess of charts; from the recliner I could always keep an eye on my reflection in the СКАЧАТЬ