Doolittle
Published in Issue #13 Translated from Hebrew by Ilana Kurshan subscribe to unlock the full story1
“Where are we, Boaz? Are you sure you didn’t take a wrong turn?”
A dark blue night. Endless rows of oak trees. Sheep, cats, cows. And several stars that light up the sky. Tiny pimples of light. The air tastes of ash.
“I didn’t, you’ll see.”
Sheila looks out the window. I look at the thin lines on her cheeks. I see the layers, the dimensions, the porousness. I almost can’t bear it.
“What’s that? Do you hear that?” Robbie pulls out his gas mask and rests it on his head like a top hat.
“What? What are you talking about? Did you see a fox?” She furrows her brow. “A fox? It’s a siren!”
We poke our heads out of the window of the car to make sure. Robbie chuckles, twists, blushes.
“She’s right, Boaz,” I say. “What are we going to do?” The band’s front man is always the one in charge. The one who decides when to unload. When to start up again. When to go out. Which song to open with. He has it all in his head, in his heart, in his hands. And it’s not just the music. He’s the one who always drives, because he’s the only one with a car. We’re like kids. But he’ll know what to do.
“Okay, what are we doing?” Sheila is practically laughing.
Boaz doesn’t look stressed. But his eyes dart back and forth in their sockets. He speeds up. But it’s a bit of a Catch-22, because the more that he advances to the west, the closer he gets...
Subscribe now to keep reading
Please enter your email to log in or create a new account.