There had been ants in the Toledano's home for as long as Maya could remember. Sitting in the rusted bathtub she crushed them, then wiped them off into the bath water. Just as the water in the tub reached the rim, Maya lifted the drain with her toes. She watched the dead ants spin, caught in the small water tornado and then disappear. Once the last of the water was gone, she refilled the tub.
The running water muffled the voices downstairs. She could hear the vibrations of her father and brother's voices, both steadily growing louder. At eighteen years, old Avi shared little likeness to his father. The only similarity was their voices, which cut through air like a canoe moves through still water: sure and smooth.
Maya let an ant crawl on her fingers for a couple seconds before bringing her thumb down onto it. She refilled the tub for a third time. She didn't feel wasteful; she had learned the power of water from her mother. Years ago, when they lived in a small Brooklyn townhouse her mother would take her into the kitchen and run the sink. They would sit on the tile floor; Maya would play with her mother's hair until the house was calm.
Maya felt the floor shake as someone hit the wall. She crushed two ants under one thumb. She knew that the butcher's rack would collapse; they no longer kept dishes on it, just linens. She wiped her fingers on the wall, leaving a line of smeared ants, and turned off the faucet. The house was calm.
Maya was ten when they moved into the two-story farmhouse in Reston, Virginia. The switch from a townhouse in Brooklyn to a 10-acre lot had been a violent change of pace. At first, Maya had loved the irony of a Rabbi's family living on what used to be an old Christmas Tree Farm. Three years later, she missed the closeness of the townhouses. There was danger in living so far from other people.
Maya often marveled at how old fashioned her family was. Her mother did all the dishes by hand because her father said technology was designed to make people lazy. The only nice thing they owned was her father's car. It was a Nisson Coupe, so silver it looked like liquid. Once, Maya asked why he was allowed to have such a beautiful car, "Won't it make you lazy?" she had said. He had taken her shoulder in his large thin hand and squeezed it too tight, "God wanted me to have something to remind me of his divinity, something to reward me for bringing people closer to Him. This car makes me holy, not lazy." His mouth spread into a tight smile, "Do you understand?"
On Avi's sixteenth birthday he asked if he could drive the Nissan to the end of the driveway. Laughing, his father smacked Avi's back hard and continued to read, laughing every so often at the absurdity of his son's request. That night, Avi's eyes were blood shot as he slipped into the driver's seat of the Nissan. Before he could start the engine, his father's voice cut through the dark garage, "I see you are such a man that you do not bother listening to your own father! If you want so badly to drive in my car let's go for ride." The next morning Avi wasn't at breakfast. As Maya mounted her bike, she heard sobs coming from the trunk.
Rabbi Toledano did not look like a wise old man, his eyes were unreadable and unforgiving. His hair was sparse, and eyebrows wispy. Maya never understood why men and women sought him out when they needed comforting; to her he was angular and hard. For thirteen years Maya had searched, but couldn't find anything soft about him. Maya's mother stood in stark contrast. She fit the role of the Rabbi's wife perfectly. She was soft all over with her large bosom and protruding stomach. Her cooking was delicious, the Shabbat silver was always polished, and she dressed in gem colored dresses, shapeless, but welcoming.
Every night at dinner the Toledano family ate in silence, but tonight the silence was different. This silence was thick, humid. Maya shifted uncomfortably, her mother readjusted her scarf multiple times and the Rabbi drank a bottle of wine the color of crusting blood. Maya began to clear the table like she did every night when her father grabbed her wrist.
"Do you know the story of the farmer's boy?" Maya shook her head even though she had heard it before. Her father grinned, mashed potato skin stuck between his teeth. He closed his eyes as spoke:
"There was a farmer who was a very good Jew, went to synagogue every week. He knew how to read and write too, which was very impressive in that day. His son though, His son was not bright. He didn't know how to read Hebrew so his father didn't take him to services. One Friday the son told his father, 'Father I want to come to Shabbat services with you tonight' the father smiled at his son, and because he loved him said, 'You can come, but you will not understand'. That night the boy put on his best shirt and walked to the synagogue with his father. During the service the son was so overcome with emotion that he began to play his flute. At first, the congregation was angry. They shouted, 'This is now how you pray!' But the Rabbi calmed them down and said, 'God hears all prayers. Just because the boy cannot speak Hebrew or read the prayer book doesn't make his prayer less meaningful to God.'" When he finished the story he opened his eyes. They were shark eyes, endless and dark, no light reflected from them.
"People pray in different ways, and people show love in different ways, whether that be love towards God or love toward family and friends. Do you understand that Maya? Not all love looks the same." Maya's eyes swept down to the plates she was holding. She nodded and began to walk away when her father pulled her back sharply by the wrist. Her mother spoke up, "Maya, show your father some respect. Look him in the eyes and tell him you understand". Maya looked into her father's eyes, "I understand". His grip loosened and he brought her wrist up to his lips. "Ah, my Maya, leave the dishes on the table, I need to talk to your mother."
As they spoke Maya wandered the evergreen trees behind their house. They weren't very big, the land hadn't been tended to since the Christmas Tree Farm closed in the seventies. Maya walked to the tallest evergreen in the patch. Sitting up against the rough trunk was Avi. His eyes were closed and the palms of his hands were pressed into his forehead.
"Abba's calm now, you can come back."
Avi just shook his head.
"Come on, we can sneak you in through the kitchen door. You won't have to see him until morning."
Again, Avi shook his head. Maya felt like a rubber band had snapped against her heart. She had seen Avi hurt before, but every time she would come and retrieve him and the next day would be better.
"I'm not going back in there." Avi had dropped his hands, his left eye was already turning purple, there were pieces of glass reflecting off his cheek .
"You don't just run away from people who love you" Maya whispered.
"I'm sorry Maya, but I'm not going back." Avi lifted himself up, pine needles clung to his sweatpants. He had hazel eyes, but in the dark they were appeared hollow; like his fathers. He leaned down to kiss Maya's forehead but before he got the chance, she slapped him. Her hand slid across the left side of his face, driving the small pieces of glass deeper into his cheek. Avi didn't flinch, he didn't scream, he didn't move. He inhaled sharply, standing back up.
"You are selfish" Maya spit the words at him, "He loves you and you are selfish."
"Goodbye Maya" Avi said. As he walked away Maya yelled and threw anything she could; fistfuls of pine needles, sticks, insults. She made her way back to the house slowly. She wasn't a stupid little girl, she knew that Avi needed to leave, but she was scared. What would his absence mean for her and her mother? She would have to be better. She would be more respectful, always look him in the eyes when she spoke to him, never talk back, and never ask questions. She could be better. She would be better.
Standing at the door, Maya brushed off her skirt before walking in, cleaner, she thought to herself. The house was dark and quiet except for water running in the kitchen. Maya went into the kitchen to see if her mother needed help with the washing, be more helpful. As she walked into the kitchen she saw that the dishes were already stacked and drying. The water was running and her mother sat on the kitchen floor holding a bloody napkin to her face. Her eyes were dry but her lips were trembling. Maya moved her eyes from her mother to the floor and went upstairs to go to sleep never ask questions.
