Free A Brilliant Novel in the Works by Yuvi Zalkow

her mother,
    even though I feel this burden any time that Julia gets sad. That perhaps
    it was me that killed her mother. Because it was me that convinced Julia that
    it was okay for the two of us to go to Oaxaca. It was me who convinced Julia
    at the airport that she didn’t need to worry about the unlocked cabinet with
    the vodka in it. I remember it clearly, how I took Julia in my arms and said
    with an insincere sort of confidence, “Honey, it’ll be fine. Your mother can
    take care of herself,” and, for that blissful week in Mexico, we left all
    365,000 tons behind
.
    Chapter Twelve
The Whole Megillah
    Julia has basically cried into all the napkins before either of
us remembers how this whole thing got started. She tells me
about how she’s so worried about her brother and how he’s so
stubborn about his health and how she’s scared to bug him
any more about it. And I agree with her, because I agree with
her. And after she has ruined the unfaithful napkins with her
tears and snot, I take them out of her hands and put them in
my pocket.
    “Julia,” I say to my wife. “I need to talk to you.”
    Her crying slows. And then it’s just funny breathing. And
then I begin talking. “I’ve been giving Shmen money every
month for his debts,” I say. “I’ve been pulling money out of
what’s left of my parents’ inheritance without telling you. I’ve
been cutting myself again.”
    I can’t gauge Julia’s reaction because she’s still sniffling
and I’m not sure if she’s upset about Shmen’s health or if it’s
now about the money or about me or us or the purse or the
napkins or the fact that I don’t like BLTs no matter how many
times she makes them. I’ve lost track of the emotional steps
and now I’m terrified of saying anything. This is why I once
asked my wife if we could conduct our relationship through
letters only. In person, there is too much to interpret and
worry about.
    But she does eventually look up at me and what I see
isn’t the friendliest face in the world. “Since you’ve been
going through my purse,” she says. “Did you notice anything
addressed to you?”
    “You mean like a napkin?” I say.
    “No. I mean like a check.”
    I leave my weepy wife at the bed and run into the kitchen.
    I know exactly where I placed that check on the kitchen floor.
I even remember acknowledging—in some foggy part of
my brain—that it was addressed to me. So I grab the check
and come back into the room. The check from Shmen is big
enough that I assume it covers all that he owes me.
    And, in a way, I’m disappointed. Just like that—
poof
—my horrible
    beautiful insane secret has disappeared.
    “Have you known for a while?” I ask.
    She doesn’t say anything. She stares at the wall as seriously
as Orthodox Jews stare at the Wailing Wall when they pray.
Except my wife and I aren’t the praying type. So I assume that
she’s waiting for me to ask the real question. When they pray
to that wall in Jerusalem, Jews sometimes put little crumbled
pieces of paper inside the cracks. These have their hopes and
wishes and dreams on them. I often wonder what kind of
message I would put inside this wall, if I were the praying
type. But I keep coming up blank. And so I pull the crumbled
napkins out of my pocket and hand them to Julia.
    “Who are you
shtuping?
” I ask.
    She points to one of the restraints, which is still hanging
from the bedpost. “Pretty much no one,” she says.
    My gentile wife is more familiar with my culture than I give her credit for.
    She understands the nuance of the Yiddish language. For instance, she understands
    that spanking your husband is not technically
shtuping
. It falls
    more in the realm of
meshuganah
.
    “Then who is writing these notes?” I ask.
    “You don’t recognize the handwriting?” She gives them
back to me.
    I try to open one up and look at it but the ink is smudged
and wet. “No.”
    “Well then look at that check,” she says.
    And