Jaffa, Israel
17:29
Zach squinted and opened his eyes. He was still in the car, speeding and rocking along. His head was pounding. He squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed. Sarah was dead. He lashed out, kicking the side of the car and screaming. He slammed the back of his head into the floor of the trunk and blacked out again. A minute later he came to and whimpered. It was his fault; he had screwed up. He swallowed, trying to control his breathing. How could this have happened?
Thursday date nights, that’s how. Never, ever establish routine, the academy had taught him.
He grinded his teeth. “Shit, no!” he shouted, slamming his feet into the side of the trunk. “Someone, get me out of here.”
This wasn’t helping. He steadied his breathing, trying to swallow away the bile in his throat. He relaxed, remembering how it had all begun.
In his teens, his parents used to go out on Thursday nights. Every Thursday night, they never skipped a day. He remembered how it had disgusted him. He used to think they were too old for that crap; they were shirking their responsibility towards their kids.
Once he had mockingly asked his father about the Thursday night ritual. “You’re too old for all this lovey-dovey crap, Dad,” he had said, trying to get some sort of reaction from the older man. Any kind of reaction would have been good.
David Cohen had scowled at him for a long while and then looked away, staring at the horizon. “I guess it’s a natural law.”
“What?”
“Sons are put on this earth to trouble their fathers.”
Zach remembered it was a year later when he called his father outside. He had turned twenty-two, and he had wanted to ask his father a serious question. They settled on the porch, sipping a beer and enjoying the sunset.
“Do you remember Sarah?” he asked his father.
“The Rodberg girl? You brought her over during spring break.”
Zach nodded.
“Pretty girl. A good family,” his father said, looking at the horizon, as was his manner.
“Well, I’m finishing with school next year, and I was thinking of doing my military service here in Israel.”
David Cohen turned to face his son. “That’s good, Zachary. You have a moral responsibility,” his father said with a faint smile.
“Sarah and I are in love, and we want to get married before I join the army,” he blurted out.
David Cohen studied the label on his beer bottle, contemplating his answer. This was the moment Zach had dreaded; he wouldn’t be able to reconcile with his dad if he didn’t give him his blessing. After a long while, David Cohen looked at him, fixing his eyes on him. “You ready to become a man, Zachary?”
“What do you mean, Dad?” Zach asked. “I am a man.”
David Cohen narrowed his eyes. “You’re a man when I say you are.” The older man stood and placed his beer on the porch then disappeared into the house. A while later he came back holding two pairs of boxing gloves. “Here, put them on.” David pulled the gloves over his own fists and tightened the laces with his teeth.
“Why, Dad? Do you want to fight me?” Zach scoffed.
“Yes, son, I do. I want to beat the crap out of you.”
“You can try, old man.” Zach pulled the gloves on then danced around his dad, trying the fancy footsteps he had seen the boxers do on TV. “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”
The punch was telegraphed and slow. David Cohen threw a whopping roundhouse right-hand that connected solidly to Zack's chin. While he had seen the punch coming from a mile away, he couldn’t believe it. His dad was the most good-natured person he knew. Zachary slumped to his knees, the earth spinning. He tried to shake the blow off.
“What was that for?” he moaned, moving his jaw.
His father towered over him, poking his fist in his face. “For all the derogatory remarks I had to endure from a snot-nose kid like you. I’ll tell you what happens on Thursday nights,” he said, clasping his son’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “Your mom and I fall in love again. We talk about anything but kids or homework or work or you, you damn smart aleck.”
Zach stood groggily, shaking his head.
“Look at me.” David Cohen connected with an uppercut to the solar plexus.
Zach fell with a grunt, clutching his stomach.
“We remember what made us fall in love with each other in the first place. And now, thank God, you’ll be moving out of the house, and we can go back to the way things were.” He roughly tapped the back of Zachary’s head with a gloved hand. “We can fall in love again. Hopefully Sarah will be as good to you as your mom is to me, then you’ll understand.”
David Cohen sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, then stuck out his hand. “Stand up; I feel better.”
Zach allowed himself to be pulled up. “Geez, Dad, I didn’t know you were upset about the things I said. Why didn’t you tell me to shut up?”
“Because you were a child. Today, you’re a man; it's different.” He pulled the glove from his hand and placed his hand on Zach’s shoulder. “Let me give you a piece of advice, boy. One day you will be wiser, and then you need to reach out to the person who cares about you. Your spouse. Not kids, not family. Your wife, she is all who matters in life.”
“So I have your blessing?” Zach asked with a grimace, out of breath.
“You do. If the wedding is in Jaffa. And your mom gets to choose the dress.”
The older man then turned around, shaking his head. “Hopefully they teach you some boxing skills in the army . . .”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Zach was shaken awake from his daydream when the car swayed once more and slowed to a screeching halt. He swallowed at the lump in his throat. His dad had been right. A part of him was gone, like his heart had been ripped out. He didn’t want to live anymore.