The next day Servi rapped on the door of Joy’s bungalow. No one was home. As he walked down the path, his flip flops slapped against the stone like the swinging of two pendulum, Servi realized that a neighbor was staring at him through a hedge.
“Excuse me,” Servi approached her covered head. “Do you know if Joy Shein is home?
“I don’t know a Joy Shein,” the lady snapped. “I know a Joy Reznik.”
“OK,” Servi tottered, his head splitting open, hung over. “Do you know if Mrs. Reznik is home?”
“No, she’s gone,” the woman answered, taking a step back from Servi. “She left early this morning with her kids.”
“May I ask where she went?”
“How should I know? That woman comes and goes. I feel sorry for the kids, is all,” and the woman disappeared through the hedge, like some forest messenger who had discharged her errand.
Servi called Joy but the phone rang without end. He wrote a letter and did not get a response. Then his divorce consumed the remaining portion of his life, and he let Joy Shein fall into the abyss of silence she wished to inhabit.