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.
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