"You have something else to say, don't you?"
How does she know?
I stand up and say, "I'm not Jewish."
I can't look at her. If I do, I might see she's upset because a non-Jewish girl is her granddaughter. I don't know how Israelis feel about non-Jews. For some reason I don't want to know if she resents me. 'Cause I like Safta. A lot.
"Look at me, my sweet Amy."
Me? Sweet? I raise my eyes and look straight at her.
She's smiling, the wrinkles around her eyes making deep creases as she takes my hand in hers, the one still holding the necklace with the small Jewish star pendant.
"Being Jewish is more in your heart than in your mind. For some, being Jewish is strictly following the laws and customs of our ancestors. For others, it's being part of a community. Religion is very personal. It will always be there for you if you want or need it. You can choose to embrace it or decide your life doesn't need it. Nobody can force religion on you or it's not real."
Looking down at the necklace in my hand, I say, "Can I keep it? Just for a little while. I'll give it back, I promise."
She pats the top of my head. "I used to wonder why my son stayed away from Israel for so long, but I see the way he looks at you. He wants to protect you, keep you from hurt or harm while trying to respect that inner fire you possess. It is genuine and pure. Take the necklace," she says, then hesitates before adding, "for as long as you want it."
Staring at this woman, who has eyes that mirror mine and who says words that turn my world upside down, disturbs my inner being. I clutch the necklace in my hand. Then I turn around and head for the refrigerator, looking for some water. Even though it's right in front of my face as I open the door, my limbs feel paralyzed.
I close the fridge and turn to Safta as I walk toward the door.
"I think I'll take a walk," I say.
I take one more look at the necklace before gently placing it in my back pocket.
I find myself walking toward the sheep. When I get close to the pens, the
Ferragamo-stealing mutt bounds toward me. Its filthy tail is wagging furiously, fanning his behind. Remembering my toes filled with snake-guts, I walk right past the dog and ignore its pathetic attempts at making up with me.
"Arg!"
I look down at the thing. "Arg, yourself. Where's my sandal?"
"Arg!" Wag. "Arg!" Wag.
He trots off toward a hilly area beyond the pens and I think of how lucky that dog is to be free to do as he pleases. Even steal other people's shoes without repercussions.
I walk farther into the pens, the sound of baying sheep and electric razors leading me in the right direction. Spotting Ron, I head toward him. I convince myself that as long as I just hang out here, there's no reason Ron will think I'm incompetent and regret I'm his daughter.
"Amy, honey, over here!"
My eyes wander to the direction of Ron's voice. He's never called me honey before and it kind of startles me. What does that mean, anyway? Honey. It's sweet, but it's also sticky and doesn't come off your hands easily. Annoy-ingly sweet. Is that me? Not on your life.
He's leaning down, and his knees are locking a sheep down while he's shearing its wooly hair off. The sheep doesn't seem to mind, but I do.
"Ron, that's inhumane," I say.
He finishes running the razor through the sheep's fur while the fluff falls beside him. He finally releases the poor, naked animal and looks up at me.
"You have a better way?" he asks.
It's then I realize Ron isn't the only one shearing the sheep. O'dead is next to Ron,
Doo-Doo is next to O'dead, Uncle Chime is next to Doo-Doo, and Avi is next to my uncle. They're all exhausted, I can tell by the way they're breathing heavily and their shirts are wet with sweat. Not just their armpits and chests, their entire shirts are soaked through.
And they're all staring at me. Except O'dead. He's staring at Snotty, across in another pen. Hmmm.
The razor sounds stop and I feel like the world has, too. I think of something quick to say.
It comes to me like lightning and I blurt out, "Why don't you just leave the fur on?"
Duh. It sounds so simple I give a short laugh.
Chuckles from my right side alert me to my cousin and Ofra. Snotty's wearing a tight black shirt and her dark makeup is running down her cheeks while feeding a lamb with a bottle. Hasn't she ever heard of waterproof mascara? Or the term less is more?
"They'll be too hot during summer months," Ron explains.
I sit down on one of the metal railings and watch. There are dogs in the middle of the pens, eating something red and gooey on the ground. My lips curl.
"What are the dogs eating?" I ask. Maybe I don't want to know, but my curiosity gets the best of me.
"One of the female sheep had a baby this morning."
"They're eating a lamb?"
"No, the placenta. It's very nutritious."
I gag. "Eww!" I say.
I shouldn't have asked. If I hadn't asked, I wouldn't know. GROSS! Baby sheep placenta. Blech! Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it.
But the more I will myself to stop thinking about it the more I can't look away. Kind of like those bloody crime scenes they show on television. You don't want to watch, but can't help it.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Mutt coming into the enclosure. He's small enough to go under the metal railings. When he looks at me, I squint at him.