Jonathots Daily Blog
(3931)
Sitting Four
It was nearly dusk when the aging patriarch stumbled upon the make-shift camp of the two escaped lads–one his son.
Early in midday, a bus-load of tourists had spied the site as they journeyed and had casually, almost jokingly, remarked upon their return, to the townspeople, about the two boys they saw perched in the desert.
In the early afternoon, Jubal’s father was contacted by friends who knew about his missing son. He decided to follow the directions and retrace the bus route, to see if he could locate his wayward lad.
While the father was climbing the hill, still a good distance away, Jubal recognized him. “It is my Pada,” he said to Amir.
“Pada?” asked Amir.
“My name for my father,” Jubal said nervously.
Amir patted his shoulder. “You knew he must come.”
Jubal replied, half laughing, but mostly terrified, “I was hoping it would be yours.”
Amir shook his head. “I don’t expect him. He would never pursue me in the desert.”
“But he loves you?” asked Jubal.
Amir rubbed his chin and said, “He knows he made me and he takes that quite seriously.”
Jubal gazed at his father, who was now close enough to make out facial features. “What am I going to do, Pal?”
Pal did not know. He said quietly, “We’ll just have to take it as it comes.”
Jubal’s father stopped about a dozen meters away from the camp and beckoned to his son. “Jubal! You will come here right now. Stop this nonsense and pray to God that I will find it in my heart to forgive you of your insolence.”
All the words collided and exploded in Jubal’s head. God. Forgive. Come. Here. Nonsense. And even though Jubal was not sure what “insolence” meant, the tone of voice told him that his father considered it a great sin. Jubal felt his muscles tighten. He jumped up instinctively, in a ritual of obedience, but Amir grabbed his arms, pulling him back to the ground.
The father continued with renewed vigor, stepping closer. “I am not speaking to the wind,” he bellowed. “I have told my son to come to my side and return with me—now.”
Jubal sat, fidgeting, heart racing, mouth dry and his hands shaking. Pada moved closer to him.
Amir spoke. “Dear sir, we mean no harm. We are just boys on a journey of sorts, enjoying each other and the beauty of nature.”
The older man snorted like a bull. “You are certainly right about the ‘boys’ part,” he spat. “And little boys do not belong in the wilderness. They should be close to home where they will be safe.”
Jubal winced. Memories flashed into his mind of arguments with this man, where logic and reason were soon replaced with insult, then intimidation. How many times had he cowered in fear? How many occasions had he nodded in agreement when his heart screamed dissent? How often had he felt the hand strike his cheek in anger as he recoiled, submitting?
Amir spoke again. “We will return when we return.”
The hulking presence advanced more quickly toward the lads. Iz and Pal interlocked their legs and arms, becoming one flesh.
With a final lunge, Iz’s father reared back and slapped his son. Pal squeezed closer to deflect some of the blows. Pada continued to smack his son over and over again, until he finally stepped back from exertion. The brutal insanity of the moment hung in the air with a frightful wheeze and a pending sob.
Iz screamed, “Pada, please stop hitting me!”
The old man, panting, replied, “You will come home with me.”
“I won’t. Not now,” said Iz.
Pada glared at him. “What are you trying to do?”
In a tearful voice, Iz replied, “I just want to be with my friend.”
Pada reached out to grab his arm. “You are embarrassing our family, and you, young man,” he said, turning to Pal, “you are a disgrace—leading my fine son astray. It is the way of the heathen.”
Iz screamed, “He is not a heathen! And he did not lead me astray. He is Pal, my friend, and I am Iz—his friend.”
Pada stopped pulling and demanded, “What is this Pal and Iz?”
Iz wanted to explain but as he looked into the unflinching, unyielding face of his father, he chose silence. The old man raised his hand once again to strike, and Pal leaped to his feet, holding the grenade in front of him. “Don’t touch us!”
Pada paused, gazing at the weapon in Pal’s hand, alarmed, but more amused and perplexed. “What’s that?” he asked scornfully.
Iz eased to his feet next to Pal and answered. “It is a grenade. I stole it from an Israeli soldier.”
Pada shook his head. “And what do you plan to do with it?”
Pal replied, “Nothing if you will stop beating us and leave us alone.” He choked back tears.
Pada struck another threatening pose. “I don’t have to leave my son alone, you little pagan.”
When Iz heard these words, he snatched the grenade from Pal’s hands and moved toward his father. Pada backed up in respect to the weapon. “You don’t even know how to use that, do you?” he challenged.
Iz chuckled. “And that would be a good thing?”
The father remained motionless, exchanging glances with Pal and Iz. “If you kill me, don’t you kill yourselves?”
Iz’s eyes filled with tears. “I haven’t lived long enough to miss life, but you—you are old and have many more memories to lose. Don’t test me, Pada. Everything I believe in is right here. I don’t know whether I’m right or wrong. I don’t care. I’ve found a friend. If I go with you, I will never have that friend again. If I stay here with him, all I lose is you.”
The old man peered at his son, not certain of the boy’s motives, but definitely convinced of the intensity of his emotions. He pointed a finger at Iz and threatened, “I will be back, with the police.”
Police? Iz and Pal hadn’t thought that far ahead. But now it was more than a boyish prank.
They just might have to decide whether they could live or die with their decision.
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Jonathots Daily Blog 
