A Favorite Son Read online

  I looked at her black veil and it dawned on me, suddenly, that she was in mourning, and that in my absence, my father, Isaac, had passed away.

  “I wish I were dead,” she said, and then her hand fell, sleeveless, out of that coat.

  I had been wondering why she was wearing it—her pristine, expensive goatskin coat—which by now, looked utterly disheveled.

  It looked rumpled not only because she had ripped out that sleeve, not only because it was soaked wet, and not only because its hair, that fine, long, humanlike hair, was curled out of shape, but mainly because her arm, coming out of that hole where the sleeve used to be, looked bare, almost mangled.

  That missing sleeve which I was now wearing on my own arm, was the evidence linking us together. That sleeve, to me, was more than a costume. It was part of a plot, and she was my partner, my partner even in crime. Her finger trembled slightly as she pointed back, vaguely in the direction of the camp.

  “They forced me to wear the coat,” she told me. “When Isaac died, they sneered at me. They said, Wear it. It’s your mantle of shame.”

  “Forget them,” I said. “I love you. Now, you are both my mother and my father.”

  At the sound of my words she bent over and kissed me on my forehead, which made me gush on, “Come with me! I know I don’t know where I am going, you know, but wherever it is, Mom, I promise: you’ll be safe with me!”

  “You?” she said, chuckling to herself. “Ha! If I put you in a brown paper bag, I bet you would never, I mean not ever, find your way out!”

  That really stung. The other day, I recalled, my father had asked me, How could a follower become a leader? It was too late to go back to him, too late to answer. But now I swore, I promised myself: I would learn to live by my wits, even in the harshest of conditions. Even here in the desert. I would find water to drink, even if I had to suck it out of a rock with my cracked lips. I would find food, even if I had to skin wildcats and scorpions with my bare fingers. I would survive, even if it had to kill me. Never again will she—or he, or anyone—ridicule me!

  Still chuckling, my mother thrust a little bundle, tied in a knot, into my hands. With that, she gave a slight nudge to the camel, turned it swiftly around and with a clip and a clop away she went, taking her chances elsewhere, into a rainy fog.

  Never again would I see her. Upon my return to this place, more than two decades later, I would learn that my brother never forgave her for loving me, loving me only, and in the end, her funeral was poorly attended, because the letter announcing her death was never delivered to me. And no wonder. He could not bring himself to write it, nor did he come there himself to lay her to rest.

  Again, I digress. Back to the matter at hand. I untied the knot, opened the little bundle she had just given me, and what do you think I found inside? Food? Drink? A map, perhaps, to guide me on my way? No, no and no!

  It had a hint of her jasmine perfume, and when I unfolded the thing, I recognized the pattern of the weave. It was her shirt, that unusually beautiful shirt, striped blue-on-white, the same one she had let me try on, way back in the past, when I was a little child.

  It was a token of her love for me, her love only for me. I caressed the fabric, fondled it between my fingers. It gave a soft swoosh, above which I could hear, as vividly as I hear you, the resonant, deep voice of my father.

  “Beware, my son!” said the voice. “Being the favorite son is as much of a curse as being the one rejected.”

  My heart sank and at once, I knew I should bury that shirt. He who wore it would forever be cursed. But I could not bring myself to do it.

  It was, after all, the only thing I had, the only thing to which I could cling, a small reminder of home, of love, of my mother. So instead, I made myself a solemn promise: this curse stops here, with me. I would never pass it on to my children, neither would I single out one of them from the rest, to make him my favorite.

  I have no clue why you laugh, but I can tell by the sound of it, how bitter you must be, perhaps even resentful. What a pity, son! Up to now you have been listening so patiently. Was it something I said? I guess you have heard this story already. Maybe you have heard it many, many times before. Forgive an old man. What did you say your name was? Forgive me, these days I have no memory for names anymore.

  In the years to come, I came to father many sons. They are flesh of my flesh. So they tell me. Blood of my blood. Yet somehow I can barely remember their names. One of these days, I tell you, they would try to fool me, like I did my own father. I guess it is the nature of things. Which is why I keep telling myself, Beware. Watch out. Eye each and every one of them with great suspicion.

  I like to think of myself as a modern man. A confused one. One left to his own devices, because of one thing: the silence of God. When Isaac, my father, lay on his deathbed, waiting for me, or rather, for his favorite son to come in, he suspected, somehow, that he was about to be fooled. And yet, God kept silent. Now, all these years later, I wonder about it.

  God did not help the old man. He gave no warning to him, not one whisper in his ear, not a single clue. Now as then, He is utterly still, and will not alert me when my time comes, when they, my sons, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, are ready to face me, to fool their old man.

  As I said, I could not care less for any of them—until, that is, Yoseph. Yosele my son, my son, Yosele.

  When he was born—were you here, then? Did you see him? Really! So cute, so handsome!—I forgot that curse, the curse of being the favorite one. Even worse, I forgot the promise I made to myself, never to pass it on. And so I wrapped him tightly, with all my hope, all my love, all my yearning, wrapped him in that beautifully striped shirt, paying no attention—none whatsoever—to the jealousy flashing, every now and again, from the eyes of his brothers.

  What is it with you? Why are you shuffling around so much, on that bench? Are you uncomfortable? No? Then I must be boring you. I admit, I can be overbearing at times. Forgive me. Why I go on and on like that, I have no idea.

  You wanted to say something? Who are you? Reuben? I do not know you, do I? You are my child, you say? My firstborn? Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood? Forgive an old man. I do not know you.

  No need to cry. I do not remember, is all.

  You are in my way. I cannot see. Right there, behind you is that light, that ladder to heaven, and behold: an angel is starting to drift away slowly, slowly fading away, just like smoke... Can you see it? No? There, in all its glory, is the silence of God. I must watch. I must learn to accept it. Now, can you move? The other way, if you don’t mind. And remember, don’t tell my sons, please don’t tell anyone I said this.

  Now where is my sweet child, my Yosele? Late, I’m afraid, so very late. He did not come home last night. I waited. I waited past midnight. By the crack of dawn, I fell to dreaming. I thought I heard a scream for help, a terrifying, bone-chilling scream. Did you hear it, too? No? How strange. Morning came and went, then noon, then evening—and nothing. Still, no sign of him. Listen... Can you hear a voice? Is he calling my name?

  My heart, this foolish old heart, is heavy. There is a voice, I trust, a voice calling me out there. It is so faint, so high pitched that perhaps no one but me can hear it. Maybe it is nothing, nothing but the desert wind, shrieking. Sometimes, if you listen hard, it can sound like a tortured soul. Yes, it is the wind all right. It must be. I have to believe it, I do, really. If he comes back, don’t tell him I said any of this.

  It is the end of the day, and my eyes are so weak. I cover them with my wrinkled hands. They look like my father’s. In their flesh I can see a web of blood vessels. It is a strange sight. Is this my body? Or am I beginning, perhaps, to lose my mind?

  I try to recover. Gradually I become more alert and—bracing myself—I can hear things with great clarity. First, the silence. So dead, so complete. So divine, even. Then, you. You moving, you taking something out of that bundle, something I do not wish to see. It gives a slight, subtle swoosh... You are ho
lding it in your hands, raising it to my eyes, asking me some question, over and again until, in my despair, I have no choice. I stamp my foot, trying not to hear, not to look. I am beside myself, so desperate to stop you. At last I cry, Enough!

  Oh please... Just stop... There is no need to ask me anymore, do I recognize this thing—this unusually beautiful, striped thing that is slashed here, and here it is torn to pieces... And even before I can smell the blood—even before I can feel the rips in that which was his shirt—I hear someone wailing, roaring like a wild animal, like a father, in agony, in pain, from the depth of my soul.

  Let me be. I grieve alone. I have no family. You are no blood of mine. Now go. Go away, son.

  About the Cover

  The cover of this book is based on a mixed media painting I painted not long ago. In it I floated various paints on the paper, letting them drizzle and mix, to create an intricate, fiery flow of color. Then when they dried out I came in with a black pen, and drew just a few lines to suggest the figure.

  To me, this is what this image means: looking directly at yourself, facing the pain and the ugly imperfections within, without any attempt to mask who you are—even if you find yourself on the verge of a meltdown. Which is the process the protagonist, Yankle, is going through in this story. He finds himself coming to terms with his core being, with how the tension between his emotions and needs has driven him over a lifetime.

  As in my previous book cover designs, the glyphs of the book title and the author name cast subtle shadows over the image. However, one thing is different here: two of the glyphs (the ‘U’ and the ‘P’) of the author name cast a shadow like all the other letters, but they themselves—the objects that cast the shadows—are intentionally missing. Why? For two reasons:

  First, because often in my art I discover that the eye is drawn to the unexpected, and the brain craves a riddle, a missing link to resolve. The observer, then, becomes highly engaged with the art, and in a sense—by working to bring it to completion—becomes its creator. And second, because this missing link is a symbol, an indication of the flawed character in this story.

  About This Book

  This story is a present-day twist on the biblical story of Jacob and his mother Rebecca plotting together against the elderly father Isaac, who is lying on his deathbed, in order to get their hands on the inheritance, and on the power in the family. This is no old fairy tale. Its power is here and now, in each one of us.

  Listening to Yankle telling his take on events, we understand the bitter rivalry between him and his brother. We become intimately engaged with every detail of the plot, and every shade of emotion in these flawed, yet fascinating characters. He yearns to become his father’s favorite son, seeing only one way open to him: deceit

  In planning his deception, it is not love for his father, nor respect for his age that drives his hesitation—rather, it is the fear to be found out.

  And so—covering his arm with the hide of a kid, pretending to be that which he is not—he is now ready for the last moment he is going to have with his father.

  About the Author

  Uvi Poznansky is a California-based author, poet and artist. Her writing and her art are tightly coupled. “I paint with my pen,” she says, “and write with my paintbrush.”

  She earned her B. A. in Architecture and Town Planning from the Technion in Haifa, Israel. During her studies and in the years immediately following her graduation, she practiced with an innovative Architectural firm, taking part in the design of a large-scale project, Home for the Soldier.

  At the age of 25 Uvi moved to Troy, N.Y. with her husband and two children. Before long, she received a Fellowship grant and a Teaching Assistantship from the Architecture department at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, where she guided teams in a variety of design projects; and where she earned her M.A. in Architecture. Then, taking a sharp turn in her education, she earned her M.S. degree in Computer Science from the University of Michigan.

  During the years she spent in advancing her career—first as an architect, and later as a software engineer, software team leader, software manager and a software consultant (with an emphasis on user interface for medical instruments devices)—she wrote and painted constantly. In addition, she taught art appreciation classes.

  Her versatile body of work can be seen on her website, which includes poems, short stories, bronze and ceramic sculptures, paper engineering projects, oil and watercolor paintings, charcoal, pen and pencil drawings, and mixed media.

  In addition, she posts her thoughts about the creative process on her blog, and engages readers and writers in conversation on her Goodreads Q&A group.

  Uvi published a poetry book in collaboration with her father, Zeev Kachel. Later she published two children’s books, Jess and Wiggle and Now I Am Paper, which she illustrated, and for which she created animations. You can find these animations on her Goodreads author page.

  Apart from Love combines two threads—My Own Voice and The White Piano—woven together (along with two new chapters) around the same events in 1980, when Ben returns to meet his father, Lenny, and his new wife, Anita. It is then that he discovers a family secret. The Music of Us goes back a generation to 1941, when Lenny, a young marine, fell in love with Natasha, a pianist. These volumes in Still Life with Memories offer an intimate peek into the life of a family dealing with losing a member to early-onset Alzheimer’s. Overwhelmed by passion, guilt, and blame, they find their way to forgiveness.

  Rise to Power, A Peek at Bathsheba, and The Edge of Revolt are volume I, II, and III of The David Chronicles, telling the story of David as you have never heard it before: from the king himself, telling the unofficial version, the one he never allowed his court scribes to recount. In his mind, history is written to praise the victorious—but at the last stretch of his illustrious life, he feels an irresistible urge to tell the truth.

  A Favorite Son, her novella, is a new-age twist on an old yarn. It is inspired by the biblical story of Jacob and his mother Rebecca, plotting together against the elderly father Isaac, who is lying on his deathbed. This is no old fairy tale. Its power is here and now, in each one of us.

  Twisted is a unique collection of tales. In it, the author brings together diverse tales, laden with shades of mystery. Here, you will come into a dark, strange world, a hyper-reality where nearly everything is firmly rooted in the familiar—except for some quirky detail that twists the yarn, and takes it for a spin in an unexpected direction.

  Home, her deeply moving poetry book in tribute of her father, includes her poetry and prose, as well as translated poems from the pen of her father, the poet and author Zeev Kachel.

  Most of these books are available in all three editions: ebook, audio, and print.

  Find her Books, ask to get them Autographed, and subscribe to her Newsletter.

  Follow her on these sites:

  •Blog

  •Uvi Art Website

  •Amazon Author Page

  •Amazon Author Page UK

  •Goodreads Author Page

  •Goodreads group: The Creative Spark with Uvi Poznansky.

  •Twitter

  •Google+

  •Pinterest

  •Facebook

  A Note to the Reader

  Thank you for reading this book! I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, I invite you to check out more books from the same pen. There is always a new project on my drawing board, so come back to check it out.

  I would love to hear what you thought of this book. You have the power of bringing it to the attention of more readers, by posting your own review. And another thing you can do to help me spread the word is this: please tell your friends about my work. How else will they hear about the story? How else will the characters, who sprang from my mind onto these pages, leap from there into new minds?

  Bonus Excerpts

  Excerpt: A Peek at Bathsheba

  Wrapped in a long, flowing fabric that creates countless folds around her curves, s
he loosens just the top of it and lets it slide off her head—only to reveal a blush, and mischievous glint, shining in her eye. It is over that sparkle that I catch a sudden reflection, coming from the back window, of a full moon.

  Looking left, right, and down the staircase, to make sure no one is lurking outside my chamber door, I let her in. Then I lock it behind her, so no one may intrude upon us.

  In a manner of greeting I raise my goblet. It is a gift from my supplier, Hiram king of Tyre, and unlike the other goblets I have in my possession, this one is made of fine glass, with minute air bubbles floating in it. With a big splash I fill it up to the rim with red, aromatic wine. In it I dip a glistening, ruddy cherry, and offer it to her, with a flowery toast.

  “For you,” I say. “With my everlasting love!”

  Bathsheba takes the goblet from my hand, and raises it to her lips. “Love, everlasting?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “What does that mean, in this place?”

  I hesitate to ask, “What place is that?”

  “This court,” she says, with a slight curtsy, “where the signature feature is a harem, which is as big as the king is endowed with glory.”

  “Glory is a good thing,” say I, lowering my voice. “But sometimes it is better to meet in the shadows.”

  “Especially,” she says, matching her voice to mine, “when there are so many others.”

  “Here we are,” say I. “It’s just us.”

  “Really,” says Bathsheba, sipping her wine and ever so delightfully, licking her lips. “It must be a special night, then! Just you and me, and no one else, no one else at all.”

  Yet I cannot avoid feeling the presence of someone other than me in her thoughts, perhaps her husband, Uriah, who is one of my mighty soldiers and the most trusty of them. Earlier today he must have received his transfer orders to join the cavalry in the eastern hills, where he would be stationed outside the city of Rabbah.