The Masada Complex

“My homeland is America.”

“You’re an Israeli first!”

“Not anymore.”

His face was red. “You’ll go down in history as the woman who brought down the Jewish state.”

“Do we need a Jewish state? Or a Christian, Muslim, or Hindu state?”

“We have a state. It’s alive, and millions of Jews live there.”

“Jews flourished for two thousand years without a state-maybe because they didn’t have a state.”

“Jews died for two thousand years-pogroms, stake-burnings, mass expulsions, crusades, inquisition, a Holocaust.” Ness’s voice was rising. “America alone stands with us against an anti-Semitic world. But the people of the United States would turn against us if they believe that we paid Mahoney to rig up legislation that would force American boys to fight for Israel.”

“The truth will set you free.” Masada inserted her hand through the open eye shield, grabbed the miniature screen, and pulled hard, ripping it from the helmet. A series of screeching sounds came through the earphones.

The woman rider said, “She’s off video feed.”

“Masada!” Colonel Ness’s voice came through the static noise. “Listen to me!”

She found the buckle, released the helmet strap, and took it off, throwing it at the rocks.

The biker picked it up. “He says he’s not done speaking with you.”

Masada walked up the rest of the crevice and stepped into the open. Something glistened on the ground by her foot. It was a snakeskin, long, scaly, and brittle. She picked up the skin and threw it at Ness’s agent. “Tell him he can slither back into his hole.”

“He says he doesn’t want to destroy you.”

A realization came to her with a burst of anger. “And don’t touch my car again!”

“What?”

“Tell him I want payment for the tires you sliced.”

The woman shrugged and listened to Ness’s response. “He says that we don’t bother with tires.” She paused. “He says that you’d better have someone else start your car for you.”

Rabbi Josh lifted Raul onto the flat bed of the tow truck. The boy pulled a lever, and the dual ramps rumbled down from the rear, landing on the hot asphalt.

The driver held Raul’s hand as he jumped down, glowing with pride. “I did it, Daddy!”

“Super.” Rabbi Josh tugged on the visor of his son’s baseball cap. “Didn’t you forget something?”

Raul turned to the driver. “Thank you!”

The driver tipped his straw hat, stuffed his stained orange shirt into his jeans, and bent down to hook up steel chains to the Corvette.

Raul fished Masada’s key ring from his father’s pocket. “I can do it.”

“The long one.” The driver touched the key with a callous finger. “Teeth down.”

Rabbi Josh watched his son insert the key into the keyhole and turn it counterclockwise. The door unlocked, and Raul pulled on the handle to open it.

“Good work,” the driver praised him. “You’re ready to have your own car.”

Rabbi Josh followed the tow truck in his Honda. Raul waved at him through the rear window. The boy had taken off the baseball cap, his wet carrot-colored ringlets pressed down in the shape of the cap. As they drove down Camelback Road, the driver guided Raul’s hand to a string attached to an air horn, clearing traffic before them.

“Eyes are funny.” Dr. Pablo ushered Silver back into his office. “Other essential organs are protected by ribs, bones, muscles, fat, and skin. But eyes are defenseless, like little balloons filled with liquid, nerves, and tiny blood vessels, easily damaged by any-”

“Bad news?” Silver asked.

“As I suspected.” The doctor seemed pleased with the validation of his premonition. “The dye we injected into your bloodstream allowed us to take a peek at your macula.” He handed Silver a pamphlet titled Age-related Macular Degeneration. “Your blotch is caused by AMD, which could be exacerbated by the accident last night.” Dr. Pablo led Professor Silver to a poster on the wall that showed the human eye. “In the front,” he said, pointing, “you have the cornea. When you look at something, the picture passes through the pupil and lens and reflects on the back of your eye, where the optic nerve transmits it to your brain. The macula is this small area.” His finger moved to the back of the eye. “Right in front of the optic nerve. It’s responsible for the most acute vision.”

“The center,” Silver said, “where I have a blotch.”

“It’s the beginning. Eventually, the whole center will disappear.” Dr. Pablo’s hands drew a large circle in the air. “Wet AMD appears as tiny bleeding in the retina, causing opaque deposits and scar tissue, and it’s progressive.” Dr. Pablo scribbled on a prescription pad, tore off the page, and handed it to Silver. “That’s for the police. They’ll let you drive for thirty days.”

“Why only thirty days?”

“I don’t want to get sued when you run over some kid on the street. You better prepare.” He patted the pamphlet. “Life’s about to change.”

“What’s the treatment?”

“Photocoagulation. A laser surgery, which I’ll perform. You have Medicare, yes?”

“I am self-insured.”

“It’ll cost more than twelve thousand dollars.”

Silver was shocked by the amount. “I can pay. I need my vision.”

“Vision is a relative term.” Dr. Pablo looked at the eye diagram on the wall, as if noticing something new on it. “I don’t want you to entertain false hopes. Photocoagulation is the lesser of two evils. Your vision will actually be much worse after the procedure.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If we let it progress, AMD will deprive you of all your vision. To preempt that, I will photocoagulate your central vision to save your peripheral vision, so you have basic functionality.”

Silver sat down, feeling weak. “How basic?”

“Imagine you’re holding a basketball in front of your eye. The ball hides most of the room, but you can still see a margin around it-a bit of the floor, so you can take a step, a little on the right and the left, so you can pass through a doorway, a bit of the sky, so you know if it’s going to rain. Your other senses, touch and sound, will help you form habits, get around the house, take care of personal hygiene, make a cup of coffee. You’ll be functioning on a basic level. Lots of people are legally blind.”

“No! I can’t go blind!” Silver raised his voice more than he had intended.

“I’m sorry, Professor, to be the bearer of bad news, but your right eye has done the work of two for a long time. It’s tired.”

“And if I don’t do anything?”

“Maybe a couple of months, before it’s too late.” Dr. Pablo closed the file. “The nurse will schedule the procedure for next week. At your age, we’ll keep you in the clinic for a few hours, make sure you’re okay before going home. Can your wife drive?”

“My wife died many years ago.”

“Your children?”

It was becoming too personal for Silver. “My only son is also dead. But I have friends at the synagogue.”

“Good. Very good.” The doctor headed for the door. “I’ll see you next week.”

Masada hiked up the mountain with ferocious determination, ignoring the pain in her knee. Colonel Ness’s