Confluence. Stephen J. Gordon

of,” Josh responded.

      “The kids okay?”

      “I think so,” Shelley said. “They have a lot of questions, but having them close their eyes was very helpful. Thank you.”

      “Sometimes I want to close my eyes,” I smiled.

      Without looking, I knew that Officer Thompson was in his cruiser, inching along behind us.

      After a few moments of no one saying anything, I offered, “I just came by to see how you were.” We stepped around a telephone pole rising out of the middle of the sidewalk. “Do you guys have someone you can talk to…to help you unwind?”

      Josh responded: “Friends are coming over after lunch.”

      “Excellent.” A thought occurred to me, and I reached into my pocket, pulling out their house key. “The cleaning crew did the best they could,” I said, handing Josh the key. “The kitchen is fine; you’ll need some spackle on the wall in one spot.” Where the bullet hole was, but I didn’t say it. “And there are some rags in a garbage bag in the back room that’ll need to be put out.”

      “Thank you,” Shelley said, probably figuring out who did the cleanup.

      “That’s it. Just wanted to say hi.” I took out a card with my phone numbers on it. “In case you want to call me,” and handed it to Josh as well. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

      With that, I let them keep walking. I looked back at the officer in his vehicle, nodded, and headed back to my Jeep.

      S

      The entire afternoon was in front of me, and so I headed to my bastion of refuge. It was an unassuming place located on North Charles Street, several miles from the center of the city. At this point, Charles Street was one-way northbound, and was a blend of businesses and residences, with the latter on the upper floors. Cars could park on both sides of the road, and often did, beneath trees planted years ago alongside the curb. All buildings were set back from the street. To enter any of them you’d either walk up a few steps or down a few. My place was a walk-up between the studios of a radio station on the right and a natural foods bistro to the left. I had never set foot in the radio station, but the natural foods place had tables and chairs set out on the sidewalk, and served great sandwiches. There was a parking spot in front of the radio station, so I pulled in there, rather than going around to a dedicated tenants’ lot. Carrying my sport coat, I took the five stairs two at a time, then pulled open the glass door lined with orange paper, and stepped in.

      The entryway was an open vestibule with hardwood floors. The walls were white and bare, giving no clue as to what went on here. However, it was apparent soon enough. The foyer opened onto a large square floor space, now filled with two rows of martial arts students facing each other. When I had walked in, the line to the left was standing in front stance, right foot back, while the opposing students stood ready. A moderately tall, curly-haired man in his mid-twenties wearing a red T-shirt and loose fitting black gi pants, was walking down the line, watching them. A black belt was tied around his waist and worn low on his hips.

      “Ready,” he said, voice projecting, “go!”

      With that, the line on the left stepped forward with a straight-on middle punch. The opposing line stepped back, responding with a middle block and a counter move.

      “Reset,” the man said, and the class moved back into the previous position. “Go!” The attacking line stepped forward and the defending line stepped back.

      As he repeated the sequence a number of times, I looked more closely at the group. All students were attired in an unconventional martial art dress code – traditional gi pants but T-shirts in the color of an individual’s rank. Students were a mixture of small and tall, and of varying ages and ranks. They ranged from 13 and 14 up to late teens and early twenties. The ranks began with white and yellow belts at my end to purple belts at the other end. In the purple range there were some proficient college age men and women. Interestingly, in their small group of three, two were women. One in particular always caught my attention: a slender coed of about twenty who had her red hair cut short in that messy style of spikes on top and a mat of hair over the forehead. I knew her to be hardworking and with a stretch that always got the attention of any guy older than twelve.

      The black belt instructor running the drills saw me. He let the group finish their attack-response sequence, then said, “Okay, stop. Stand. Turn to Sifu and bow.”

      The class stopped what they were doing and turned to me, stood feet together, and bowed with a traditional right-hand-in-a-fist/left-hand-covering-it bow. I returned the bow, and said simply, “Thank you. Continue, please.”

      The black belt said, “Now the attacking line will be defending. The defending line will now be attacking.” With that, he had the class resume.

      As I watched for a few more moments, I thought how at home I was in such a place. Before going to Israel, before all the army stuff, a place like this in New York was where I began to figure out who I was.

      I nodded to the man in red and black and walked into my office off the practice hall. The room had all the essentials: desk and computer, filing cabinet, and some chairs. There were also some luxuries – an old secondhand sofa, a television, and DVD player. I draped my sport coat over the arm of the sofa and sat in the chair behind the desk.

      The Saturday afternoon class was Jon’s, the black belt instructor; I would certainly supervise, but the class was really his. As the sounds of the workout drifted in through the open door, my mind wandered. Last night. Josh being held by the big man with the .45. Telling the Mandels’ daughters to close their eyes. Shooting the intruder in the head. The ambulance later that night, rear doors open, and the scrub suit clad EMT huddled, dead on the floor in back. Mazhar’s body on the stretcher. I stared at the darkened computer monitor, not seeing it. I saw an apartment in Sidon, Lebanon and me firing at the bomb maker as he was holding a soldier captive. I fired just as he moved his weapon away. His gun went off. I turned to see my friend Asaf on the floor, blood flowing from a neck wound.

      A single yell from twenty students burst in from the next room. The instructor was having them scream as they lunged forward in an attack. I looked down to the bottom right drawer of my desk and pulled it open. Nestled in the deep compartment was a lock box. Inside was a .40 Glock, a present from Nate. Next to the mini vault was my carry permit…and an ID from the IDF. I closed the drawer without removing anything.

      “Sifu?” I looked up to see the curly-haired instructor poking his head through the open office door.

      “Yes, Jon.”

      “They’re ready for katas. Would you watch them?”

      “Of course.”

      “Thanks. And there’s one kid in particular I’d like you to watch. Charlie.” He was a fourteen year old yellow belt, almost ready to be tested for green.

      “Sure.”

      When I stepped into the main hall, I could see that Jon had set up the class in three rows with plenty of spacing between the rows and between each student. I moved to the front left corner of the room, with the students facing forward. Charlie, the student I wanted to watch, was in the middle row toward the left side. He was a slender, serious young man, whose long, straight brown hair always covered his forehead. The boy, like the entire class, was already drenched in sweat from its previous workout.

      Jon started them off: “Kata Number One. Ready. Bow…” the class bowed first to me and then to Jon. “Begin. One…”

      With that, Jon counted them through the katas, a series of choreographed fighting movements. Everyone performed the movements step-by-step in unison. I moved about the students, watching everyone, but always kept a clear view of Charlie. He moved proficiently; his kicks, punches, and blocks were all sharp and age-appropriately strong. But he was in pain. He wore it on his face, particularly when he punched or moved into an upper block. Based on the grimaces when he extended his arms, he had hurt his ribs.

      By the time the entire class