Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

* * *

I expected an angry call from Jordan F. The story revealed I’d been a single-lung man for weeks, and I figured at the very least he’d be hurt I never told him. I also figured he’d have some things to say. He wouldn’t be able to dismiss it as silly provocation this time, nor would he consider it justified as he did with Lulu. He might be outraged. He might tell me that he didn’t know who I was anymore. He might say something worse.

* * *

When he called I took a deep breath and held the air at the top of my lung for as long as I could. Then I exhaled and answered the phone. I want Lulu to start going on deliveries with me, Jordan F said. Okay, I said, confused. Maybe he hadn’t seen the article after all. You are her real brother, so I wanted to run it by you, he said. Okay, I said. It would still be a while before she’d go back to work, he said, and in the meantime the fresh air would do her a world of good. Okay, I said. I sat there for a long time after we hung up, feeling the weight of my body, the weight of all my organs, pulling me toward the ground.

* * *

A week later, my ex called — a woman I thought I loved once because her muscles were strong and her smile soft. I hadn’t heard from Katrina since I broke up with her three years before, but Lulu claimed to have seen her once on a street corner, begging for money. She was a carpenter when we were together, but I guess when times got rough few people were spared.

* * *

On the phone, Katrina said I’d broken her heart. She needed a new one. She’d read the story about me and surely if I was helping perfect strangers whose wounds I hadn’t caused, I would help her. I could tell she was reading from a note. Due to my broken heart, she was saying, I have been rendered unable to work, degraded to panhandling. Kati, I said, a heart’s no small thing. You’re not using yours anyway, Katrina said — her first spontaneous words in the conversation. She was clearly being sarcastic, but she made a valid point.

* * *

I knew it was a big decision, of course, but it felt small to me. Jordan F and Lulu were on the road, so I saw no need to share the news.

* * *

What I learned about charity was, word always gets around. People kept finding me. The woman with the facial reconstructive surgery gone bad was the next letter that got my attention. She used to be so beautiful restaurants paid her to patronize them. And perhaps, as Jordan F pointed out inside my head, beauty was not the thing to worry about in a time of war. I was often talking to Jordan F in my head. But, I thought, that is what the woman is asking of me, that is what she needs.

* * *

Lulu called from the road that evening, said she couldn’t tell me where they were but she was getting stronger with every passing day. It used to be that Jordan F went on long deliveries only when the fighting got worse somewhere and the demand for blood was especially high. How come you’re away so long? I asked Lulu. You know I can’t answer that, she said, but you can figure it out. Nothing’s been reported, I said. That’s not how it works anymore, she said; reporting risks lives. I held the phone for a bit, not knowing what to say. Then Lulu said, From what I understand, you work in blood now yourself, so what’s with the war judgment? Let’s talk about something else, I told her, and besides I only donate blood once a week, to get by. You know, she said, I keep telling J. that you know what you’re doing; if you’re donating organs, you’re donating organs, we should still support you. But I see now what he means when he says you’ve changed. Please stop, I told her. I was starting to shake. If Jordan F has something to say, he should call me himself, I said, and hung up.

* * *

I wished our conversation had gone differently — I wanted to ask Lulu for her advice on the face-surgery woman. But it seemed there was no room for that kind of talk between us anymore. When I stopped shaking, I tried to think about things rationally. It is no secret that in our world a faceless woman is as good as dead, but a faceless man is still a man. Realizing this, I didn’t see how I could say no. And looking back, I can say I wasn’t wrong; my life didn’t change much.

* * *

The only thing that did change was it seemed silly now to keep making a fuss. I knew if I was asked for something I still had, I would say yes. And I did — the alcoholic who needed a liver, the AIDS patient who needed my skin, the guy from Montreal who collected spleens for a living — I felt lighter with each part of myself I gifted. When a bomb fell in town — something that happened every few months, yet always got a good deal of attention — it seemed only natural not to wait till the requests came in. I walked over there to see what organs might be needed. It was warm out, and I was sweating by the time I got to the scene, so later, in the local paper, they said I ran over there as fast as I could and “gave everything I had to give.” People appreciated it. Some called me the town hero. The difference between running and not running seemed immaterial, so I never mentioned it.

* * *

The highs were intense and usually lasted a couple of days, but I told myself that wasn’t my reason for doing it. And as it turned out, I suppose I was right.

* * *

I got a letter from Jordan F at one point. I thought perhaps he’d heard I was helping people in our town and perhaps that changed his mind — Jordan F always valued loyalty. I have one question for you, the letter said. Doesn’t it feel like you’re disappearing? I wrote back: No. It feels like I’m taking shape. I imagined Jordan F reading it, his face twitching.

* * *

It was only when that last request came in the mail, the one I had to refuse, that I was forced to look into myself. I was giving away my organs, but it wasn’t out of charity, it didn’t prove I was a good man. All it proved was I still had the one thing that mattered: my manhood. I felt ashamed realizing this, but I knew it was the truth.

The man’s story was horrifying. He’d been away from home for nearly three years, fighting. On his first night back, his wife chopped his penis off in his sleep because she believed he’d cheated on her while away. I wanted to help this man so badly my balls hurt. It was as if they were already getting ready to relocate, stretching out toward a new body. I cried, coughed, couldn’t stop saying no, no, no for hours. I sounded something like a miserable rooster. I couldn’t breathe. It was clear: I couldn’t do it.

* * *

For the first time in a long time, I debated contacting Jordan F and Lulu, who I could only assume by this point were more than just traveling together. I knew they would likely be supportive, say I was allowed to draw a line somewhere, I was entitled to my feelings. I didn’t call. I tried saying these same things myself, but all I felt was sadness. I wanted to be a better man — the kind of man who’s not a prisoner of his own anatomy, the kind of man who saves a life if he can, expecting nothing in return. A true hero. But ultimately, I failed.

* * *

Dear Sir, I wrote. Everything you’ve heard about me is true, but unfortunately I cannot help you, for if I help you it will be the end of me. I would never again be able to love another body, never be able to conceive a son, and if ever I wanted to fight for something I believed in, no war — neither the one we’re in, nor any future one — would take me. I would be considered a man no more (no offense). Maybe in a different time, in a different world, I wrote. I could only hope that he was smart enough to know what I meant, and kind enough to forgive.

When the sun comes down on Tel Aviv, it comes down hard. You open a window and darkness is everywhere. You think, Wasn’t this land lit up just now? Wasn’t the air yellow only moments ago? But you can never be sure.