Mother would come bounding into the kitchen to grab it. “Hi, Dr. Wolfsohn…,” she would coo, “sorry, I meant… Nathan…I’m fine, Nathan. How are you?…Of course. I’ll get her…” Then Mother would put her palm over the mouthpiece and yell out: “Meen! For you! Dr. Wolfsohn!” And soon enough, Mina would appear at her side, hovering on her tiptoes as she took the phone and chirped into the receiver: “Hi, Nathan.” But before the conversation went any further, she would turn to me—I was usually still doing the dishes—and inquire, always tenderly: “Behta, is it okay if I use the phone for a little while…alone?”I would nod and head off to my room.More than once that week, I emerged an hour or so later—after homework and some verses—hoping to bypass any unfinished dishes in the sink on my way down to the family room for some television. Invariably, I’d find Mother perched at the stairs, barring the way. And over her shoulder, down on the couch at the family room’s far end, I would see Mina curled up on the corner cushion, the phone cradled lovingly against her face.“Don’t be nosy,”
What do You think about American Dervish: A Novel?
