Bills, bills, junk, and then a surprise: the familiar flimsy blue-green paper of an Israeli aerogram, nearly impossible to open without damaging its contents. She lights the stovetop, fills a kettle, waits for the water to boil. Jacob, strapped in his high chair, his face plastered with marinara sauce, says, “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.” It’s an eerily accurate impression of the kettle’s whistle, good enough to draw a call from the living room: “Bean? Are you making tea?” Sam enters, a book in each hand. “Eeeeeeeeeee,” Jacob says. He stops squealing and grins. Sam and Bina break into laughter. “Very good,” Sam says. He kisses Jacob on the head. Meanwhile the real kettle has begun to pipe. Bina waves the aerogram through the steam to loosen the glue. “You can have the water when I’m done.”
