Usually she phoned him, once a week on Sundays; he made sterile conversation with her and his father—What’s going on at the university? At church? How is this neighbor or that colleague?—fulfilling his obligation as a son. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak to them, but it took effort to act as if he was holding it together. Today something inside him remembered his Band-Aided knees and the gharge—fried, sweet pumpkin bread—she had made for him while he lay in bed with the chicken pox, and he realized he desperately wanted to feel that security again. She answered on the third ring. “Aai, hi.” “Benjamin. I am surprised to hear you. Happy, yes. But something is wrong?” “No, no. Everything’s fine. I just wanted to see how you were doing.” “I have much blessings.” “And how’s Ba?” “Good. Busy. You can come see us soon? I know he will like that much.” “I’ll have to check with Abbi.” “If it is too much with that baby, we will come to you.”
