Reunion Read Online Free PDF

within her. Two thousand a month to her, just to keep her afloat in her miniscule little apartment in Brooklyn.
    Itzak and his Dyslexia-Attention Deficit Disorder problems.
    The Powell School. Private. To the tune of a thousand a month.
    Sarah at the Cooper Union. A little room close down by the school. Lots of scholarship money from CU itself, but she still needed fifteen hundred a month to keep afloat, even if she did come home every night to Brooklyn to sleep at her mother’s place. And now it looked like she was going to become a tattoo artist. Ten thousand CASH for tattoo tuition, the guy she was apprenticed to not trusting/using banks, everything CASH, no records, like he was selling Crack instead of tattoo know-how. Another thousand for Hannah in Israel, even though she was married. Another year before she finished her Ph.D. Not to mention the phone-call money, the travel money to bring Itzak to Grand Junction for summers, give his mother a little rest now and then. Last year Chanukah. Nilifer never thought she’d be celebrating Chanukah and/or Christmas, but she did, even enthusiastically, in a generous outburst of ecumenicism.
    And Hannah had come for a month too, the summer before, a month that had passed like a day.
    Sarah couldn’t leave New York. Some sort of panic-disorder. Couldn’t even go to Long Island or over to Jersey. Just Manhattan-Brooklyn, Brooklyn-Manhattan, back and forth, forth and back. And if she stepped outside of the certain limits that her psyche had imposed on her, she felt like she’d dissolve, like she was made out of sand and water was torrenting down on top of her. So Malinche would insist on going to New York to visit her a couple of times a year, and there really wasn’t space for them at Sally’s, so they’d go to a hotel and inevitably take Sally, Itzak and Sarah out for dinner a few times … The money just dissolved. Malinche supposed to be building up a private IRA, but never managing to do it. Like she didn’t care. Like she either didn’t care or didn’t believe in a future.
    â€œWell … another year and Hannah will be finished, two years for Sarah. It won’t be long. How about trying some painting yourself?”
    This incandescent talent that Malinche had for art.
    She’d done all the drawings for Buzzy’s Indian books, ancient Anasazi and Tolita and Coclé pots, pyramids and pendants, symbols, letters, letter-symbols. She could have been a professional illustrator. Had only gone into Medicine in the first place because her oldest brother was an M.D. and had suggested it to her when she’d finished high school and was all confused and indecisive about careers.
    â€œMaybe … maybe I could just BE too, we could both just BE …” putting down her food and lying back on the blanket, looking up at the willow drooping its lacey tentacles all aroundthem, “we’re not doing so badly today. I feel very much here, here, here … very Zen, centered, like after taking a hot shower, all pores open,” him putting down his food too and lying down next to her, their legs interlocking. She was such a specialist in textures, always the softest velour, cotton, silk. That was how she tested clothes when she went shopping, put the fabric up to her cheek, anything abrasive about it and back it went on to the rack. And under her soft clothes her even softer body, totally receptive to him today, everything else but The Now shelved, locked up, behind closed cabinet doors, Buzz wrapped himself around her, first sexual, then beyond sex, like he was wrapping himself around a cloud of cotton candy, closing his eyes, the only person in his life he could totally trust, not a traitorous fiber in her, exactly what she represented herself to be, neither more nor less, no trapdoors or secret panels but as transparent as pure water, half a mile deep but like looking through a cup of ordinary (unpure) water.
    He