The Distance Between Us Read Online Free PDF Page B

good.”
    “No way. Back to work. That’s what I need.”
    Ya’el shakes her head. “Not back to work, not right away. But back here, yes. Where we understand, where we’ve been through it, too. This is your home . Now, tell me. Everything.”
    Caddie draws a large couch pillow toward her, covering her stomach.
    “I know, Caddie,” Ya’el says after a moment. “I thought I couldn’t talk about it either. But it was a relief to talk with you. A relief , trust me,”
    Ya’el puts her hand on Caddie’s. Ya’el thinks she knows what Caddie feels. Her brother was kidnapped while on army duty along the Lebanese border, tortured and killed. Ya’el received a photograph of his bruised and mangled body in the mail from an unknown sender. For nearly two years she held futility like a knot in her gut. Then Caddie moved in, and the two women began talking. And maybe because Caddie was an outsider, attentive in a way that tended to draw people out, or maybe simply because the timing was right, Ya’el spilled it one evening. How furious she’d become. Afraid and sad. And, finally, how much better she felt after telling it all to Caddie.
    Caddie never understood how releasing a flood of words could possibly be comfort enough. She couldn’t understand why Ya’el didn’t try harder to find out who sent that photograph, who murdered her brother. That submissiveness, a reminderof Grandma Jos, irritated her. But she never said so. She listened. A journalist’s job.
    Now Caddie clears her throat. “Tell me about the girls. And how’s work?”
    Ya’el stares a moment, then shakes her head. “I guess a sore must become a scab before it heals,” she says.
    The doorbell saves Caddie from having to reply. Ya’el opens the door to Mr. Gruizin, the mailbox painter, followed by Mrs. Weizman, carrying her rose-patterned soup tureen.
    “Now, bubeleh , don’t get up,” Mrs. Weizman says.
    Goulash. Mrs. Weizman’s famous opinionated goulash—absolutely no to the green peppers but you can never add too much paprika—brought forth for each death, disaster, or even infection. So then. That means everyone in the building knows what happened. But Caddie should have figured that. Nothing is secret in this country for long; it’s always been that way. Probably every Israeli over the age of ten knew when their enemy King Hussein toured Tel Aviv in bearded disguise, though no journalist reported it for more than a decade. For months, they all knew that Ethiopian Jews were being spirited into the country, even knew the government had dubbed it Operation Magic Carpet, though the censor had forbidden a word of it in the local or international media. When a military operation goes awry, the street knows hours before it’s broadcast. So what’s the surprise that news of the ambush has traveled from Ya’el on the fifth floor to Mr. Gruizin at ground level, back up to Mrs. Weizman on third?
    Ya’el heads into Caddie’s open kitchen with the soup. “I’ll make coffee.”
    “How did you all know I was coming back today?” Caddie asks.
    “We didn’t,” Mr. Gruizin says.
    “ I did,” Mrs. Weizman says. Mr. Gruizin’s eyebrows lunge into his forehead. “No, I did, Ya’akov. I felt it.” She strokes Caddie’s cheek with her papery fingers. “ Feh , what a sorrow to see you so pale.”
    “What do you mean? She looks wonderful,” argues Mr. Gruizin. “Am I right, Ya’el?” he calls.
    Ya’el steps back into the living room. “She’s coping.” It comes out sounding like a lie, and Ya’el blushes and withdraws again.
    Mrs. Weizman leans closer to Caddie. “How can you say so, with those washed-out cheeks?”
    Caddie lowers her face but can’t escape their stares. She starts to rise. “Ya’el, you need help?”
    Mrs. Weizman reaches out a hand to stop her. “Sit, bubeleh. ”
    “She looks better than should be expected, anyway,” Mr. Gruizin says after a moment. “She’s a strong girl. It’s my red, you know. Did