The Book of Intimate Grammar

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Aron is standing on tiptoe for a better view of the street below, where Mama and Papa have just stepped out to breathe some fresh air at the end of a long hot day. They look so small from here. He can taste the dusty metal of the blinds on his lips. His eyes glow. It isn’t nice to watch like this. From above. They almost seem like dolls down there, a slow tubby one and a little snippety one. It isn’t nice to watch, but it is kind of funny, and kind of scary maybe. The trouble is, Zacky and Gideon see them too. Still, he can’t tear himself away. Y’alla, let’s go, grumbles Zacky, his nose squashed flat against the blinds. If What’s-her-name turns up now we’re history. Hey, whispers Aron, here come the Kaminers. Old man Kaminer is going to die, says Gideon. See how yellow he is? You can tell.

Mama and Papa stopped to talk to the Kaminers from Entrance A. They flickered in and out of sight behind the spreading fig tree. Don’t ask, sighed Esther Kaminer. Snatches of conversation drifted up to the fourth-floor window. Poor Avigdor — she shook her head — it’s a miracle he’s still alive, and Mama clucked her tongue: God help anyone who falls into a doctor’s clutches. They chop you to pieces for diploma practice. Avigdor Kaminer, slouching as usual, stared blankly at his chattering wife. And you wouldn’t believe what it’s costing, she moaned, what with the medication and the dietetic food, and a taxi home every time after the dialysis.

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