It had been two weeks since I’d last called home. During our last conversation I had told her that I was waiting for a final grade on a term paper and that once I got it I could start working as a social worker. She knew nothing of the new apartment; as far as she was concerned, I still lived in the dorms. The last time I had been home, more than a month prior, I had told her that I was going to stay in the dorms during exams.
“Alhamdulillah,” I said. “Everything’s fine, I got the degree.”
“Congratulations, congratulations,” she said, her voice rising with excitement. “And the grades, with God’s help, they were good?”
“Fine.”
“So you’re happy?” That was her standard question. Are you happy? Are you content? Are you doing well?
“Absolutely, Mom,” I said.
“Congratulations, congratulations.”
I cut her short because I knew what was coming — her asking me when I was coming home. And I knew that, having moved into a new apartment, I had no choice but to disappoint her. Above all else my mother wanted me to graduate and to come home, to live with her so that we could wage our battles together.
“Mom, listen. My grades were really good. My average was up above ninety, which means that I made Dean’s List and they’re going to announce that at the graduation,” I said, preparing her. I could hear the excitement in her voice and I knew that she was already planning to tell all the people she knew about her son’s grades. I am successful, she would be saying. Despite all, I raised a successful son. Up to that point, I’d told the truth. “Mom, listen. One of my teachers, the one I wrote the term paper for, a professor, took me aside this week and suggested that with my grades I should continue on toward a master’s.”
“That sounds great.”
“Yeah, I was really happy. If I do that, I’ll be able to advance much faster and who knows, maybe I’ll even keep on going with the studies from there.”
“Wonderful, I am so happy.”
“Yeah, me, too, but the thing is, this master’s, it’s a prestigious track, one that will allow me to treat patients privately, too, but in order to be accepted I need experience, not just grades. I mean, I have no problem in terms of grades, but I need work experience, too.”
“How much experience do you need?”
“With my grades, I only need two years. But the professor said he’d make sure that they counted my internship as one year, so I’ll be eligible already next year.”
“Great. You know you’ll find work right away in the village. I already spoke to some people and from what I understand there’s a constant shortage of social workers around here. I talked to someone from the local council and she said you could probably start right away.”
“That’s the thing, Mom. I thought the same thing, but when I spoke to the professor, he said that I had to have two years in the same field, in the same place. If I work for the local council in the village then I’d have to do two full years, and I was thinking. .”
She went quiet and I felt a weight on my chest on account of what I was doing. But I continued on with the same false optimism, fawning over the professor and the make-believe master’s degree, which I had no intention of pursuing. “So, Mom, I actually spoke with the head of the east Jerusalem office, the guy I did the internship with, and he was really happy because he needs someone and he said he could get me a position right away and that they would count the internship as a year of experience, which means I’d get a higher salary.”
She remained silent. What I was telling her was that not only was I not coming home, but that I was staying in Jerusalem for three more years at least, which made it twice as long as she had originally thought. And even back when I finished high school, she had begged me to study in Tel Aviv or at Bar Ilan University so that I could sleep at home every night, and then, too, I had sold her some story about talking to people in the field who said that a degree from Hebrew University was worth far more.
“But I’m not entirely sure,” I said, trying to cheer her up. “I really wanted to come home already. I’m sick of this city. I also want to rest a little after all this studying. I mean, I’m really happy I got these offers, but I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’ll come home for the holiday, Mom, and then we’ll talk. In the meantime, I’ll do some thinking on my own. The truth is, I’m really kind of tired. We’ll see, all right?”
I tried to keep myself busy till four. I went over my notes from my conversation with Daud Abu-Ramila, my addict, and then filed some papers in a tan folder and flipped through the many case histories in the long-dormant files. Testimonies from addicts, their wives, their social workers, reports from house calls, descriptions of violence and neglect. What interested me most were the reports about the welfare of the children. Were they in school? Were they working? Had they been sent away to foster homes? During those last hours of the workday the office was completely silent. At exactly four, I punched my time card and walked out, saying good night to the janitor, who pushed his mop across the outdoor steps and looked at me with a gaze both supportive and pitying — he knew exactly what went on in the office.
I strode through Wadi Joz to Salah al-Din Street. Dark clouds drifted to the east and I hoped it would rain. Joining a throng of people waiting for a ride, I managed to get on the third Transit that came past. There was one spot available, next to a pretty girl. Taking my seat, I looked over at her briefly, feigning nonchalance, and then didn’t dare to look her way again. I usually tried not to sit next to young women. The best option was to sit next to a man and if that wasn’t possible then an older woman. I pulled my body in so that the sleeves of my coat wouldn’t touch her arms. I pressed my legs close to one another and laid my black bag on my lap. For the duration of the ride I made sure not to let my gaze stray far from the window and soon enough I forgot all about the girl beside me. Instead I immersed myself in my favorite hobby, peering into homes, looking for lit rooms in otherwise dark buildings, for the glow of television sets, and wondering about the people inside — were their rooms warm, were they surrounded by children who had come home from school, were they doing homework together, watching cartoons, enmeshed in family life?
“Excuse me,” the girl’s voice pulled me back to the taxi. The old Transit had pulled up next to the mosque in Shuafat and she wanted to get off. I didn’t want her to have to squeeze past me, for her legs to brush up against mine, so I opened the taxi door and got out, clearing the way for her. She didn’t say thank you and I sat back down in my seat and hoped that Wassim had not yet left for his second job. I just wanted to chat with him, hear how his day had gone and touch base, if only for a moment.
SODIUM CHLORIDE
During my first weeks at the Nusseibah housing projects I hardly left the building, aside from daily trips to work and the occasional trip to the grocery. I shopped for the three of us and after a while Majdi started calling me the Minister of Shopping. I’d get receipts for the things we shared — bread, eggs, sausages, cheese — and we’d split the cost three ways, even though I’d frequently get a fancier cheese or a more expensive sausage and ask the grocer to put it on a separate bill. “Ever since you arrived we have cleaning supplies in our apartment,” Majdi would say, laughing at the sight of floor cleaning liquid or dish soap.
I took charge of the actual cleaning also. That meant scouring surfaces that hadn’t been touched since the day the cousins moved in. My first mission was the refrigerator. Majdi and Wassim were shocked to learn that its interior could be cleaned and that the shelves could be made white again. The bathroom was no easier. It took an entire bottle of sodium chloride and a bottle of bleach to make the sink, bathtub, and toilet somewhat acceptable. I’m not sure if I cleaned because I wanted to combat the filth or simply because I wanted something to do with myself, a way to pass the time until Wassim and Majdi came home. They arrived one after another, at just before nine thirty.