Free The Ghost of Hannah Mendes by Naomi Ragen

vehicle, windows tightly rolled up. It was seldom she found herself exposed to the city on any street below Madison and Forty-fourth. She looked around at the grungy streets and even grungier people, unnerved.
    “Perhaps we should hail a cab, dear,” she suggested, trying to keep her voice steady.
    “What for? It’s just another block or two. Isn’t this place great! All these little boutiques and outdoor cafes. And you have to see the Festival of San Gennaro.”
    Catherine glanced at her sharply. “You go to that, do you?”
    “Sure. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. All those holy statues and the flowers and music and great food. It’s so colorful and interesting. Sometimes I wish…”
    “Go on.”
    “It’s just that the Italians seem to have such a great time. The stuff we do is so sterile, so boring. Like Passover, all those long-winded recitations and that inedible food, and the little groans from the men and the kids fidgeting and all the women left behind in the kitchen.”
    “Italian Catholic children don’t fidget, and their fathers don’t groan on the hard benches in church, and all that great food, why, it gets magically cooked while the women dance in the streets, I suspect.”
    “Just forget it. It’s not possible to make you understand.”
    “Why do you say that? I understand exactly what you mean. I used to feel the same way.” She shook her head sadly.
    “You?” Suzanne looked at her, startled, waiting for some explanation.
    None followed. Catherine looked ahead, clearly finished with the topic. Or perhaps, Suzanne suddenly wondered, taking in the slight trembling motion of her head, she’d simply forgotten what she’d meant to say.
    The restaurant was an odd mixture of fake Chinese and genuine Delancey Street old-fashioned, its decor consisting of fringed red lanterns and a genuine pickle barrel.
    “This used to be a kosher deli,” Suzanne explained.
    “I thought you said this place was vegetarian.”
    “It is.”
    “What’s this, then?” she asked, pointing to the “sweet-and-sour pork” on the menu.
    “Oh, it’s not real pork, Granny! It’s made out of bean curd, and I assure you it’s just as delicious as I remember the real thing. Although, as a vegetarian, I haven’t tasted that in quite some time,” she pointed out with some righteousness.
    Catherine supposed that was true, but it didn’t please her. Eating vegetarian food on the ground floor of a Buddhist temple hardly qualified as a link with family tradition.
    They ordered many dishes, although Catherine took no more than a spoonful of each, leaving Suzanne free to devour the rest. She did so, with gusto, then eagerly ordered dessert. It came covered with ice cream and a good number of flaming sparklers, which sent floating ash everywhere.
    “Fried pineapple. My favorite,” she said between bites, thoroughly enjoying herself.
    “Are you all right?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean, do you have what you need, dear, to get by?”
    Suzanne put her fork down slowly, dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Do you mean, do I have enough money for food?” she asked, suddenly amused. “Plenty. But when someone else pays, it does wonders for my appetite.” She grinned.
    “Well, at least you’re not getting insulted. Young people these days think they have to prove something all the time, and even if they can’t really manage alone, they foolishly refuse to ask their families for help out of some ridiculous pride.”
    Suzanne felt her jaw twitch. “Considering the recent past, I’d appreciate it, Grandmother, if you wouldn’t bring up family help, caring, et cetera, et cetera.”
    “I don’t understand…”
    “Eleven months ago, when I wanted to marry Renaldo, Grandmother,” she said, lifting her eyes from the napkin she’d been rolling into tiny balls. “The point is, last year, where was my wonderful, caring family then?”
    “I don’t remember you ever discussing Renaldo with me,”