She approached 1012 Chestnut Street, a three-story house that was attached to the other homes on the block. A “town house,” as Nader called them, like their own “row home,” although they looked the same to her. At first she had a difficult time understanding this concept of homes attached like the links on a chain, a house where even your walls weren’t entirely your own. When Nader had shown her the front of their building for the first time, she’d been delighted.

A puzzled Nader had asked, “You really like it?”

“Of course!” she’d answered, pointing to Washington Avenue on her left and Federal Street on her right. “This whole building is yours—you must have been right about America! You really can do well here.” He’d laughed for several minutes before explaining that only the top two floors of the single unit in front of them was theirs. “It’ll be a few years before we own a big house, but it’ll happen in time,” he’d said.

But 1012 Chestnut was nothing like their tiny apartment above the flower shop. Its white front steps, edged by a beautifully-carved stone rail, descended elegantly to the sidewalk. The door, made of dark wood, featured a round, brass knocker in its center, like an eye. Like the Evil Eye painted on her blue stones. She stared up at the windows, awed and suddenly sad. A glimpse of a blonde head looking out of the second-story window sent her walking back. She hummed “My Funny Valentine” all the way home to calm the frenzied beat of her heart, and spent the rest of the day studying her verbs.

I hide. You hide. He/she/it hides.

I lie. We lie. They lie.

I cry. You cry. He/she/it cries.

I cry.

Their one-year anniversary was December 3rd, three weeks before Christmas. Nader had carefully planned a surprise, which included an early dinner at a Lebanese restaurant on South Street (where Siham was impressed to see that most of the clientele were not Arabs but Americans) and a concert in Atlantic City. The headliner was one of Siham’s favorite Arab singers, who rarely performed in Palestine. Her sister Nadia would get a long letter about this.

As they drove to Atlantic City in their two-door Nissan, Nader explained that many Arab singers held concerts in the States. “When I was single, I would go to a concert, when I could afford it, with some Egyptian guys I worked with,” he said. “We always hoped that we’d be attending these affairs with wives on our arms one day. I imagined taking my dream girl out for a romantic dinner, how she looked, how she spoke. And then I saw her outsmarting a leather vendor in the bazaar in Jerusalem!” They laughed and he reached for her hand in the darkness. He kissed the tips of her fingers gently, then lingered on her palm. “I’m so happy.”

“Me, too.” She truly was. She was also relieved that she had not refused his proposal. It was a risk, to marry a man who had spent so much time in America, but a lot of girls in Palestine did it. To get out of the country, to try their lives and their luck across the ocean, they married. One-month, even one-week engagements were not unusual, but Siham had never imagined she’d do it. How could you know about a man’s past?, she used to argue. Unlike Jerusalem, where gossip lines kept everyone updated on their neighbors, someone could hide an entire life, conceal so many secrets behind America’s veil. Even though Nader’s family was originally from Jerusalem and had been sufficiently “checked out” by the al-Medanis, how could she trust him immediately? She had always claimed that she would get to know her fiancé for a long time, at least three years, before they married. Well, she was simply doing the “getting to know” part after the wedding.