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Al-muhaddithat the women scholars in islam pdf torrent 31.08.2019

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Something was always off. She was too pale or too bloated or wearing heavy velvet clothing. She was weak, she was failing, she was fading from view. I was often trying to persuade her to stay alive, long soliloquies about what she needed to do differently. I woke up exhausted. Animals rustled outside my window. When Luke stood behind me, I became animal myself: alert, cautious, curious.

More people came in and he was pushed in closer and there were long moments when my shoulder blades rested against his chest. I felt him breathing in and out, felt his breath in my hair. When it was over, I staggered out of the room and onto the porch. It was still light out. The sky was violet, the trees dark blue. The frogs had started up in the pond across the road, louder and louder the closer you listened.

Luke came up beside me. We looked out at the fields. The back of his hand brushed up against the back of mine and stayed there. He lived in New York now. In Harlem. He asked where I lived. There was a gazebo on the town green in Pawtucket. I had a deck of cards in my backpack, and we sat up there cross-legged and played Spit in the dark. His flashlight lit up the piles of cards spread out between us, and he chuckled.

He took care of his grandson on Thursday nights, he told us. He had a bad hip and moved slowly back to his cruiser. He drove with his left hand on the wheel and his right tucked under my arm, his fingers curving slowly around the outline of my breast.

It was strong, whatever was between us, thick, like the wet air and the smell of every green thing ready to bloom. Maybe it was just spring. We took our lunch baskets and ate ham sandwiches by the pond near our cabins. We walked into a cluster of cattails, some of their pods new and green and some, maybe left over from fall, long and brown and tall as us. Luke called them bulrushes and yanked me close. We both tasted of mayonnaise. Our heads knocked against the brown pods.

The sun felt warm for the first time. I told him the things that were coming back to me about my mother when I was little: her lemon smell and her gardening gloves with the rubber bumps and her small square toes that cracked when she walked barefoot.

Her tortoiseshell headbands that were salty at the tips if you sucked on them. I can feel her right here. We ran to the lake, swam across it, ran back to the dorm and took a bath together in the tub with the clawed feet and two taps and a rubber plug on a chain. Water sloshed all over the wood floor. We lay damp on his bed laughing, our chests pumping at the same time, knocking together, making us laugh even harder. When I looked at him I hid nothing. He was married once, he said.

It was a long time ago. It was too strong. I wanted him too much. It never went away. And I needed sleep to write. During the day I mooned at my window, waiting for his steps on my porch. Pull yourself together and do your work, I could hear my mother chide me. But I was too far gone to listen. Luke was writing. He wrote five poems that first week, eleven the next.

He lay down on the cot in my cabin. They impregnate flowers, and they give us our food supply. They work as a collective. Is it a stand of trees or the open space between them? You have no idea what half the words you worship mean. He wrote eight more bee poems then took me to the Berkshires in his truck to see his friend Matt, who kept hives. I peed a little and had to change my underwear at a rest stop, and he called me Betsy Wetsy the rest of the trip. We arrived in the late afternoon. From what Luke had told me about Matt, I was picturing a guy in a shack with piles of garbage in the back, but he lived in a bright red house with window boxes full of flowers.

His wife, Jen, came out first, and she and Luke bear hugged, swaying with exaggeration and affection. She said you could sleep in her tree house, which is not an invitation she extends very often. My friends seemed to get married and disappear. Or maybe I disappeared. Nia and Abby had stayed in touch until they had babies. When people have babies they stop calling you back. When he made his way to me he held up a knitted brown goat with tiny white horns.

I squatted down to have a look, and he squeaked in surprise. Instead of backing up he put his face unnaturally close to mine. Another squeak. He did the same. He smelled faintly of poop and Desenex. How did I even know it? One, two on the horns. Three on his nose. He opened his mouth—a dark toothless cavern—and after a few seconds a loud cackle came out.

I imitated him—the open mouth, the delay, the laugh—and he took it as an invitation to sit on my lap, which, because I was squatting, had to be created quickly. We dropped down onto the floor at the same time. Jen shot me a grateful smile. She was talking to Matt and Luke about their plans for creating a neighborhood CSA and protesting against the Starbucks that had bought out the local doughnut shop.

Matt took us out back to see the bees. They had meadows and woods beyond the meadows. We followed a path that had been cut through the long grass and wildflowers to the white boxes of bees. Matt picked up a can and stuffed it with a burlap cloth and lit the cloth on fire and pumped air into it from a bellows on the side, and smoke started coming out of the nose at the top of the can. He lifted up the lid of a white box and set the smoker nearby then pulled up one of the trays of combs. It was covered in layers and layers of bees, and they clung on as he raised it high, every bee moving on top of other bees.

As he continued to hold it up, the whole mass of them began to change shape and sag with gravity, some dribbling off like drops of liquid back into the box. It was revolting. I had to work hard to not imagine a sudden swarm. Luke was mesmerized. The grass we were standing in was itchy and I just wanted Matt to lower the lid so I could go back into the kitchen and sit back down on the floor with their squeaky little boy, but we stayed out there a long time, going from box to box, though they were all the same, always a huge churning drooping clump of bees.

Dinner was to be an herb pasta and salad. Jen brought in basil, rosemary, sage, red lettuce, and a bowlful of misshapen tomatoes from their greenhouse. Matt, Luke, and I were put to chopping, and the kitchen smelled like we were still outside. They were the kind of people who were only inside when they had to be.

We ate on the back patio at a table that Matt had made from an old door. Luke sat beside me, but not close to me, on a long bench. They asked me a few questions, and I kept my answers short. They were kind people doing their best to be welcoming, but they did not want me there and I did not know why. The baby got passed around. Matt passed him to Luke, and they got quiet. Luke held him up to his face, and the boy plucked at his glasses until he noticed me beside Luke and lunged at me with both arms.

I caught him and we all laughed and Luke looked relieved. He got strangely buoyant then and told a story about how when he was four he walked a mile to the penny candy store naked. The police brought him back home. After another long hour around a fire pit, Luke and I walked in the dark to the treehouse. I needed to touch him, press against him and relieve my heaviness, my swollen ache for him. Lightning bugs flashed everywhere, for hundreds of feet in every direction.

We kissed hungrily and pulled apart our clothes and pushed hard against each other in the thick spring grass. Everything else vanished into my desire for him. We lay there a long time afterward, and the lightning bugs came closer and closer and flashed so near we could have touched them. He gave a half laugh, but he was gone somewhere else by then. There was only one thin mattress and one pillow in the treehouse.

He moved the flashlight around the room, and it lit up a box of Legos and a couple of board games and two dolls in chairs having a tea party. Luke got under the blankets and I curled up close, but even his skin felt plastic and closed off. He reached up to touch the corner of a drawing stuck on the wall with a thumbtack. It was hard to tell what it was, a house or a dog.

He was gone when I woke up. Jen left her boy with me while she took a shower. Luke and Matt came back and ate egg sandwiches outside. By the time we got in the car to leave I was shaking with hunger and confusion. We drove an hour after that, barely speaking. Not good.

It was too confusing, he said. It was too much. It was too unbalanced. There was a disconnect between our souls and our bodies, he said. I skipped dinner and stayed in my cabin. I lit a fire and stared at it. He found me there. He was inside me before the screen door had stopped shaking. We lay on the old rug sweating, all the tension and misery of the day washed away. I felt loose and weightless.

We looked at the signatures on the wall of all the writers and artists who had stayed in my cabin. He said his friend Adam had a place I could rent cheap in Brookline. Write your book. He never had before. I wondered if I did, too. You sound like a fool who is sabotaging an amazing opportunity. Get ahold of yourself. Two months. Twelve pages. While poetry poured out of Luke. Poems about lightning bugs, bullfrogs, and, finally, a dead child. The one about the bullfrogs he taped to the seat of my banana bike.

The one about the dead child he read to me early one morning, then shook in my arms for an hour afterward. I never showed him any of my novel. His last week there he gave a reading in the library. He was nervous walking over. He gripped the pages and told me they were all for me, about me, because of me. But when he was at the podium and I was in the first row, he never looked at me. He read the poem about the dead child, and everyone wept. People leapt to their feet without thinking about it.

On his last night, we took a walk down a road lit blue by the moon. A cow in a field lumbered beside us, the wire fence invisible. We turned down the dirt road to the lake and dropped our clothes in the grass and swam in silence toward the middle.

The frogs, which had stopped their singing, resumed full throttle. We came together, cool and rubbery, and we sank as we kissed. It blotted out all the stars nearby. The water dripped from our raised arms back into the lake. He did not say how. The next day he got in his truck and rolled down the window. He put his palm flat to his chest. The number he gave me rang and rang. No person. No machine. I had a week left at Red Barn, and I tried that number from the wooden phone cabinet before every meal.

On my last night there I sat next to a painter. He knew her in New York. Her eyes were kind. She passed me the mashed potatoes. I wait at the Sunoco station. My legs begin to shake. His truck slides up beside me, and he gets out, scrawnier than I remember. His hair is longer. It looks dirty. We hug. He swings my banana bike into the back of the truck without comment, without recognition. We get into the cab, our old positions. We head west to Route 2.

He wants to go swimming at Walden Pond. Their bodies are bouncing, their bathing suit butts drooping from the water and the sand. We step into a shady stand of pines and I nearly crash into Henry Thoreau. Behind him is a replica of his cabin. The door is open. I step up into it. On the far wall is a brick hearth and a potbellied stove in front of it.

All I can feel is the effort of reproduction. Nothing of Thoreau is here. Luke takes my hand and tugs me to sit on the bed with him. It would probably end up in a poem. I take pleasure in not showing it to him. I get up and step down onto the yellow pine needles. We cross the street and join a stream of people walking down the path.

Below us on the small beach, bodies swarm. Children cry. Last month there was an hour wait just to get into the lot. He was here last month. The month he did not call me. It takes so much effort just to follow him around the bathing beach to a trail in the woods around the pond. A wire fence runs along the water side of the path, and there are signs prohibiting people from going off the path and destroying the fragile ecosystem.

But people have disobeyed, and all the small patches of sand you can see through the trees are taken so we keep walking. We find an empty little beach and crawl between the wires and down the steep embankment to it. We spread our towels a few feet apart. He gets up after a few minutes and sits on mine with me. My body aches from my throat to my groin. I want him to slide his fingers into my bathing suit and make all the heaviness and misery go away. I feel like a hag in a fairy tale, waiting to be made young and supple again.

I get up and walk into the water. I read the book in high school, when I lived less than an hour from here, but I never thought of it as a place that still existed. I drop into the water and push out from the shore on my back.

He stays on my towel and gets smaller and smaller in his white T-shirt. The shirt smells. I remember knowing that he smelled when I first met him. Then I stopped noticing. The trees are so tall from this angle, dark, with their hardening summer leaves. When I get out he watches my body and the water rushing off of it.

I stay where I am. A swimmer, a woman with strong mottled arms in a bright-blue bathing cap, cuts a diagonal line across the pond. I am the on- call that night. In his truck I smooth out my skirt. The truck glides along Memorial Drive. I see my path by the river, the geese at the base of the Western Ave. All your life there will be men like this, I think.

He pulls up next to the marigolds. I see his forehead resting on his hands on the steering wheel as I pull my bike out of the back. I wheel it around to his window and ring my bell out of habit. It is the sound of me coming to his cabin at the end of the day.

I want to take that sound and stuff it into a bag with rocks and throw it in the river. He smiles and rests both elbows along the side of his truck. My body is fighting me. If I get closer, he will put his fingers in my hair. I squeeze the handlebars and stay in place.

I sit on my banana bike as he backs up, shifts, and pulls out. I stay there beside the marigolds on the side of the Sunoco station until his truck disappears around the bend where the river turns west. We met here in Cambridge six years ago, in line for the bathroom at the Plough and Stars, and hung out for a while before we both moved away for grad school.

I was refilling their waters and said, Muriel Becker? I got her number from her aunt. The day after Walden, Muriel takes me to a launch party of a writer she knows. I ride to her place in Porter Square, and we walk up Avon Hill. The houses get fancier the higher we climb, grand Victorians with wide front porches and turrets. Basically you cut out the backbone and sort of compress all the pieces in a pan. I can tell by the way her long arms are flying all around.

I have not. I have to reenact on the sidewalk the way he bit my knee. But my chest is still burning. I did that this time. You know I do. The party is at the end on the left, a massive house: bow windows, three stories, mansard roof. The doorway is jammed. We stand on the threshold, unable to enter. The other guests are mostly older by twenty or thirty years, the women in stockings and heels, the men in sports jackets.

The air smells like a cocktail party from the seventies, aftershave and martini onions. The party is for a writer who leads a fiction workshop at his house near the Square on Wednesday nights. I have to keep moving forward. The writer had been a professor at BU until three years ago when his wife died, and he left teaching to write full-time and be home for his kids. And if he really loves it, his fingers will be laced together in his lap by the end.

So this is definitely a step up. We inch our way through the vestibule into a living room, which is slightly less jammed. Muriel grabs my arm and pulls me through an archway into a smaller room lined with books. Usually Muriel mauls people. He shifts a book from one hand to the other to shake it. His eyes are dark brown and hooded. Muriel points to the book. I was one of the first to arrive and he was sitting at the dining room table with a huge stack of books next to him.

From last week. Carry on, Alice, it says above the signature. We laugh. Two women are waving from the far side of the other room, trying to squeeze their way toward us. Muriel sees them and presses back into the crowd to meet them halfway. The paper is rough, old-fashioned, like heavy typewriter paper. By Oscar Kolton. I flip to the back flap to see what Oscar Kolton looks like.

Silas studies the photo with me. It was taken from the side, one of his shoulders in the foreground, elbow to knee, bicep flexed. The contrast between black and white is so extreme his face looks carved out like an Ansel Adams rock face and the backlighting has turned his pupils to pinpricks. She has a big apologetic smile on her face.

I bounce the photo in front of Silas. I sneer and flip him two birds. He laughs again. He has a chipped front tooth, a clean diagonal cut off one corner. Muriel is bringing her friends toward us. Behind his back. So maybe not so impressive.

Are you going back next week? It might be too religious for me. A lot of verbal genuflecting. Silas hesitates. People just take down everything he says. People gasped. And then silence. I like a little more debate. Silas shifts slightly, putting a bit more of his back to them. She introduces us. One is an infectious disease doctor specializing in AIDS research, and the other heads up a nonprofit in Jamaica Plain. Maxx in Fresh Pond. They have crossed the room for Silas, and they pepper him with questions.

I drift out of the conversation, out of the room. I veer into the kitchen and peer at the writer through the window in the swinging door. I can only see the back of him, the rim of a blue tie showing beneath his collar and a shoulder blade jutting up through the white dress shirt as he signs his name.

Every few minutes a server comes in for a refill. It feels strange not to be the one wearing a bun and apron. I take a fig from the tray and a napkin from her other hand. The asphalt is purple in the dusk. We walk in the middle of the road down the hill.

The sun has sunk but its heat hangs in the air. My ears ring from all the voices at the party. We talk about a book called Troubles that I read and passed along to her. She loved it as much as I did, and we go through the scenes we liked best. The short biography on the back page said that the writer, J. Farrell, died while angling, swept out to sea by a rogue wave. You go out to see a man about a dog. I tell her Silas said that Wednesday nights felt cultish.

She considers that. Maybe that is like a cult. The streets are quiet on the way home, the river flat and glossy. The sky is the darkest blue it gets just before turning black. So do I, Muriel told him. He needed to be alone in a room with books. That was ten months ago. The next day David, the old boyfriend, calls her. They say women have intuition, but men can smell a competitor across state lines. We were supposed to go out Thursday night. Oh, holy crap, I nearly forgot. That guy Silas asked me for your number.

An old-man voice. And we could get a bite to eat after. It was something my mother would say. Do I really not know the name of that dog? My landlord. I take care of him sometimes. I should never answer the phone in the morning. He has called to ask you out on a date. Do not mention a dead mother. Very simpatico. It still burns a bit, coming out. He listens. He breathes into the phone. I can tell he lost someone close somehow. Your words go scattershot off of it.

I ask him, and he says his sister died, eight years ago. But she was struck by lightning. People can get very caught up in that. The symbolism. Or the physical details. Either one. It bugs me. I heard over the phone at five in the morning in a tiny kitchen in Spain.

That day was the first day I felt okay. I went to the mall to get a pair of sneakers, and when I came back my father told me to sit down. I heard it all in his voice. I already knew. For so long I was so mad he made me sit down. My class started twelve minutes ago. Summer school. Can I call you tonight?

We hang up. My room comes into focus again, my desk, my notebook. Muriel comes to the potting shed after her walk with David. I make tea and we sit on my futon. But he was just the same. He was unappealing to me. He wants me back. He made a terrible mistake, he said.

And I just kept thinking, When can I get back in my car. Looking at the rest of his life scared him. But losing me, he said, was even scarier. We went around and around. For hours. He was so dramatic, leaping around me, throwing out his arms. He actually hit a runner at one point. He cried. It was awful.

It was over. It was so clear. And when he tried to kiss me, I shoved him away. My arms just pushed him away before I knew what I was doing. It was so physical, the repulsion. It felt biological. Like I knew I would never have children with this man. It was so awful and weird. I make more tea and cinnamon toast and we scoot back on the futon and lean against the wall, eating and sipping and looking out my one window at the driveway where Adam seems to be arguing with Oli the cleaning lady.

But the older one nods. She flew from Phoenix to LA to Santiago. She had a cough left over from a cold but no fever. Apart from that, she was in full health. Fifty-eight years old. No medical issues. Her friends get her to a clinic there and they put her on oxygen and radio for an air ambulance and just before it comes she dies. The younger one is still holding the sugar packet.

Why did her heart stop? Was it a pulmonary embolism? From the long plane flight? How do we get out of here? She was dozing. Sort of in and out. Then she sat up, said she had to make a phone call, lay back down again, and was dead. It was very peaceful, Janet told me. Such a pretty day. I tried, in phone calls with Janet, to get more detail than pretty day and peaceful. Were children kicking a ball outside?

Who did she sit up to call? Was there any noise at all when her heart stopped? Why did it stop? I wanted to hear my mother tell it. She loved a story. She loved a mystery. She could make any little incident intriguing. In her version, the doctor would have a wandering eye and three chickens in the back named after Tolstoy characters. Janet would have a heat rash on her neck. I wanted her and no one else to tell me the story of how she died.

Caleb and I opened it together. We lifted out her yellow rain slicker, her two cotton nightgowns, her one-piece bathing suit with the pink-and- white checks. We pressed our noses to every item, and every item smelled of her. We knew they were for us. When the suitcase was empty I slid my hand into the interior elasticized pouches, certain there would be something in writing, a note or a sentence of goodbye, of premonition, in case of.

There was nothing but two safety pins and a thin barrette. The rest of the week goes badly. My writing flounders. Every sentence feels flat, every detail fake. I go for long runs along the river, to Watertown, to Newton, ten miles, twelve miles, which help, but after a few hours the bees start crawling again.

I scroll the pages I have on the computer and skim the new pages I have in my notebook since Red Barn. It all looks like a long stream of words, like someone with a disease that involves delusions has written them. I am wasting my life.

It pounds like a heartbeat. For three days straight it rains, and the potting shed starts to smell like compost. I arrive at Iris soaked through and barely dry off before I have to ride back home. I try to fold my white shirt carefully into my knapsack but it wrinkles, and Marcus scolds me for it. Each way I pass the Sunoco station on Memorial Drive, the ugly marigolds in their concrete bed, and hot tears mix with the rain.

The date at the end of the week with Silas, for which I have swapped a lucrative Friday night for a Monday lunch, fills me with dread. But when I am not paying attention, I remember his voice on the phone and his chipped tooth, and a ripple of something that might be anticipation passes through. Harry and I have two doubles together, Tuesday and Thursday.

My service is worse, but my tips are always better. Harry asked me to dinner after the first shift we worked together. He was handsome and hilarious, with a sexy British accent and a flawlessly hetero shield. Who are you, Henry Higgins? It was quite a trick. After that I was just one of the lads. But when the panna cotta arrived he mentioned an ex, named Albert. I was floored. Later we called it the panna cotta revelation. You can have him if he is.

No thanks. Not the good ones. God, that would be awful. He goes off to drop a check at his deuce. I like to dominate, verbally. Your three-top wants hot tea. It makes us feel about six years old. We make faces at each other behind his back.

When I get home that night, late—there was an anniversary party for sixty-one in the downstairs dining room — Silas is on my machine. I had to leave town. For a while. I really am. I barely know you. I had to. I had to go. Take care of yourself. He was like, uh, had to leave town, uh, for a while. No idea how long. I do not want to see it. Harry swaps a shift with Yasmin and comes with me.

He flirts madly with all the straight guys. It went badly in Provincetown with the new busboy. Muriel serves Moroccan chicken, couscous, and sangria. I fill my plate next to a guy who calls himself Jimbo and had a novel published last year. Motorcycle Mama. It received mixed reviews, Muriel told me, but he got a six-figure contract for the next one anyway.

He moves on bellowing through the room. The only other person there who has published a book is Eva Park. I met Eva six years ago, when she was working on the collection. She was sort of ablaze with a lot of nervous energy then. All the stuffing seems to have gone out of her since. She looks embarrassed, sitting on that stool, to be who she is now. Success rests more easily on men. Across the room, Jimbo holds up a bottle and hollers that the Grey Goose has flown.

Muriel calls me over and makes me squeeze on the couch between her and her grad school friend George, who turned up unexpectedly that afternoon, which apparently he does from time to time. He has a smooth plump face and gold-rimmed glasses. Big round eyes through the lenses. Harry is on the other side of Muriel, and they have enhanced the intensity of their conversation to force George and me to talk to each other. I already know part of his story.

He and his wife arrived in Ann Arbor together for grad school. He was in the fiction program with Muriel, and his wife was in nonfiction. During their second year there she started getting migraines and was sent to a specialist. At her third appointment, the doctor locked the door and they had sex. On the examining table with the crinkly paper. The doctor remained standing the whole time. Now the wife is migraine-free and living with the doctor, and George is heartbroken and teaching freshman comp at UNC—Greensboro.

Her parents were American, but after the war her father set up a medical practice in Santiago de Cuba. In the book I have her choose love. I push some chicken around on my paper plate. I need to change the subject.

Talking about my book makes me feel flayed alive. How long have you been working on it? Most nights. That kind of thing is contagious. August arrives and Iris becomes a wedding factory: rehearsal dinners, receptions, and an occasional small ceremony on the deck. For these events the restaurant is closed to the public, and we pass around oysters, crab toasts, stuffed figs, and risotto balls along with flutes of champagne on special silver trays. We water and wine them. There are long periods of time when we line the wall and watch the wedding party, each with our own particular cynicism.

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