“Listen,” Mama says. “When this boy of yours comes, just introduce him to your father and it’ll be fine, Zee.”
Mama always uses our middle names when she’s being tender with us. All our first names begin with K. Kayla, Keith, Kimba, but our middle names are all for people our parents admired in history. Kayla Zora for Zora Neale Hurston. Keith Stokely for Stokely Carmichael. Kimba Truth for Sojourner Truth.
The doorbell rings and I shoot out of my seat, race to the living room and jerk open the door.
“Kimba,” Mrs. Stern says with a smile, standing on the front porch holding a covered dish of her own. “Hi.”
“Hey, Mrs. Stern.”
She walks inside while Mr. Stern and Ezra cross the street from their house, both carrying dishes, too. In a line-up, you’d never know they were father and son. Ezra’s much lighter skinned with blue eyes, and he’s small for his age. Mr. Stern easily stands six feet six inches.
“Hey, Ez.” I step back so they can enter. “Hey, Mr. Stern.”
Mama and Mrs. Stern are already laughing in the kitchen. When they get together, there’s no stopping them, whether it’s Saturday evening dinners or the mah-jongg games they play with some of the ladies from Mrs. Stern’s synagogue.
“Joseph late again?” Mrs. Stern asks, setting a basket of challah bread on the table beside the fish she usually brings.
“Girl, yes.” Mama sighs and shrugs. “With the Olympics coming soon, Mayor Jackson is trying to get as much done as he can before his term is up. So that means Joseph’s always late. He’s on his way, though. Fifteen minutes tops.”
“Mind if I watch the game while we wait?” Mr. Stern asks, nodding toward the living room. “Someone hasn’t let me turn on the television all weekend.”
Mrs. Stern’s mouth tightens, but she and my mother both nod permission. Even though Mr. Stern doesn’t believe in God, Ezra’s mom draws the line at the Sabbath. Once the sun sets on Friday, she doesn’t turn on the television or turn on lights or drive or anything until after the Saturday evening service.
“How was synagogue?” Mama asks, laying silverware by the plates.
“Good.” Mrs. Stern sets a bottle of wine beside Mama’s sweet tea. “Helen and Dina were there, the ones who came to mah-jongg last week.”
“Oh, they were so nice. Couldn’t play worth nothing, but nice.” Mama glances at Ezra, her face softening. “How was Shabbat, Ezra?”
His skinny shoulders lift and fall, the shrug telling me all I need to know. His mop of dark, springy curls is helmeted from the little cap he probably took off a few minutes ago. The first time I saw Ezra wearing his yarmulke, I called it a Jewish Kangol.
Mrs. Stern didn’t think that was funny.
“It’s not dark out yet, Mama.” I elbow Ezra. “Can we go ride our bikes for a little while?”
Mama and Mrs. Stern exchange a quick look and then nod.
“You can play twenty minutes, Tru,” Mama says firmly. “Soon as that streetlight comes on, bring your narrow hips home.”
I grab Ezra’s hand and we head toward the living room. “Yes, m-m-ma’am.”
I hate it when I stutter.
“Did I tell you Mrs. Downy called last week?” Mama asks, her voice lowered, but reaching us in the foyer as we’re about to leave the house.
Mrs. Downy? My teacher?
I put my hand on Ezra’s arm, stopping him so we can eavesdrop.
“No, what did she want?” Mrs. Stern asks.
“She wanted to talk about putting Tru in a remedial class.”
“What? Because she stutters? Kimba’s smart as a whip.”
“I know.” Outrage peppers Mama’s voice. “She’s having a hard year because a few of the kids started teasing her, but that’s all it is.”
Ezra and I stare at each other. He seems as focused on the conversation in the dining room as I am.