Queen Move

“Yeah.” He looks out across green grass and headstones to where his family waits, and nods. “Goodbye, Tru.”

Long, swift strides take him to his wife and son. They disappear over the crest of a hill, hand in hand and then out of sight. They were here only a few minutes. I doubt Mama even realized he was here. She’s still trapped in her worst nightmare where the love of her life is gone.

“Goodbye, Daddy,” I say, loud enough for just myself and him to hear, like the little secrets he and I used to keep. The casket in front of me breaks my heart for what I’ve lost.

I glance over the hill and shed a tear for what I never had.

PART ONE

“We are stardust brought to life,

then empowered by the universe to figure itself out—

and we have only just begun.”

? Neil deGrasse Tyson, Astrophysics for People in a Hurry

Chapter One

Ruth

1983, Atlanta, GA

Shabbat Shalom

The words come—sudden, unexpected. A greeting my heart offers when there is no one to reply. No one for me to say it to. Friday evenings, once a day of rest, a Sabbath, are now the most restless days of the week. My soul churns, yearns for rest, but there is no peace here tonight.

“Your ass is set!”

My husband Alfred’s animated words thunder from the living room, shattering the small moment of quiet I found for myself by a steaming tub of water. It’s our first time having anyone over since we moved. With the food out, our new neighbors all entertained, I used my baby’s nighttime bath as an excuse to slip away. Despite my melancholy mood, Alfred’s laughter and booming voice coax the corners of my mouth up in a smile.

“Sounds like Daddy’s winning,” I say, pressing my nose to my son’s. He gurgles back, laughing and stretching his little starfish palm toward my face. He squirms as I lower him into the warm water. A grin squints the corners of eyes the same color as mine, a blue so deep it’s almost purple. The contrast with his golden skin and cap of springy dark curls is striking. Some of me. Some of his father. Wholly himself.

Is he adopted?

The cashier had asked today, the syllables dragged into a molasses drawl, her wide eyes flicking between my son and me. It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that since we moved to Georgia. Even in New York, this petite Jewish woman carrying this baby boy drew the occasional stare. But here? Every time I venture out, they can’t seem to look away. Some are discreet, at least trying to hide their curiosity, but many don’t even bother. From my experience so far, the famous Southern hospitality is, at least in our case, overruled by good old-fashioned nosiness. Sometimes outright rudeness.

I squeeze baby shampoo into my palm and rub it into his soft hair. “What have we done bringing you here, Ezra?”

I was so ready to get away from my family in New York, I didn’t fully consider where we were going. My husband couldn’t turn down a full ride to Emory University, and my mother and I were barely speaking by then.

“Alfred Stern,” my mother had said, savoring the name. “And a business student at Columbia? What a catch, Ruth.”

I could practically hear her thoughts. A nice Jewish boy with a nice Jewish name and a bright future. Well, she had the bright future part right, but I knew my atheist boyfriend, with his imposing height, smooth dark skin and stubbornly godless heart was not what Mother had in mind. I’d always assumed I’d marry someone from my own neighborhood. Certainly someone Jewish. Alfred walked into the bookstore where I worked and swept me off my feet without even trying.

“Lord above, they’re gonna come to blows out there playing spades.”

I look over my shoulder to find Janetta Allen, one of my new neighbors, whose husband is in law school with Al. She stands in the bathroom door, arms extended keeping her baby girl, Kimba, away from her body. Bright green peas and orange mashed carrots splatter Kimba’s once-pristine romper.

“This girl eats like a tornado,” Janetta says, nodding toward the counter. “Mind if I strip her down?”

“Oh, of course.” I laugh at her squirming baby girl. “They don’t stay clean for long, do they?”

“Oh, honey, I gave up on clean after baby number one.” Janetta lays Kimba on the counter and peels the romper from her little body. “I’m happy to just keep ‘em alive, rough as my kids are.”

I glance at her slim curves a little enviously. I’ve had the hardest time bouncing back, but she doesn’t look like she’s had even one baby, much less plural.

“How many do you have?” I ask, rinsing the shampoo from Ezra’s hair.