I frown, for a moment so removed from the reality of life beyond this funeral tent and the cloying scent of flowers that I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“The campaign,” Ezra says, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “You were doing an interview on CNN.”
“Oh.” I nod and manage a facsimile of a smile for Noah’s benefit. “My job has me talk on television sometimes, but I’ll tell you a secret.”
His eyes glint with childish delight.
I bend to his ear and whisper, “I get really nervous, and it’s not as easy as it looks.”
Noah nods, his face sobering. “I’d be nervous, too, but Daddy said you’re the smartest girl he ever met.”
I zip a glance at Ezra, who looks self-conscious for a moment before meeting my eyes. “Still not smarter than me, though,” he deadpans defiantly. “And don’t you forget it.”
I thought there was no way to laugh, not on the day I buried my father, but a chuckle rattles in my throat. “You’re just mad because I beat you at chess.”
“You beat Daddy at chess?” Noah’s eyes stretch to full moons. “Nobody ever beats him.”
“Once,” Ezra interjects with a heatless glare. “She beat me once.”
“Now the excuses start,” I tell Noah.
Ezra smiles, but his gaze flits back to where his wife stands and the brief flash of humor disappears. “We better go, Noah. Let’s see what your mom needs.”
Noah takes off, dashing from the tent and across the grass to his mother. When he reaches her, she pulls him into the crook of her arm and kisses the top of his head. What a beautiful family. I’m happy for him.
Ezra turns his attention back to me. “I just wanted to say how sorry I am. Pay my respects.”
A dozen words idle on my tongue at the prospect of him disappearing again.
Don’t be a stranger. Let me get your number. We should stay in touch.
He looks down at me, and the words lodged in my throat seem to burn in his eyes, too, fueled by regret. And hope. All the things clamoring in my chest play across his expressive features.
“Kimba, we could—”
“It was good seeing you again,” I cut in with soft politeness, dropping the hand I didn’t realize I still held until now. “Thank you for coming.”
He stares at me for long seconds, and despite my best intentions, I stare back. When I was a little girl, no one was closer to me, no one knew me better than Ezra Stern. It was the kind of closeness you cherished as a child—the kind that between two adults could be nothing short of intimate.
“Goodbye, Ez,” I whisper, blinking at fresh tears.
“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.