“You said you were missing dinner because you were going to the movies with friends.” Mama continues into the dining room, but yells over her shoulder, “If your father hasn’t met him, you know it’s not happening.”
“Keith is a year younger than me,” Kayla shouts. “And you don’t halfway know where he is most of the time. He’s probably out with some girl right now.”
Mama reappears at the kitchen door, both brows lifted in the face of Kayla’s audacity.
“Who you yelling at?” She levels a stony look at my sister. “You lost your mind?”
“No, ma’am.” Kayla sighs heavily, her lips tightening over some rebellion she probably thought better of. “I’m just saying.”
“Just say it somewhere else,” Mama says. “And Keith’s a boy. It’s different.”
“Why is it different?” Kayla demands. “I’m older, but he has more freedom than I do. It’s not fair.”
“Oh, I think you have plenty of freedom, missy,” Mama says. “You can take up ‘fair’ with your daddy. His meeting went late, but he’s on his way home now. How ‘bout that?”
The comment does exactly what Mama knew it would. Shuts Kayla down. Daddy doesn’t have to rule our house with an iron fist. He’s a stern man, but it’s his heart that keeps us in line. He’d do anything for any one of us, and we know it. Disappointing him is punishment enough.
“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.
“I got to that school so fast,” Mama says. “Drove over on my planning period and told her if she ever tried that again, she’d have to deal with me.”
“Good for you, Janetta,” Mrs. Stern says.
Shame fills my throat, makes me feel like I’m choking. I focus on the high shine of Mama’s hardwood floor.
“Mrs. Downy’s stupid,” Ezra says, his first words since he came into the house.
I make myself look up and Ezra doesn’t say anything else, but tips his head toward the door.
“You ready?” he asks.
I think every morning when Ezra wakes up, God gives him a tiny jar of words. He only gets so many, maybe a quarter of what the rest of us do. And he’s so scared he’ll run out, he uses as few of them as possible. Half his sentences are one word or a grunt. Weekends, he talks so little, I bet at the end of the day, he has leftovers.
Mama and Mrs. Stern have moved on, now talking about a sale at Dillard’s. I nod and follow Ezra out the door. Outside, I grab my bike and Ezra runs over to his house to grab his. We meet in the middle of the street that separates our homes.
“Race?” he asks, his voice quiet.
Without answering, I hop on my bike and take off. Ezra sputters behind me. His kickstand clanks and his wheels whir as he speeds after me.
“Kimba, you can’t just start,” he yells from behind me. “We have to count off.”
“Who says?” I shout back, shaking off the embarrassment of Mrs. Downy and laughing at the irritation in Ezra’s voice. Getting a rise out of Ezra Stern is one of my favorite things.
“The rules say.” His voice is closer now, his breaths little pants of exertion. “You always wanna break the rules.”
He pulls up beside me, doing that standing pedal thing that gives him the edge in our races. Flashing a grin, he pulls ahead and rushes toward the merry-go-round that always serves as our finish line. To rub it in, he climbs off the bike, sets the kickstand down and sits on the merry-go-round to wait for me. At least he didn’t do the Rocky dance like the last time he beat me.