I laughed again. “Well played, handsome. Wanna bet?”
* * *
—
Since it was the first week of Ramadan and everyone who was fasting was still adjusting, Amir decided to hang out at my house the next day and watch the Nats game with Dad. His father isn’t much of a sports fan, and neither am I. But I’ll take any date with Amir, even if it’s supervised. Even if I’m basically the third wheel with him and my dad.
Mom, Titi, and my younger sisters were hanging in the kitchen preparing iftar.
“Salma?” Mom called before I even made it out of the living room.
I hung my head and turned as she emerged from the kitchen with a large platter of food.
“It would be good to welcome that new family across the street,” she said. “Why don’t you walk it over?”
I glanced at Amir. He was staring at the TV, furiously pretending to be engrossed. Too bad it was a diaper commercial. Of course, he knew what I knew: that my mother frequently made suggestions that were in fact orders.
I tried not to groan as I took the platter. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” she said. Her hands moved to rest on her hips. Yet another weapon in her arsenal of overused body signs. This one meant: Salma, the conversation is over, period.
Amir hopped up. “I’ll come with you,” he offered politely. “It’s the seventh-inning stretch. Besides, I’d like to meet them, too.”
I focused on the tray, gripping it like a life raft as Amir held our front door open for me. I didn’t need to look where I was going. I could have walked across the street to Mariam’s blindfolded. But this was my first time back there. I couldn’t bring myself to look up at her house. Luckily, my hands were full, so I didn’t have to ring the bell, either.
Amir pressed the button.
I only lifted my head when I heard footsteps.
A middle-aged woman answered Mariam’s door. The new neighbor’s door, I reminded myself. She had a heart-shaped face and soft laugh lines. Something about her put me at ease. I hadn’t expected that. With her hand-knitted sweater and pear-like petite frame, she was…mom-like. Like Mariam’s own mom. Like a dove perched in a nest.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” I said. I shoved the plate abruptly in her direction. “Welcome to the neighborhood. This is a gift. From my mom.”
The words sounded flat, as if I were reading aloud from a coder’s manual.
As she took the platter, I stepped back. Great start. In less than ten seconds I’d made this awkward surprise visit even more awkward.
“Aren’t you a dear!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t you come on in?”
“Thanks. But you must be exhausted…from the move.” I know I am, I thought. Exhausted by my pushy mother. Exhausted by standing at Mariam’s door without Mariam. Exhausted by Mom’s Ramadan generosity. By all of it.
“Oh, hardly. I insist. I’m Mrs. Turner, but you’re welcome to call me Kate.” She practically yanked us inside, then steered Amir and me down the hallway. “Come and meet the men. They’re watching the Nats game.”
“Oh, okay, Mrs. Turner,” I said. “But we should be heading back—”
“Kate!” she interrupted with a laugh. “Mrs. Turner is my mother-in-law.”
I forced a clumsy laugh of my own and followed her to the back of the house.
There were boxes stacked everywhere. Still, the family room was almost completely set up: brown leather sofa wrapped around the back wall, complemented by a rocking chair with a quilted pillow and a big flat-screen TV—not as big as the one in Vanessa’s basement, but a decent size.
Amir’s eyes zeroed in on the game. Mine roamed the room. I’d been worried I would burst into tears. Now I just felt oddly detached, as if I were in a dream, or I’d entered some dulled-down alternate universe. Walls once splashed with a haphazard jumble of Mrs. Muhammad’s paintings, mostly exotic South Asian birds and verses from the Quran, were now barren—except for three framed documents, all rendered in the same illegible calligraphy. Each was perfectly centered. They looked store-bought. Cheap, even…although that was unfair. Point being, I missed Mrs. Muhammad’s bohemian flair. I missed the Muhammads. My gaze finally came to rest on one of “the men”: a sunburnt middle-aged guy with a close blond buzz cut, sitting on the sofa.
He looked a little older than my dad. If his wife was a dove, then he was an oak. Hairy. Rugged. Thick. A bit too thick in the middle, more sturdy than paunchy, a bottle of beer clutched in one hand.
“That’s Kyle Senior, my husband,” Mrs. Turner said.
I nodded silently because I still couldn’t bring myself to call her Kate, even to myself.
Mr. Turner smiled. “That’s me!” His voice was loud and warm. “Welcome! Very pleased to meet you.” His eyes stayed on the TV as he waved his free hand at us. I saw that he had a small tattoo on the inside of his forearm. Four tiny digits: 1493. I wondered if that was his unit number. Vanessa’s dad, a vet, had a few service-themed tats on his arm.
Mrs. Turner cleared her throat. “And this is Kyle Junior.”
Only then did I notice that the couch was occupied. I’d been so focused on the walls that I’d missed the kid in frayed jeans slumped not five feet away. His brown hoodie nearly matched the color of the cushions; it was pulled tight over his forehead. I couldn’t see his eyes. He was about our age, skinnier than Amir and clearly just as shy. I didn’t blame him for that, though.
“Just Kyle,” the boy murmured.
He drummed his fingertips together. His hands were much paler than his dad’s. Something else I hadn’t noticed: a huge harlequin Great Dane with cropped ears, lying peacefully at Just-Kyle’s feet. I broke into a huge smile.
Mrs. Turner caught my gaze and laughed. “Oh, I almost forgot! The most important member of the family. That horse of a dog is Drexler.”
I resisted the urge to bend over and pet him.
“I didn’t catch your names…?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I quickly apologized. Good thing Mom hadn’t come with us. She’d be mortified at my lack of manners. “I’m Salma, and this is Amir.”
“Amir, you say?” Mr. Turner asked. He muted the TV and finally turned to us. “Come, have a seat. Both of you.” He raised his empty bottle in the air. “Hon, you said you were getting me a new one. Five minutes ago.”
“I’m sorry.” She hurried to grab the old one from his hands. “And how about you, dears, can I get you some lemonade?”