Faye Kellerman - Street Dreams

I was off all Friday and had the day to relax. I Googled Yaakov Kutiel, and thankfully he came out honest. Koby’s public claim to fame was being part of the hospital’s outreach program for unwed mothers and fatherless children who lived in Central L.A. For this evening’s Shabbat dinner, I kept my look simple: a Kelly green sweater over a black midiskirt and knee-high black boots. Around my neck was a gold chain; my earlobes sported a set of round pearls. I topped off the outfit with a gray pashmina draped over my shoulders.

Koby lived in the hills of Silver Lake, his street on an incline of around thirty degrees. The address corresponded with a tiny, square stucco box that peeked out from the boughs of eucalyptus gone wild. I parked in the driveway behind a ten-year-old Toyota compact, making sure the emergency brake was on. I made the climb up to the front door and knocked, noticing the large ceramic mezuzah attached to the door frame. I’m not sure what I expected when I came in, but I didn’t expect what I saw.

There was pride inside-a mélange of Art Deco and African decor. Highly polished, rich rosewood tables were mixed with a zebra-print plush sofa and leopard-print club chair, both pieces embellished with primary-colored throw pillows. Multicolored textiles with geometric shapes and primitive designs hung on the walls; a bright, bold carpet covered the hardwood floor. Actually, there were several carpets, because as I looked more carefully, I noticed that they were overlapping. The room was teeny-I could almost span the walls with outstretched arms-so it was amazing how much stuff he had crammed in there. More amazing was how well it was put together.

“Wow!” I told him.

He was all smiles. “You like it?”

“Yeah… yeah, I do.”

“Had to think about it?”

“Not at all. It was just…” I shook my head. “Most single guys don’t bother.”

“I like color.”

“I’ll say. But it works. Do you rent?”

He pointed to his chest. “All mine. I have the mortgage to prove it.”

“I’m impressed!” I really was. Home ownership was out of my reach. Despite my supposed austerity, I just couldn’t seem to save very much. That’s what happens when one has parents as backups.

“It didn’t look like this when I bought it,” he explained. “But the price reflected the condition.”

“You fixed it up yourself?”

“Of course. After the purchase, I was completely broke. I had no choice.”

“You did a wonderful job.”

“As long as you don’t look under all the covering. Why do you think I hang so much cloth all over?” He checked his watch. “ Shabbat is in an hour. We should go, no?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a ways to travel.”

He picked up a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine. “These are for your stepmother.” He gave me a paper bag. “This is for you for extended… extending the invitation.”

It was a hand-painted doll from the Ethiopian gift shop. I smiled and thanked him. He told me I looked nice and I returned the compliment. He was dressed conservatively-dark green suit, white shirt, red-and-green paisley tie-but his yarmulke was more like a rimless cap that burst with colors.

The first half of the ride was taken up by my success story with Sarah. The next topic was the baby and how well she was doing. After we had exhausted work, things got real quiet. I turned on the radio to provide audio filler.

Koby got the ball rolling. “Did your father ask about me?”

“Yes, of course. He’s a father.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that I had just met you a couple of days ago, so I didn’t know much about you.”

“That was a good answer.”

“I thought so. Of course, it didn’t stop him from prodding me about you.”

He waited for me to continue.

“I did tell him that you were somewhat observant and your family lives in Israel. That you’d appreciate a traditional Shabbat. ”

“That’s true.” He looked out the window. “Did you tell him anything else?”

“Not really. I figured you could talk about yourself better than I could.”

He was quiet.

“What?” I said. “That’s not true?”

“Yes, that is very true. But I think you left something out.”

“What difference does it make?”

“None to me. But to your father, I cannot say.”

“If he’s that way, then he’s not the man I think he is.”

“It’s just better to prepare him, I think.”

“Prepare for what, Koby? Being black is not a defect. Why should I have to prep my father?”

“To make him feel more comfortable when he meets me.”

“If I say you’re my friend, he should automatically feel comfortable.”

“To make me feel more comfortable, maybe?” He fingered the flowers. “I’m not fond of surprises.”

I glanced at him. He shrugged. I felt my stomach drop. “Okay. So maybe that wasn’t so smart. Sorry.”

“It’s all right, Cindy. No problem.”

“You’ve had bad experiences before?”

“Not really,” he said. “I never meet parents… never any reason. Last time was maybe fifteen years ago when I take Aliza Goldberg to the movies. Her father was a colonel in Zahal. ” He laughed. “Old feelings. So maybe I overreact.”

We rode for several minutes, one-way chatter coming from the radio.

“He’s a great guy, Koby. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

But neither of us was sure of anything.

?

Dad had a very powerful poker face; it was a necessary component of being a great detective. But knowing him well, I detected the minuscule rise of an eyebrow. Still, he masked it with aplomb, his smile never wavering. He shook Koby’s hand while inviting us inside. My father was slightly taller than my date, but must have outweighed him by a good fifty pounds. Daddy looked handsome in a dark blue suit.

I spoke quickly, doing the introductions. Everyone was nice and polite. It was a stiff moment, but not unbearable. Koby had good social skills-way better than mine.

“ Shabbat Shalom. Thank you for having me.” He presented Dad with the wine bottle and held the flowers aloft. “This is for your wife.”

“I’ll go get her. That way you can give them to her. Would either of you like something to drink?”

“I’m fine,” I answered. “Koby?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Great.” An odd pause. “I’ll get Rina.”

Dad was about to escape behind the kitchen door, but Rina came out before he could go in. She was wiping her hands on her apron, her hair tucked into a beret. Again I made introductions. Her smile was wide and welcoming.

“Ah, Koby. Yaakov. Yesh lee Yaakov gam ken. Ma nishma?”

“Beseder gamur.”

“That good, huh? You’re doing better than I am, but I’m always frazzled before Shabbat.”

“That is the same for women worldwide.” Koby extended the flowers to her. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“You’re welcome.” She took the bouquet. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m from Ethiopia. I’m always hungry.”

Rina smiled. “When did you emigrate to Israel?”

“It was 1983.”

“Where did they settle you? Near Kiryat Arba?”

“Exactly.”

“I knew that because I used to live in Kiryat Arba. I remember when you all came over. The government recruited us for help. I ran an ulpan for the Ethiopians that summer.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not. For all I know, you could have been one of my students.”

“I don’t think so. I would remember.”

“You would have definitely remembered. I was out to here.” Rina made a pregnant stomach by extending her hands forward. “They gave me the four- to eight-year-olds.”