Disgruntled by Asali Solomon Page A

him for his help.
    Teddy lived with his parents nearby on one of the cramped-looking blocks traditionally occupied by the black servants of the Main Line.
    “Do you think he knew Baba?” Kenya asked as Sheila set the table hours before he arrived. She did not pause her movements to answer.
    “No.”
    “But they’re both from Bryn Mawr. I mean, how many black—”
    Sheila spoke in a low voice, as if she could not both talk clearly and fold napkins. It sounded as if she said the man was ten years younger than “your father.” Then something hit Kenya.
    “Are you going to date this guy?” asked Kenya. The divorced mothers at Barrett did not date. A couple of the girls had stepfathers, but there was no talk of how that had happened. It was almost as if those marriages were arranged.
    “Who said anything about a date?” said Sheila, who, Kenya noticed, was cooking spaghetti instead of Saturday night’s usual turkey franks. She was also forming actual meatballs instead of just crumbling beef into sauce like she usually did for Wednesday’s dinner.
    “Well, a man is coming over. Did you say he was ten years younger than you?”
    “Look, I don’t know if he’s single,” said Sheila. “And how ’bout you stay out of grown folks’ business?”
    “I’m trying to. But you’re bringing home dates. Wait, is he old enough to date?”
    “I’m going to hurt you, Kenya,” Sheila said lightly.
    Kenya became sure that the evening was a kind of a date when Mr. Jaffrey stepped into the house. She considered her father’s pale complexion, his wiry build, and the fact that he was never what anyone would call tall, barely emerging above Sheila. This man stood at least two heads above her mother, his complexion favored the birthday cake icing, and he looked able to toss a heavy box with one hand. He did not look like Billy Dee Williams, and certainly did not have Billy Dee Williams’s suspicious hair texture. Yet he made Kenya think of Billy Dee Williams as he stood in the foyer holding pink flowers that seemed anxious to die.
    “Hello, Mr. Jaffrey,” Sheila said. “These are lovely!” She flitted around, taking his caramel-colored coat, which looked heavy and expensive to Kenya. She thought of a trip she’d taken to the Second Mile Thrift Store with her father. There he’d bought what became his favorite tweed jacket, despite its having one torn cuff and a missing button. Her mother had often threatened to burn it. (“But then I’ll be cold,” Johnbrown would say. “I mean, when the fire goes out.”)
    “Hello, Mrs. Price,” Teddy Jaffrey said, confusing Kenya. She wondered if her mother was using a fake name. Were they also on the run? Then she remembered that her mother had gone back to using her maiden name. Curtis had been her fake name.
    “That’s Miz , okay?”
    Mr. Jaffrey laughed. “Roger that,” he said. “And who is this young woman?”
    “This is Kenya,” Sheila said, smiling more than Kenya thought she would have.
    “Kenya,” he said, extending his hand. “It is great to meet you.”
    “Hello,” said Kenya.
    “And though your mother may call me Mr. Jaffrey for her own mysterious reasons, I think Teddy will do just fine for us.”
    “Okay,” Kenya said. She certainly wouldn’t call him Teddy and hoped he wouldn’t become “Uncle” Teddy. China, whose father had died of a heart attack when she was small, had an “Uncle” DeWitt, an older man; she sometimes encountered his teeth floating in a glass in the bathroom.
    “I have home training, right?” Teddy Jaffrey was saying. “So usually when I’m invited to someone’s home for dinner, I like to be civilized, sit down, catch up. But something smells very good in here. I might need to eat that very soon.”
    Sheila laughed. “Well, since this dinner is to thank you for saving my you-know-what, you can have it when you want it.” Then she led them into the dining room, where the table was set for the first time with