“Nothing personal, I’m sure he has his issues, but doesn’t he seem like a guy who can ruin a good chill?"

Shlomo Bass had long ago learned to read voices. His father wasn’t much for warmth or encouragement, but he was always honest. Pinchas Bass would often make phone calls on speaker, and he liked to point out the phony cheeriness of customer service professionals with their, “Hi, this is Jennifer, how can I help you today?” Pinchas Bass would shake his head and tell his young son that such fake politeness was destructive and the reason you couldn’t trust other people.

He would wave the colorful flyer that came from the dentist that said, “Mr. PINCHAS BASS, we miss seeing you at Better Bite.”

“Do you think they miss me? Or is it my credit card?” Pinchas would hold the flyer like it was a rotten fruit before gingerly dropping it into the garbage.

In Israel, he liked to point out, the receptionists didn’t bother with pleasant greetings — but they cared about you like family.

It was one of Pinchas Bass’s favorite lectures and it had trained Shlomo, early on, to detect authenticity. He’d never connected with the overly jovial rebbeim and exuberant camp counselors, gravitating to the quieter, less effusive people at the end of the table.

But sometimes, he learned, people could be exuberant but also completely honest. And that’s how he felt as he watched the old Avalon turn awkwardly out of his driveway.

“Bass, this was epic,” Lorb was focused on the steering wheel and he didn’t turn to look at Shlomo, but his voice was filled with both good cheer and real sincerity.

Wagner grinned. “We loved it. And your family is great too,” he added generously.

Shlomo wished he could stand where he was and watch the car pull away, like a child in a book, but that would be weird. He saluted and walked back to the house, tiptoeing as he came in and hoping his mother wouldn’t summon him to the kitchen.

Shlomo, your friends seem so nice, she would say brightly, and he would hear, Shlomo, do you have friends? Or is it just that it was raining and they had nowhere else to go?

Zalman would pretend not to be interested, but he would move slowly, alertly, not to miss a word, and if he felt that the mood was calm, he would weigh in. The Wagner boy is quite a character, no? Reminds me of a friend I had in yeshivah, Moskowitz…

It didn’t work.

“Is that you, Shlomo?” Mommy called, and he headed toward the kitchen.

Bass? For real?”

Noach Perensky’s tone wasn’t nasty, just genuinely perplexed.

“Like, Shlomo Bass?”

Lorb nodded slowly. “Yeah. Bass. Exactly, I want him to come.”