It had been four years since Ruth had been home. She only returned then with Xavier to be married at her home church by Pastor Bumpus, the preacher who had baptized her. A few hours in Ganton, just long enough for the ceremony, and that was it. She hustled Xavier out of town as soon as they said their I dos. It didn’t matter that he wanted to see the house where she’d grown up. That house seemed so meager, and crazy as it sounded, she feared its walls might tell her story, revealing that she’d been a pregnant teenager.

Now the house was bathed in a warm, earthy brown. Ruth and Xavier had spent months poring over color wheels for their own new home renovation, and if she had to guess, this paint color had to be some variation of Moroccan Spice. There was no Christmas wreath on the door, but that wasn’t surprising since Mama thought the holidays were too commercial anyway, only about the almighty dollar instead of the Almighty Himself.

Icicles hung suspended from the aluminum siding, one of them crackling before falling silently in the snow. After Ruth rang the bell twice, the front door grunted and then cracked open only as far as the short chain would allow. She remembered that space between the screen door and the main one, where flies went to die during the summer.

A face peered through the small opening before the door shut. As Ruth held the screen door open, the chain jangled and then the door opened fully, and Mama stood there with her eyes wide as a baby deer’s.

“Child, what are you doing here?” Mama touched her granddaughter’s face with one rough hand, gripping her chin tightly. “Is everything okay?”

Seventy-eight years in this world had taken a toll on Mama, her jaws drooping more than they used to, making the folds in her neck more pronounced. Her hair nearly all white and pulling away from her temples. How had she aged so much in the last four years?

“I’m fine, Mama. Nothing’s wrong. It’s almost Christmas. It’s good to be home.” Ruth bent to kiss her cheek.

Then a voice came from the dark hallway. “The chain is hooked to the flapper just fine, but I still can’t get that dang toilet to flush.” The deep voice probably belonged to a plumber, Ruth thought.

Mama was blocking Ruth’s view and kept glancing back to the hallway, adjusting her housecoat. The man continued on about the toilet, his voice getting closer until he appeared there in the foyer. A light-skinned man in nothing but his boxer shorts and black socks that sagged at his ankles. His knees reminded Ruth of two golf balls.

An uncomfortable, almost guilty look flashed across Mama’s face, as if she were a child who’d just stolen a cookie before dinner and had the evidence of crumbs on her mouth.

The strange man spoke first. “Um, um, R-R-R-Ruth.”

His stammer jolted her memory. “Dino.” He had been one of Papa’s closest friends and had stuttered for as long as she’d known him.

Mama used to call Dino high yellow and joked that the only way he got any ladies was by being a pretty boy back in the day, with that wavy black hair that lay flat without gel. Now his back curved more than it used to years ago, his body betraying him as Papa’s had. She hadn’t even recognized him at first. “It’s been a long time.”

“It’s mighty good to have you back in town,” Dino said, his voice dragging like the sound of an audio recording playing at half speed. He looked from Mama to Ruth.

“Don’t you have somewhere you need to be?” Mama said, flinging the belt of her housecoat to shoo him away. When he leaned over to peck her lips, she turned her head to sidestep the kiss and said, “Now stop with all that foolishness and get dressed and get on out of here.” She wouldn’t look at Ruth.

With a sheepish grin, he glanced down at his half-nakedness and headed toward the bedrooms.

Once Dino was out of earshot, Ruth said, “What’s going on between you two?”

“Now you hush with that nonsense. Not another word. You know you’re not too old for me to put you over my knee.” Mama laughed nervously.

Ruth chose to drop the subject, but seeing Dino in Papa’s house didn’t sit well with her. Did he have a key to the house? More important, had he spent the night? The idea of another man walking on Papa’s floors, sitting on his furniture, eating food from his fridge, and sharing a bed with his wife unnerved her.

“Take your boots off and put them here.” Mama grabbed a newspaper from a nearby table and spread it on the floor of the foyer. “You know I don’t like you tracking that mess through the house.”

“I know.” Ruth stomped her leather boots on the plastic runner to shake off the brown slush. “The house looks good, Mama. I see you had it painted.” And to Ruth’s amazement, she spotted a small, unassuming Christmas tree in front of the living room window.

“The church has a widows’ ministry now. They sent a couple guys over to paint last year.”

Mama’s slippers scooted across the linoleum as she headed to the kitchen. Ernestine Tuttle was a big-boned woman but more lopsided than anything. Her breasts hung low on her belly with no butt to balance things out. The whole of her propped up on bird legs.

The kitchen was small and dimly lit, the table set for four like it had been when Ruth was growing up—a seat for herself, Mama, Papa, and Eli. As she was looking around, a sharp pain shot through her right leg when she banged it against the open oven door. “Shit! Ouch!”