“Watch your language. You not here two minutes and you already cussing. You know better than that in this house.”

“Sorry, Mama, but why is the oven door open?”

“Trying to get some heat in here. Furnace went out a few days ago.”

First the toilet and now the furnace, too. How was her grandmother living there with no heat in thirty-degree temperatures? Ruth thought about how little Polly had died after her parents used an alternative heat source.

“Why didn’t you call me? I could’ve sent you the money to get it fixed.” Her voice rose; she was frustrated with herself more than her grandmother. She had never sent money home, and the one time she offered, Mama had shut her down.

Her grandmother closed the oven door. “Never mind all that.”

“Come to think of it, the landlord should be making all the repairs on the house. You should take him to court if he isn’t. I have some lawyer friends who could advise you.”

Mama waved her off. “I told you to leave it alone. I don’t like getting mixed up with lawyers. Now let me look at you.” Mama took a seat at the kitchen table and Ruth sat beside her. At the opening of her grandmother’s robe there was a flash of green paper, and Ruth stifled a laugh remembering how Mama treated her bra like a bank.

The older woman’s fingers glided across Ruth’s twists, rubbing each patch of fuzz. “I’ll make an appointment to get your hair done while you’re here.”

The renaissance of the natural hair movement had failed to impress Mama. In Ruth’s sophomore year in high school, she begged Mama to take her to a place in Indianapolis she’d read about where a woman called Lady Simone locked hair. Instead Ruth ended up on the bedroom floor in a headlock between Mama’s knees with a hot comb scorching the back of her neck.

“How are they treating you on the job?” Mama said.

“Just fine,” she lied. “I’m developing a formula for our number-one detergent brand.”

“I’m real proud of you. But you know they’re not going to have you on that job for long with that wild hair.”

“They hired me for my brain, not my hair. And my hair isn’t wild.”

“Now look. Don’t let wild hair hold you back. They won’t come out and say anything to your face. But you’ll hear that your work isn’t quite up to par anymore. You’ll think it’s something you did or didn’t do. All I’m saying is don’t give them a reason to start messing with you.”

Ruth took her grandmother’s hand into her own. “I know what I’m doing. My hair isn’t a problem at work. Trust me.” She laughed and added, “As long as nobody touches it.”

“Don’t you forget, we made a lot of sacrifices to send you to Yale so you could make something of yourself. We gave up a lot.” What she left unsaid was the part about the baby born eleven years ago in this house.

A code existed in Mama’s mind, one of expectations. She didn’t care about impressing the neighbors. She never relied on Ruth’s success to elevate her own stature. A practical woman like Mama believed in doing what was necessary to survive.

If it wasn’t hair she fussed about, it was music. In high school, when Ruth would bounce in front of the mirror to some Biggie Smalls beat, Mama’s voice was never far. You better sit your tail down. That booty music won’t get you into college or make you an engineer.

Emerging from the dark hallway, Dino appeared in a pair of red-and-black plaid slacks and a tan overcoat. He slung a bag over his shoulder. An overnight bag. How often did he sleep here?

“You don’t have to leave on my account,” Ruth said, wanting him to stay so she could ask him a few questions about his relationship with her grandmother.

“No, he’s ready to go.” Mama practically pushed Dino toward the front door.

The man shrugged and threw up a hand to wave goodbye to Ruth. Even though her life had changed dramatically when she left this house and this town behind, she had just assumed Mama’s world had stayed the same. But it hadn’t. The secret about Ruth’s baby hadn’t been the only one the old woman had been keeping. As if anticipating a barrage of questions and eager to avoid them, Mama quickly busied herself in the kitchen, peering into the refrigerator. She hid her face behind the door of it as if to wall herself off from her granddaughter’s probing, judgmental gaze.

“Are you hungry?”

“If you’re cooking, I am.”

Ruth pulled the two jars of blackberry preserves from her purse and handed them to her grandmother. “I thought you could use these for breakfast.”

“You know I can. Thanks, baby.” Mama put the preserves on a shelf in the narrow pantry. “I didn’t know you were coming so I didn’t cook, but I do have some chicken soaking in the fridge for tomorrow. I can fry it up now, though.”

In a large aluminum pan, Mama poured flour and sprinkled in salt and pepper.

“How come Xavier didn’t come with you?”

Ruth figured Mama would ask. Keeping her voice even, she said, “He has a new marketing campaign he’s working on and couldn’t get away.”

“Not even for Christmas, huh?”

“No, it’s a high-profile assignment, so he’s extremely busy.”

Mama had met Xavier the day of the wedding and hadn’t seen him since. When she first laid eyes on him, she pulled Ruth aside and said his hands were too clean, too smooth, and way too pretty to be of any use to a woman.