Just before Ruth walked down the aisle, Mama whispered, “Baby, you sure he ain’t got a little sugar in his tank?” It would take time for her to get used to a grandson-in-law who worked in a corporate office instead of the factory floor like most of the men Mama knew.

After dipping the chicken in buttermilk, they took turns coating each piece with the flour mixture before carefully dropping them in a deep pan of hot oil. The chicken sizzled, and hot grease leapt from the pan.

“I don’t want you getting burned, so I’ll take it from here,” Mama said.

Ruth walked over to the oak buffet table where Mama used to display her granddaughter’s perfect attendance certificates and report cards, but only when she got all A’s. She swiped her finger across a layer of dust on top of the old record player that had gone silent when they laid Papa to rest.

Leather-bound books by James Baldwin, Zora Neale Hurston, and Richard Wright lined the shelf; she remembered Papa reading them to her as a little girl, along with the works of Du Bois and Douglass. Mama and Papa fed history to her and Eli, filling them with it as if they’d need reserve nourishment when the world left them withered, broken, and hungry.

On the wall above the buffet, Mama displayed framed pictures of Jesus, Martin Luther King Jr., and President Kennedy, the other Holy Trinity for old Black folks. But the faded portrait of Kennedy was missing, and in its place was one of President-Elect Obama, in a new ornate brass frame.

Standing in front of the photograph of the incoming president, Ruth felt a warmth wash over her. Her son would be growing up in a country led by a Black man. She hadn’t seen her son since the day he still fit in the palm of her hand, and as much as she tried to forget at times, she couldn’t help but resurrect dreams for him that had begun with soft whispers to her swollen belly and sometimes a silent wish made on a starlit night.

“Did you ever think you’d live to see it?” she called to Mama.

“See what, child?” Mama flipped the knob on one of the burners, and the boiling bubbles that had licked the rim of the pot of corn seconds before began to recede.

“Our first Black president. I thought about you and Eli on Election Day. Papa, too. I hate that he didn’t get to vote for Obama.”

“You live long enough, you’re bound to see a lot of things. Good and bad.”

“I know you’re proud.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t kill him. If he gets too high and mighty, they will. And my pride can’t save him. Yours, neither.”

“He’ll be fine. The country’s changing.”

Mama walked over to the buffet, opened the top drawer, and pulled out the Kennedy photo. “What happened to him?” And then she pointed to the pictures of King and Jesus. “And what about them? Hmm? If they killed Jesus, what makes you think they won’t do it to a Black man in the White House?”

When Mama’s mind was made up, there was no swaying her. Making her way to the living room, Ruth saw Papa’s old brown recliner with the loose threads and white cotton puffs poking through the holes. Whenever Mama expected company, she would put a bath towel over the seat cushion to hide the rips and tears. Ruth slowly lowered herself into the recliner, nervous, as if Papa might see her and playfully run her off his favorite chair. Sinking into the upholstery, she let her fingers glide over the fabric of each arm.

Glancing up, she caught Mama watching her, leaning on the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. “He loved that old chair. I told him he was going to die in that chair, and that rascal had the nerve to go ahead and do just that.”

Shortly after feeding Papa his lunch, Mama had hollered a question to him from the kitchen. When he didn’t answer, she found him in his chair, chin on his chest, dead. No matter how many years passed, this chair would always be Papa’s. If you sniffed really hard, you could smell his tobacco and aftershave.

“It feels nice sitting here. Kind of like I’m closer to him, you know. After all these years, it’s still hard to believe he’s not going to come around the corner and tickle me until I get out of his chair.” Her last few words caught in her throat.

“Oh, yeah. He loved clowning with you and your brother.” Mama smiled.

“And with you, too.” Ruth winked, but Mama ignored it.

Papa would come home from the plant with black grease on his hands and sink into this chair, waiting for Mama to walk by. Then he’d grab her from behind, leaving his fingerprints on her skin, and tuck her into an embrace she’d squirm out of, her giggle saying just the opposite, that she hoped he’d pull her closer.

Sometimes, they’d fire up the turntable and slow-dance to the Temptations while she and Eli laughed or covered their faces, embarrassed. Then other times Papa romanced Mama by swiping the latest issue of Jet magazine from the plant’s break room, sticking it in his lunch pail to bring home for her to read about the stars of her favorite shows or some Harlem rapper bleaching her skin.

Now, Ruth scanned her grandmother’s face for a glimpse of that woman, but she couldn’t find her.

After Papa died and before those he left behind slunk off into their own corners of misery, they’d shared stories about things the old man used to say and do. Sometimes Ruth couldn’t be sure if her memories were her own or someone else’s.

By the time the sun set, Ruth and Mama were sitting down to a meal of fried chicken, creamed corn, green beans, and mashed potatoes. They ate without speaking, only the sound of their forks against the plates breaking the silence.