The two men remaining in her life had met on her wedding day four years ago at Friendship Baptist Church. She’d been nervous about her brother and her future husband meeting, wondering if they’d get along, hoping for Eli’s blessing.

After the ceremony, they’d stayed in church chatting, the men soon bantering jovially about the close Super Bowl game between the New England Patriots and the Carolina Panthers.

“I seem to remember the Bears kicking some Patriot butt back in the day,” Xavier said proudly.

Eli doubled over in laughter, almost popping his suit coat button. “Man, that was 1985. You still doing that lame Super Bowl shuffle?”

Ruth and Cassie kept a close eye on their husbands. As long as they were still laughing and didn’t end up in a fistfight in the church, everything would be fine, Ruth thought.

“Now, if I was in the NFL, I’d really be ballin’,” Eli said, pulling his arm back, tossing an imaginary football.

Xavier said, “A lot of those cats in the NFL and NBA lose that money as fast as they make it.”

Pastor Bumpus rose from the pew and walked in circles, just like he did in the pulpit. “Don’t make the mistake of following these ballplayers. They’re greedy. The Bible says no one can serve two masters. You cannot serve both God and money.” He brought a closed fist to his lips and looked like he had the urge to preach.

In the middle of all of it, Ruth watched Mama in her ivory sequined suit, looking up at both men. The baby had complicated Ruth’s relationship with her grandmother. Yet she could tell she enjoyed having her family and pastor together again the way they had been when Papa was still alive.

From her seat on a front-row pew, Mama said, “Well, all I know is some of these parents are trying to keep up with the Joneses, buying their kids all these expensive shoes with ballplayers’ names on them. Some of the kids can’t read their own names, but they’re wearing four-hundred-dollar tennis shoes. Now that’s crazy.”

Xavier said, “You’re right about that, Mrs. Tuttle. We can’t build wealth by putting all our money on our kids’ feet. But it’s bigger than that. We need to start our own businesses. Eli, brother, look here. I hear you know your stuff when it comes to cars and mechanics. Why not open your own shop? Then get your kids involved so they can take it over one day.”

The twins, Teddy and Troy, had loosened their ties and stretched out on the pew behind them. Cassie bounced Keisha on her lap, spooning applesauce into the little girl’s mouth to keep her happy and quiet.

Eli surveyed his children as if seeing them for the first time, pondering each of their futures, and deeming it risky to dream too big. “I don’t know about that, man. I don’t have one of those fancy business degrees like you. Besides, soon as a Black man tries to make a big move, they chop your arm off. White man’s got us by the balls, always has.”

Realizing his language may have been a bit crude for the sanctuary, Eli mouthed an apology to Pastor Bumpus, who laughed it off.

Even on their wedding day, Xavier had been in teaching mode. “That’s slave mentality, brother. Indoctrination. I know you can learn business, but you know cars already. I’m telling you to think about it. You never know how big it could grow. That’s how the Ford family did it. In ten years, I expect to be driving a Tuttle SUV.”

Eli grinned, his eyes twinkling. “A Tuttle SUV,” he echoed. “I like the sound of that now.”

When they left the church to head their separate ways, Eli whispered in her ear, “I like that dude.”

If she couldn’t have Papa’s blessing on her wedding day, this was damn close.

At the time, many of her friends bemoaned the eligible Black male shortage: they were either emotionally unavailable, gay, in prison, or dating white women exclusively. Every magazine think piece reminded her she had a better chance of getting hit by a bus than finding a good brother. But Xavier had put a ring on it and Eli approved. She returned to Chicago believing she’d chosen wisely and well.

Now, she considered telling Eli about her fight with her husband, but he turned his music up again—too loud to talk over—and bounced to some hip-hop song she didn’t know. That was her cue to leave, and she did.

Across the hallway was her old bedroom. She’d dreaded this moment and had avoided this room for as long as she could. The door stood open, enough for her to see the wood frame of her childhood bed with the four tall posts anchoring it. When she was a little girl, she’d played with dolls and read books on this bed. Mama was a practical woman not given to sentimentality, but she’d seen no need for wasting money on new furniture when Ruth left for college. So, everything looked the same, untouched by time.

Everything about it seemed sterile, and it was probably a guest room now. In spite of Mama’s archaic rules about outside clothes touching the bed, Ruth sat gingerly and the springs squeaked beneath her weight. The room smelled of Pine-Sol, clean and airy. But no amount of freshening could wipe away what had happened here.

Twelve

Ruth

August 1997

At seventeen, Ruth lay on her back, her hair matted like a bird’s nest. It was oppressively hot that day and her thin pink nightshirt clung to her damp skin.

“I can’t do this,” Ruth cried from her bed.