Saving Ruby King

by Catherine Adel West

Genres: African American Urban; Family Life; Friendship; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Named a Most Anticipated Book of 2020 by Ms. Magazine, USA Today Book Riot, The Rumpus, Library Journal, PureWow, The Every Girl, Parade and more.

“Forever and to the end. That’s what they say instead of I love you.”

When Ruby King’s mother is found murdered in their home in Chicago’s South Side, the police dismiss it as another act of violence in a black neighborhood. But for Ruby, it’s a devastating loss that leaves her on her own with her violent father. While she receives many condolences, her best friend, Layla, is the only one who understands how this puts Ruby in jeopardy.

Their closeness is tested when Layla’s father, the pastor of their church, demands that Layla stay away. But what is the price for turning a blind eye? In a relentless quest to save Ruby, Layla uncovers the murky loyalties and dangerous secrets that have bound their families together for generations. Only by facing this legacy of trauma head-on will Ruby be able to break free.

An unforgettable debut novel, Saving Ruby King is a powerful testament that history doesn’t determine the present and the bonds of friendship can forever shape the future.

Release date: June 22, 2021

Publisher: Park Row Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

PROLOGUE

ALICE SYNTHIA KING

Ruby wants more than I can give her, but that’s how children are. They expect you to fix all things, figure out all things and love them always.

And, sometimes, you can’t do any of that.

Sometimes you barely love yourself or not at all, sometimes you barely drag yourself out of bed and function in a world that has nary a clue nor care you’ve abandoned the dreams you had for yourself. Instead you raised a child who loves you but resents you because of the mistakes you made.

I’m stitched together by the lies I tell myself and the lies people want to believe about me.

Chicago wind is unique in its relentlessness. It lifts the bottom of my coat and whips my skirt around my knees as I walk outside. Leaving this place of prayer, of unanswered requests, I’ll drive the few miles from my church to my home that is not a home. I’m praying when I open the door that Lebanon isn’t there or, if he is, he’s drunk enough to be in an unconscious heap on the couch. Maybe Ruby will be home if her job hasn’t kept her overtime. She hates it there. Her green eyes are dull, and her voice holds no emotion, happy or sad. She comes and goes more ghost than person, but of course we’re all haunted.

Maybe we can talk. I can show her my new quilt, royal blue with gold stars and ivory trim. My finest creation yet. Maybe I can make her smile. Maybe I can smile.

“Alice! Alice! Sweetie, you’re just in another world, aren’t you?” Ms. Anne yells from the top of the crumbling steps. She ambles her way down and I walk toward her. She clutches my left arm for support. I try not to grimace and breathe slow because that arm is sore and bruised. I think back to Lebanon’s angry face when I dozed off to a story he was telling me about the bakery.

“Sorry. Just thinking about the sermon. It sure was good, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it sure was. Reverend Jackson preached up a storm, but at least it didn’t last long. Can’t do them long services like I used to. And Lord knows—”

Wind drowns out the last of her sentence, but I pretend it didn’t. I pretend I hear Ms. Anne’s words, that they’re important and I smile and nod.

A few more people leave the church and walk past us, all warm smiles and hugs. I know these people. For decades. If you ask them, if you ask Ms. Anne, they’d say we’re good friends, more than that, they’d probably say we’re all family. Church family. And we’re here for one another, we love each other and the Lord God unconditionally, but they’d be lying. I’d be lying. Although if there is one thing you can sometimes find in lying, it’s comfort, warm and complete and blind.

“How’re Lebanon and Ruby?” Ms. Anne looks at me.

“Just wonderful! Lebanon is working hard at the bakery and Ruby adores her job. She’s at some fancy law office downtown. Just so blessed. So very blessed.”

Ms. Anne searches my face like all old black women do when they want more information than you’re willing to share. She examines my tired eyes and the thin folds of brown skin around them, my mouth, the pursing of my lips. “Your arm sore? Your face looked funny when I grabbed it.”

“No, ma’am. It’s just fine. Probably acting up ’cause of the sewing I was doing today.”

“Really, Alice?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m fine.”

I gently remove her hand and begin walking a few steps to my car so I can drive home, toward whatever I will find there, peaceful or ugly.

“Hold up, darlin’! I’m gonna walk with you ’fore I try and take this bus. Doctor said it’s good to exercise this new hip.”

“Now, you know I’m not gonna let you take the bus home, not when you live right next door!”

“I’ma be fine. I don’t wanna be any bother.”

But Ms. Anne knows I’ll fuss until she’s in my car. Christian or not, it’s simple decency.

I slow my pace to accommodate Ms. Anne’s stunted stride. “Alright, since you are insisting, and we both could PROLOGUE

ALICE SYNTHIA KING

Ruby wants more than I can give her, but that’s how children are. They expect you to fix all things, figure out all things and love them always.

And, sometimes, you can’t do any of that.

Sometimes you barely love yourself or not at all, sometimes you barely drag yourself out of bed and function in a world that has nary a clue nor care you’ve abandoned the dreams you had for yourself. Instead you raised a child who loves you but resents you because of the mistakes you made.

I’m stitched together by the lies I tell myself and the lies people want to believe about me.

Chicago wind is unique in its relentlessness. It lifts the bottom of my coat and whips my skirt around my knees as I walk outside. Leaving this place of prayer, of unanswered requests, I’ll drive the few miles from my church to my home that is not a home. I’m praying when I open the door that Lebanon isn’t there or, if he is, he’s drunk enough to be in an unconscious heap on the couch. Maybe Ruby will be home if her job hasn’t kept her overtime. She hates it there. Her green eyes are dull, and her voice holds no emotion, happy or sad. She comes and goes more ghost than person, but of course we’re all haunted.

Maybe we can talk. I can show her my new quilt, royal blue with gold stars and ivory trim. My finest creation yet. Maybe I can make her smile. Maybe I can smile.

“Alice! Alice! Sweetie, you’re just in another world, aren’t you?” Ms. Anne yells from the top of the crumbling steps. She ambles her way down and I walk toward her. She clutches my left arm for support. I try not to grimace and breathe slow because that arm is sore and bruised. I think back to Lebanon’s angry face when I dozed off to a story he was telling me about the bakery.

“Sorry. Just thinking about the sermon. It sure was good, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it sure was. Reverend Jackson preached up a storm, but at least it didn’t last long. Can’t do them long services like I used to. And Lord knows—”

Wind drowns out the last of her sentence, but I pretend it didn’t. I pretend I hear Ms. Anne’s words, that they’re important and I smile and nod.

A few more people leave the church and walk past us, all warm smiles and hugs. I know these people. For decades. If you ask them, if you ask Ms. Anne, they’d say we’re good friends, more than that, they’d probably say we’re all family. Church family. And we’re here for one another, we love each other and the Lord God unconditionally, but they’d be lying. I’d be lying. Although if there is one thing you can sometimes find in lying, it’s comfort, warm and complete and blind.

“How’re Lebanon and Ruby?” Ms. Anne looks at me.

“Just wonderful! Lebanon is working hard at the bakery and Ruby adores her job. She’s at some fancy law office downtown. Just so blessed. So very blessed.”

Ms. Anne searches my face like all old black women do when they want more information than you’re willing to share. She examines my tired eyes and the thin folds of brown skin around them, my mouth, the pursing of my lips. “Your arm sore? Your face looked funny when I grabbed it.”

“No, ma’am. It’s just fine. Probably acting up ’cause of the sewing I was doing today.”

“Really, Alice?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m fine.”

I gently remove her hand and begin walking a few steps to my car so I can drive home, toward whatever I will find there, peaceful or ugly.

“Hold up, darlin’! I’m gonna walk with you ’fore I try and take this bus. Doctor said it’s good to exercise this new hip.”

“Now, you know I’m not gonna let you take the bus home, not when you live right next door!”

“I’ma be fine. I don’t wanna be any bother.”

But Ms. Anne knows I’ll fuss until she’s in my car. Christian or not, it’s simple decency.

I slow my pace to accommodate Ms. Anne’s stunted stride. “Alright, since you are insisting, and we both could use the company I’m thinking.” She waddles up and grabs my right arm for support instead of the left one this time, and smiles this smile, invasive and knowing, though she means it to be warm and kind.

I’m careful as I cruise on East 73rd Street, turning at South Lafayette Avenue then toward 79th Street. This route I’ve taken countless times, the stores and streetlights, the blocks and roaming bodies in this part of the city are as much of a fixture to my routine as church itself.

In fifteen minutes, we’re close to home, on Bishop Street, and Ms. Anne starts singing a song, an old gospel only she remembers, probably one she heard many times as a child, but one I don’t know, because many of these songs are lost to time or atrocity or apathy.

Ms. Anne sings about the River Jordan, how a man is going to cross to see the Lord on the other side. She softly croons to me and the empty air until we arrive at her house.

The wind picks up again, pushing against us as we make it to her door.

I try to shield her from the onslaught, but it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. As I press my body closer to Ms. Anne, her voice, her song, reaches my ear. The man is in the middle of the River Jordan. The current is taking him farther from the other side, but he’s still trying to reach the Lord. The man is afraid he won’t make it.

Our houses, two brick bungalows, are nestled near the end of the street. Ms. Anne’s house is lit from the front, golden shadows of electric light stretch themselves down the block. My house is dark except for an anemic glow from my sewing room window. I help Ms. Anne to her door as she finishes her song.

---

He saved me from my poor self; No more do I gotta roam.

I got my home in Paradise, Yes, Lord, now I got my home!

Ms. Anne fumbles a bit with her keys before her grandson LeTrell comes to meet us helping her inside. He’s tall and broad framed, dwarfing his grandma. For all his seeming power, he gently guides Ms. Anne and smiles his thanks at me.

Turning back to the wind, I walk a few steps to my place, trudging through the invisible wall of air making it almost impossible to open my door. Parts of Ms. Anne’s song cycle through my head, the lyrics simple, almost too easy to remember, but the words and how they’re knit together, telling a story of hope, of victory—that’s what makes them powerful. It ignites that spark, the one I barely possess, the one my daughter, Ruby, may have abandoned altogether. But maybe I can still unearth what little power or breath or whatever that’s still good I carry within myself.

The key sticks between the lock and won’t budge, but I realize it’s the wrong key. I put in the right key and it smoothly turns. I’m humming the song, that music has given me some courage, a way to try to again cobble together a plan for me and Ruby. A way to escape Lebanon and find hope. Hope that we can be better versions of ourselves or those versions of ourselves harboring no lies or fear or regret. Perhaps that’s too much to wish for, but it’s the only thing taking me past this door and into this place. He saved me from my poor self; No more do I gotta roam.

I got my home in Paradise, Yes, Lord, now I got my—

CHAPTER 1

RUBY NAOMI KING

NINE DAYS AFTER ALICE KING’S DEATH

My hands are clinched into fists. They’re always sore when I wake up. It happens more and more now. It’s like when I sleep, I’m trying to grab hold of something I’m going to lose anyway, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. Or maybe my hands are sore because I’m trying to catch things like the past or flying bullets or ghosts. My hands reach out so impossibly far, and the pain comes when I fail, everything still slipping through my fingers.

Maybe my hands are sore because Lebanon slapped me, and I slapped him back and we fought.

Without Mom, we’ll batter each other because we don’t have her between us, to keep the peace, pray the prayers, take the hits and slaps and punches. What will happen to me without her?

How can there be a me without her?

Mom’s supposed to be nagging me right now about getting up for church. I’m supposed to give her money for the mortgage payment, because she can’t rely on Lebanon for money. Mom’s supposed to tell me the skirt I want to wear is too short. I’m twenty-four years old and should by now make my own decisions, but she needed us to look a certain way to not attract any attention.

There is a picture next to the light in a glass frame. Mom is holding me. I am crying, scared of the small flame atop the birthday candle on my cake. She’s telling me it’s going to be okay. I have a picture memorializing the one thing Mom probably will never be able to do again—protect me.

My cell phone rings. I have twelve missed calls, all of them from Layla. I don’t want to speak to her. I don’t have anything new to say about how I feel. I don’t want to CHAPTER 1

RUBY NAOMI KING

NINE DAYS AFTER ALICE KING’S DEATH

My hands are clinched into fists. They’re always sore when I wake up. It happens more and more now. It’s like when I sleep, I’m trying to grab hold of something I’m going to lose anyway, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. Or maybe my hands are sore because I’m trying to catch things like the past or flying bullets or ghosts. My hands reach out so impossibly far, and the pain comes when I fail, everything still slipping through my fingers.

Maybe my hands are sore because Lebanon slapped me, and I slapped him back and we fought.

Without Mom, we’ll batter each other because we don’t have her between us, to keep the peace, pray the prayers, take the hits and slaps and punches. What will happen to me without her?

How can there be a me without her?

Mom’s supposed to be nagging me right now about getting up for church. I’m supposed to give her money for the mortgage payment, because she can’t rely on Lebanon for money. Mom’s supposed to tell me the skirt I want to wear is too short. I’m twenty-four years old and should by now make my own decisions, but she needed us to look a certain way to not attract any attention.

There is a picture next to the light in a glass frame. Mom is holding me. I am crying, scared of the small flame atop the birthday candle on my cake. She’s telling me it’s going to be okay. I have a picture memorializing the one thing Mom probably will never be able to do again—protect me.

My cell phone rings. I have twelve missed calls, all of them from Layla. I don’t want to speak to her. I don’t have anything new to say about how I feel. I don’t want to explain to her that words won’t help or heal or comfort, but she’ll call again and again.

Layla’s relentless.

This is fine if you lose your purse or want to grab front row seats at the Rihanna concert, but I don’t want this kind of energy aimed at me now. Her fierce stubbornness results in endless calls, a panicked need to know if I’m okay, that I’m alive.

“Why haven’t you been answering, Rue?”

“I had a Mom and she’s gone. I don’t need you to take her place.”

“Rue I didn’t mean—”

There’s crackling on the end of Layla’s line. The sound of car horns and the manic rumble of her car’s engine make it hard for me to hear her. “You’re already on your way to church?”

“You know Reverend Jackson Potter expects me there before everyone else.”

“Well, you are his daughter.”

“Are you coming today? Is your...father bringing you?”

“No. I don’t think so, not for a while. Lebanon will probably be there though. I don’t want to be where he is if I can help it. Being in this house with him is enough, really, it’s more than I can take.”

“What does that mean, Rue?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m not like that anymore. Okay? I promise.”

My wrists throb, a hot pulsing, an itch. The skin is still raised and puckered like thin lips, kissing the tops of frail veins. Through the phone, I hear her car radio playing music. I try to diffuse Layla’s concerns for me. I try to make her laugh. I try to spare people my pain. It’s the polite thing to do. I’m good at doing the polite thing. Mom taught me very well.

“Are you playing secular music?”

She chuckles. “Look, even God gives Bruno Mars a pass. He’s probably coming to Chicago this summer for a concert. We can go. We always have a good time you and I, some good music.”

“You’re right. You’re right.”

“Just...just pick up your phone when I call you, Rue.”

I sigh. “I was sleeping, girlie. Just sleeping.”

The sputtering of her car’s engine ends. The Bruno Mars song shuts off mid-baby-come-back refrain.

CHAPTER 1

RUBY NAOMI KING

NINE DAYS AFTER ALICE KING’S DEATH

My hands are clinched into fists. They’re always sore when I wake up. It happens more and more now. It’s like when I sleep, I’m trying to grab hold of something I’m going to lose anyway, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. Or maybe my hands are sore because I’m trying to catch things like the past or flying bullets or ghosts. My hands reach out so impossibly far, and the pain comes when I fail, everything still slipping through my fingers.

Maybe my hands are sore because Lebanon slapped me, and I slapped him back and we fought.

Without Mom, we’ll batter each other because we don’t have her between us, to keep the peace, pray the prayers, take the hits and slaps and punches. What will happen to me without her?

How can there be a me without her?

Mom’s supposed to be nagging me right now about getting up for church. I’m supposed to give her money for the mortgage payment, because she can’t rely on Lebanon for money. Mom’s supposed to tell me the skirt I want to wear is too short. I’m twenty-four years old and should by now make my own decisions, but she needed us to look a certain way to not attract any attention.

There is a picture next to the light in a glass frame. Mom is holding me. I am crying, scared of the small flame atop the birthday candle on my cake. She’s telling me it’s going to be okay. I have a picture memorializing the one thing Mom probably will never be able to do again—protect me.

My cell phone rings. I have twelve missed calls, all of them from Layla. I don’t want to speak to her. I don’t have anything new to say about how I feel. I don’t want to explain to her that words won’t help or heal or comfort, but she’ll call again and again.

Layla’s relentless.

This is fine if you lose your purse or want to grab front row seats at the Rihanna concert, but I don’t want this kind of energy aimed at me now. Her fierce stubbornness results in endless calls, a panicked need to know if I’m okay, that I’m alive.

“Why haven’t you been answering, Rue?”

“I had a Mom and she’s gone. I don’t need you to take her place.”

“Rue I didn’t mean—”

There’s crackling on the end of Layla’s line. The sound of car horns and the manic rumble of her car’s engine make it hard for me to hear her. “You’re already on your way to church?”

“You know Reverend Jackson Potter expects me there before everyone else.”

“Well, you are his daughter.”

“Are you coming today? Is your...father bringing you?”

“No. I don’t think so, not for a while. Lebanon will probably be there though. I don’t want to be where he is if I can help it. Being in this house with him is enough, really, it’s more than I can take.”

“What does that mean, Rue?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m not like that anymore. Okay? I promise.”

My wrists throb, a hot pulsing, an itch. The skin is still raised and puckered like thin lips, kissing the tops of frail veins. Through the phone, I hear her car radio playing music. I try to diffuse Layla’s concerns for me. I try to make her laugh. I try to spare people my pain. It’s the polite thing to do. I’m good at doing the polite thing. Mom taught me very well.

“Are you playing secular music?”

She chuckles. “Look, even God gives Bruno Mars a pass. He’s probably coming to Chicago this summer for a concert. We can go. We always have a good time you and I, some good music.”

“You’re right. You’re right.”

“Just...just pick up your phone when I call you, Rue.”

I sigh. “I was sleeping, girlie. Just sleeping.”

The sputtering of her car’s engine ends. The Bruno Mars song shuts off mid-baby-come-back refrain.

“So, we’ll talk soon? After I get out of church?”

“Sure, whenever you want. I’m up now.”

“Okay, love you, Rue.”

“Love you too, girlie.”

I hang up and lay my phone on the chipped and scarred mahogany nightstand next to my Bible, black and leather bound. I blow dust off the top and hold it in my hand.

The book is in perfect condition. Its spine still firm and intact, the thin pages not yet yellowed with time. Mom bought it for me as a Christmas gift three years ago. Placed under the green plastic Christmas tree strung with white lights.

Lebanon came home that night and laughed at the gift, reeking of cheap whiskey and cheaper beer. Mom cried and locked herself in her sewing room and didn’t come out until the morning. He’s an asshole, an abusive asshole, and my father, and I don’t know why Mom ever married him.

After Mom’s funeral, when we were alone in the house, Lebanon told me, “God doesn’t act like some long-lost father waiting, rooting for us to do the right thing. God’s the bully with the magnifying glass and we’re the ants.” He said this with tears in his eyes. I don’t think he felt the tears. He didn’t wipe them away, they just cascaded down his face, then he got up and stumbled down the hall to their bedroom.

How did this even happen? Mom should’ve been in her sewing room that night. That’s where she always was, but there was a special Friday service so, of course she had to go, she couldn’t not be at church. And when she came home, someone killed her.

I would have given anything to save her. But why couldn’t she save herself? The both of us? She wasn’t the kind of person to leave someone she saw as weak. She had too much faith. It’s what we learn in church, that if you have enough God in you, you can pray to Him and He can move mountains and shape circumstances and do great miracles on your behalf. You just have to believe enough. And Mom believed God would change Lebanon, but some people can’t be saved. You can’t pray away evil. You can’t ignore its destruction. But Mom certainly tried all of that, and now I’m here and the one person who deserved a bullet more than anyone I know is here with me.

I toss aside the Bible and shrug into my lavender bathrobe. I don’t want to leave my room, but my hands are sore. Running them under hot and cold water helps. With CHAPTER 1

RUBY NAOMI KING

NINE DAYS AFTER ALICE KING’S DEATH

My hands are clinched into fists. They’re always sore when I wake up. It happens more and more now. It’s like when I sleep, I’m trying to grab hold of something I’m going to lose anyway, but it doesn’t stop me from trying. Or maybe my hands are sore because I’m trying to catch things like the past or flying bullets or ghosts. My hands reach out so impossibly far, and the pain comes when I fail, everything still slipping through my fingers.

Maybe my hands are sore because Lebanon slapped me, and I slapped him back and we fought.

Without Mom, we’ll batter each other because we don’t have her between us, to keep the peace, pray the prayers, take the hits and slaps and punches. What will happen to me without her?

How can there be a me without her?

Mom’s supposed to be nagging me right now about getting up for church. I’m supposed to give her money for the mortgage payment, because she can’t rely on Lebanon for money. Mom’s supposed to tell me the skirt I want to wear is too short. I’m twenty-four years old and should by now make my own decisions, but she needed us to look a certain way to not attract any attention.

There is a picture next to the light in a glass frame. Mom is holding me. I am crying, scared of the small flame atop the birthday candle on my cake. She’s telling me it’s going to be okay. I have a picture memorializing the one thing Mom probably will never be able to do again—protect me.

My cell phone rings. I have twelve missed calls, all of them from Layla. I don’t want to speak to her. I don’t have anything new to say about how I feel. I don’t want to explain to her that words won’t help or heal or comfort, but she’ll call again and again.

Layla’s relentless.

This is fine if you lose your purse or want to grab front row seats at the Rihanna concert, but I don’t want this kind of energy aimed at me now. Her fierce stubbornness results in endless calls, a panicked need to know if I’m okay, that I’m alive.

“Why haven’t you been answering, Rue?”

“I had a Mom and she’s gone. I don’t need you to take her place.”

“Rue I didn’t mean—”

There’s crackling on the end of Layla’s line. The sound of car horns and the manic rumble of her car’s engine make it hard for me to hear her. “You’re already on your way to church?”

“You know Reverend Jackson Potter expects me there before everyone else.”

“Well, you are his daughter.”

“Are you coming today? Is your...father bringing you?”

“No. I don’t think so, not for a while. Lebanon will probably be there though. I don’t want to be where he is if I can help it. Being in this house with him is enough, really, it’s more than I can take.”

“What does that mean, Rue?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m not like that anymore. Okay? I promise.”

My wrists throb, a hot pulsing, an itch. The skin is still raised and puckered like thin lips, kissing the tops of frail veins. Through the phone, I hear her car radio playing music. I try to diffuse Layla’s concerns for me. I try to make her laugh. I try to spare people my pain. It’s the polite thing to do. I’m good at doing the polite thing. Mom taught me very well.

“Are you playing secular music?”

She chuckles. “Look, even God gives Bruno Mars a pass. He’s probably coming to Chicago this summer for a concert. We can go. We always have a good time you and I, some good music.”

“You’re right. You’re right.”

“Just...just pick up your phone when I call you, Rue.”

I sigh. “I was sleeping, girlie. Just sleeping.”

The sputtering of her car’s engine ends. The Bruno Mars song shuts off mid-baby-come-back refrain.

“So, we’ll talk soon? After I get out of church?”

“Sure, whenever you want. I’m up now.”

“Okay, love you, Rue.”

“Love you too, girlie.”

I hang up and lay my phone on the chipped and scarred mahogany nightstand next to my Bible, black and leather bound. I blow dust off the top and hold it in my hand.

The book is in perfect condition. Its spine still firm and intact, the thin pages not yet yellowed with time. Mom bought it for me as a Christmas gift three years ago. Placed under the green plastic Christmas tree strung with white lights.

Lebanon came home that night and laughed at the gift, reeking of cheap whiskey and cheaper beer. Mom cried and locked herself in her sewing room and didn’t come out until the morning. He’s an asshole, an abusive asshole, and my father, and I don’t know why Mom ever married him.

After Mom’s funeral, when we were alone in the house, Lebanon told me, “God doesn’t act like some long-lost father waiting, rooting for us to do the right thing. God’s the bully with the magnifying glass and we’re the ants.” He said this with tears in his eyes. I don’t think he felt the tears. He didn’t wipe them away, they just cascaded down his face, then he got up and stumbled down the hall to their bedroom.

How did this even happen? Mom should’ve been in her sewing room that night. That’s where she always was, but there was a special Friday service so, of course she had to go, she couldn’t not be at church. And when she came home, someone killed her.

I would have given anything to save her. But why couldn’t she save herself? The both of us? She wasn’t the kind of person to leave someone she saw as weak. She had too much faith. It’s what we learn in church, that if you have enough God in you, you can pray to Him and He can move mountains and shape circumstances and do great miracles on your behalf. You just have to believe enough. And Mom believed God would change Lebanon, but some people can’t be saved. You can’t pray away evil. You can’t ignore its destruction. But Mom certainly tried all of that, and now I’m here and the one person who deserved a bullet more than anyone I know is here with me.

I toss aside the Bible and shrug into my lavender bathrobe. I don’t want to leave my room, but my hands are sore. Running them under hot and cold water helps. With light footsteps, I remember the weaker portions in the floor, avoiding them. I don’t look at the pictures on the walls: the forced smiles, numb posturing, Lebanon’s hand on Mom’s shoulder.

I’m shuddering, but I keep moving.

The sink is full of dishes. Dried spaghetti, collard greens, sweet potato pie and peach cobbler residue cling to each fork, plate and cup. I’m expected to clean the dishes. Mom would do so without protest. Docile. One trained to serve. Breathe and serve. If Mom were here, there wouldn’t have been a dish in the sink. The black granite countertops wouldn’t be sticky with dried coffee. The kitchen would sparkle and smell of bleach and the gardenia perfume she loved to wear.

Leaving the kitchen dirty is my rebellion. Rebellion even in its smallest forms can eventually birth great change. With change comes hope. So, for now, letting the dishes rot in the sink gives me some small satisfaction.

I turn on the water rinsing my hands as steam rises, swirling and disappearing. My fingers and palm stay under the faucet. It burns, and I don’t move. My caramel tone becomes an angry red. The water beads differently on my scars than on my smooth skin. I let the heat cocoon itself around my body, willing the warmth to move from limb to limb, head to toes.

I welcome the pain and deserve it. Atonement for sins, for empty nights and flesh and sweat and flashes of light and metal and actions that cannot be taken back. My tears stream, and I don’t recognize their salty wetness until they hit my shirt. Removing my hand, I look at its temporary redness with a practiced detachment. Feeling the pain, but not acknowledging it.

Turning the knob and allowing the water to run for a few minutes, I leave my hand under the water, feeling as it gradually turns cold.

A small window two feet above the sink offers blue-and-white tones slowly emerging from the night’s shadow. I flex my fingers and they belong to me once again, doing my bidding without fight or pain. Basking in the relief, I don’t hear Him, but tremble when He speaks, “Good morning.”

I swallow my scream.

LAYLA VIOLET POTTER

Rolling my neck side to side, I try to relieve the tension in my shoulders, the ache will soon make it to my head and beat between my eyes. I squint, removing as much of the sun from my vision as I can.

Loud sputtering noises escape the engine of my rusting 1997 Chevy Malibu that I call the Black Stallion. I lightly close the door. I don’t lock it because, hey, if you want to steal a fourteen-year-old car, you have more problems than I care to count, and I’ve got enough of my own.

Ruby tried to sound like herself on the phone. She cracked jokes and changed the conversation because it suits her to not talk about painful things. It must suit me too, because I let her do it, I didn’t press her, didn’t say, “No, Ruby! We’re going to talk about what happened...now!” I didn’t say, “No, Ruby. You’re going to come with me and we’re going to find somewhere safe for you because I see the man your father is. I see Lebanon and know you need to leave.”

I didn’t do any of that. I just told her we should go to the Bruno Mars concert, like that would change her situation in any real way.

Why didn’t I say something?

Even at the end of March, the air still bites and nips like a hungry dog. The Chi Town spring sun is deceivingly bright. I sing “Every day is a day of thanksgiving” to the concrete beat of my boots.

I want to believe these words so much that I sing them a little louder hoping the measure of volume will equal my measure of conviction. Maybe God hears me better when I’m not so much in my head. And to be honest, I have a lovely alto voice.

Stopping a few feet from the entrance of the church, I scan the block. Only a few passersby make their way up and down the street. Not many people up this early on Sunday. Most are sleeping or coming home from parties I would’ve loved to attend if I didn’t have to be here by seven o’clock in the morning.

A couple of cars are parked in various points on Indiana Avenue, in Bronzeville, a whole black world within a city; a world with only our people, who arrived barely a century 

LAYLA VIOLET POTTER

Rolling my neck side to side, I try to relieve the tension in my shoulders, the ache will soon make it to my head and beat between my eyes. I squint, removing as much of the sun from my vision as I can.

Loud sputtering noises escape the engine of my rusting 1997 Chevy Malibu that I call the Black Stallion. I lightly close the door. I don’t lock it because, hey, if you want to steal a fourteen-year-old car, you have more problems than I care to count, and I’ve got enough of my own.

Ruby tried to sound like herself on the phone. She cracked jokes and changed the conversation because it suits her to not talk about painful things. It must suit me too, because I let her do it, I didn’t press her, didn’t say, “No, Ruby! We’re going to talk about what happened...now!” I didn’t say, “No, Ruby. You’re going to come with me and we’re going to find somewhere safe for you because I see the man your father is. I see Lebanon and know you need to leave.”

I didn’t do any of that. I just told her we should go to the Bruno Mars concert, like that would change her situation in any real way.

Why didn’t I say something?

Even at the end of March, the air still bites and nips like a hungry dog. The Chi Town spring sun is deceivingly bright. I sing “Every day is a day of thanksgiving” to the concrete beat of my boots.

I want to believe these words so much that I sing them a little louder hoping the measure of volume will equal my measure of conviction. Maybe God hears me better when I’m not so much in my head. And to be honest, I have a lovely alto voice.

Stopping a few feet from the entrance of the church, I scan the block. Only a few passersby make their way up and down the street. Not many people up this early on Sunday. Most are sleeping or coming home from parties I would’ve loved to attend if I didn’t have to be here by seven o’clock in the morning.

A couple of cars are parked in various points on Indiana Avenue, in Bronzeville, a whole black world within a city; a world with only our people, who arrived barely a century ago in innumerable droves during the Great Migration, living in cramped tenements with the tenuous hope of more freedom than what was doled out down south. And now there is a weird dichotomy of stilted gentrification and unpredictable violence, and yet there’s tangible opportunity if one were to look beyond hasty misconceptions and blatant prejudices.

Long arms grab me from behind and lift me up. I scream. My lungs burn and blood rushes to my ears. I kick and flail and twist.

“Damn, Lala! It was just a joke! You actin’ like you was gonna get kidnapped!”

I turn and punch my little-big brother in the arm as hard as I can. I hope it leaves a bruise.

He’s laughing, bending over thoroughly amused at my near heart attack. “Come on, Lala. I was just playin’. I was just playin’.”

J.P. couldn’t say Layla when we were younger, just Lala. It stuck. Black people always seem to go by nicknames. They are as official as a birth certificate or driver’s license. It’s the funny and the abiding puzzle found in sticky sets of syllables, ancient and varied, affixing themselves to a person, a hundred-year-old, multirooted cypress tree, finding its depth and permanence in a grove of many lives.

My brother’s tall, muscled frame goes in for a hug. He wraps his massive arms around me again. I remain stiff for a few seconds, and then wrap my arms around him. I let go and then punch him in the arm again.

It’s not like I could stay mad at him for more than a few minutes.

Still clad in his post office uniform, my brother parts his lips in a half-moon-bright smile showing the small gap between his two front teeth.

“You’re not coming to church today?”

“Nah, sis. I’ve had enough church for this week, this weekend, hell my entire life! Besides, I just got off a double shift. I’m going home, get some sleep,” he says rubbing his bald head with his heavily muscled arm.

“You know our father, the good ole Reverend Potter, is gonna give you hell for not coming to church today.”

“Oh the holy and devout Reverend Potter can try, not like it’s gonna work.” He laughs.

“What are you doing here, then?” I ask, my heart finally starting to beat a normal rhythm inside of my chest.

LAYLA VIOLET POTTER

Rolling my neck side to side, I try to relieve the tension in my shoulders, the ache will soon make it to my head and beat between my eyes. I squint, removing as much of the sun from my vision as I can.

Loud sputtering noises escape the engine of my rusting 1997 Chevy Malibu that I call the Black Stallion. I lightly close the door. I don’t lock it because, hey, if you want to steal a fourteen-year-old car, you have more problems than I care to count, and I’ve got enough of my own.

Ruby tried to sound like herself on the phone. She cracked jokes and changed the conversation because it suits her to not talk about painful things. It must suit me too, because I let her do it, I didn’t press her, didn’t say, “No, Ruby! We’re going to talk about what happened...now!” I didn’t say, “No, Ruby. You’re going to come with me and we’re going to find somewhere safe for you because I see the man your father is. I see Lebanon and know you need to leave.”

I didn’t do any of that. I just told her we should go to the Bruno Mars concert, like that would change her situation in any real way.

Why didn’t I say something?

Even at the end of March, the air still bites and nips like a hungry dog. The Chi Town spring sun is deceivingly bright. I sing “Every day is a day of thanksgiving” to the concrete beat of my boots.

I want to believe these words so much that I sing them a little louder hoping the measure of volume will equal my measure of conviction. Maybe God hears me better when I’m not so much in my head. And to be honest, I have a lovely alto voice.

Stopping a few feet from the entrance of the church, I scan the block. Only a few passersby make their way up and down the street. Not many people up this early on Sunday. Most are sleeping or coming home from parties I would’ve loved to attend if I didn’t have to be here by seven o’clock in the morning.

A couple of cars are parked in various points on Indiana Avenue, in Bronzeville, a whole black world within a city; a world with only our people, who arrived barely a century ago in innumerable droves during the Great Migration, living in cramped tenements with the tenuous hope of more freedom than what was doled out down south. And now there is a weird dichotomy of stilted gentrification and unpredictable violence, and yet there’s tangible opportunity if one were to look beyond hasty misconceptions and blatant prejudices.

Long arms grab me from behind and lift me up. I scream. My lungs burn and blood rushes to my ears. I kick and flail and twist.

“Damn, Lala! It was just a joke! You actin’ like you was gonna get kidnapped!”

I turn and punch my little-big brother in the arm as hard as I can. I hope it leaves a bruise.

He’s laughing, bending over thoroughly amused at my near heart attack. “Come on, Lala. I was just playin’. I was just playin’.”

J.P. couldn’t say Layla when we were younger, just Lala. It stuck. Black people always seem to go by nicknames. They are as official as a birth certificate or driver’s license. It’s the funny and the abiding puzzle found in sticky sets of syllables, ancient and varied, affixing themselves to a person, a hundred-year-old, multirooted cypress tree, finding its depth and permanence in a grove of many lives.

My brother’s tall, muscled frame goes in for a hug. He wraps his massive arms around me again. I remain stiff for a few seconds, and then wrap my arms around him. I let go and then punch him in the arm again.

It’s not like I could stay mad at him for more than a few minutes.

Still clad in his post office uniform, my brother parts his lips in a half-moon-bright smile showing the small gap between his two front teeth.

“You’re not coming to church today?”

“Nah, sis. I’ve had enough church for this week, this weekend, hell my entire life! Besides, I just got off a double shift. I’m going home, get some sleep,” he says rubbing his bald head with his heavily muscled arm.

“You know our father, the good ole Reverend Potter, is gonna give you hell for not coming to church today.”

“Oh the holy and devout Reverend Potter can try, not like it’s gonna work.” He laughs.

“What are you doing here, then?” I ask, my heart finally starting to beat a normal rhythm inside of my chest.

“I’m dropping off the programs for this morning. Didn’t get a chance to do them earlier ’cause of Auntie Alice’s funeral.”

My brother raises his head and cranes his neck toward the sky. “Shitty circumstance, but it was a nice homegoing service. She’d have liked it. ...