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 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.