Then redevelopment came. Fresh paint appeared on buildings that had been ignored for decades. So did new signs, new rents, and eventually a letter informing the Carters that their lease would not be renewed under terms they could afford. Marcus had already been gone by then. Naomi still remembered Denise folding that letter in half, then in half again.
Her mother had not cried until the twins were asleep. Naomi had heard her anyway. Ruth's kitchen occupied the first floor of an old corner building between a laundromat and a closed hardware store. The windows fogged each morning from coffee, soup kettles, and the warmth of too many people working in too little space. Denise Carter was already inside.
At 48, she moved with the efficient rhythm of someone accustomed to solving three problems at once. You're late. Naomi checked the clock by 30 seconds. Late is late. Nia kissed her mother's cheek.
Good morning to you, too. Denise tried to remain stern. It lasted about two seconds. Aprons. The twins went to work.
Naomi sliced bread while Nia packed containers. Denise checked a clipboard near the stove. The kitchen smelled of onions, coffee, butter, and the vegetable soup already simmering for later. Nobody at Ruth's cared that Naomi and Nia had once stood beneath arena lights. Nobody asked about medals.
Here, what mattered was whether coffee was hot and whether the next person through the door was treated like a human being. That was how Marcus had liked it. By 7:05, Naomi and Nia were running for the bus. They caught it with seconds to spare. The morning route was crowded with adults heading toward hospitals, offices, construction sites, restaurants, and college buildings.
Naomi stood beside Nia until a seat opened near the rear. They had barely sat down when the bus stopped again. Helen Morris climbed aboard slowly. At 74, Helen was small, proud, and stubborn about carrying her own shopping bags. Naomi knew her from Ruth's kitchen.
Helen held the rail as the bus pulled away. Naomi stood immediately. Ms. Morris. I'm fine. I know.
Then sit down. Naomi smiled and stepped aside. I've been sitting all morning. That is a lie. It might be.
Helen gave her a suspicious look, then accepted the seat. 20 minutes later, when Helen got off near a discount grocery store, Naomi noticed two heavy bags at her feet. You're going to miss class, Nia warned. We have time. We have 12 minutes.
Plenty. Nia stared at her sister, then picked up the second bag. They walked Helen three blocks through a steady drizzle. At her apartment entrance, Helen opened her purse. Naomi immediately shook her head.
No, you carried my groceries. You fed us enough peach cobbler to make us even. That was years ago. Still counts. Helen looked from Naomi to Nia.
You two are just like your father. The words landed softly. That made them hurt more. Naomi lowered her eyes. Nia looked toward the rain.
Helen seemed to realize what she had done. She touched Naomi's arm. He would be proud. Naomi managed to smile. Thank you.
They made class with less than a minute to spare. That evening, the apartment smelled of reheated soup when Naomi opened the closet in the bedroom. Behind winter coats and a broken folding chair sat an old wooden chest. The hinges squeaked. Nia looked up from her textbook.
What are you doing? Looking for my blue folder. It's on the desk. Naomi saw it. She should have closed the chest.