Ruth Brooks stood at the counter in house slippers and a cardigan of her own, navy, with a pocket that had given up on the original shape of a pocket. She was sixty-four, deep brown, shorter than she had been at forty, with silver at the temples of a cropped cut she maintained every third Saturday whether the money liked it or not. The apartment was a second-floor unit in a brick complex off Linden Avenue, where the stairwell smelled of floor wax and, on weekends, of somebody frying fish no matter what the lease said about the smell of fish. The kitchen window looked onto a parking lot and a single tree that had not been consulted about the parking lot. On the table sat two bowls, a carton of milk, and Aaliyah's gray backpack, unzipped, submitting to inspection.
"Socks," Ruth said.
"In there."
"The good pair. Not the pair with the hole you keep introducing to people like it's a personality."
"The good pair is on my feet."
Ruth looked. She nodded, which in her vocabulary was a signature. "Eat the oatmeal. I did not get up to watch you negotiate with a bowl."
Aaliyah ate. The oatmeal had a little brown sugar, which meant Ruth had decided the mall trip was an occasion and was already suspicious of her own decision. Most mornings the oatmeal was plain and the love was in the fact that it was hot and on time. Ruth worked three days a week at the front desk of a dental clinic and two mornings cleaning a church office that did not need as much cleaning as it needed Ruth's presence. Saturdays were for errands and for the particular tiredness that comes when a week has been survived and the surviving still wants to be paid for in groceries.