Instantly, I heard Che scoot next to his father, a habit I hadn’t seen him show in years. When I glanced over my shoulder, Solo­mon was absentmindedly rubbing Che’s curls from his forehead in the familiar way he’d used to, and, shockingly, my thirteen-year-old was allowing it.

Ruby lunged for Solomon, wooden spoon in hand. “Daddy, I scored a goal today in the game. It was awesome. Right into the cor­ner. The goalie couldn’t get near it! It was the only goal our side—”

“Sugar, that’s great.” He reached under Ruby’s armpits and in one strong motion lifted her three inches off the ground, pulling her up to his face until they touched noses. She giggled. “That’s my girl,” he said enthusiastically, “you go get ’em.” Lowering Ruby, he stooped a bit to rub noses with Che, too, who tried to pretend he was too tough for this “baby stuff.” Then, Solomon’s tone contrite, he asked me, “How was the meeting with Gladys? I thought I might catch the end of it.”

“But you didn’t, you missed it,” I hissed. “Entirely.” I turned to face him. “Like the last one. Only this was an emergency.”

His face collapsed into a series of weary planes; his eyes behind his glasses hardened. “Shit,” he said, his voice turned hard. “An emer­gency? You knew I was working. It was a critical gig. I had to drive all the way down to San Leandro to teach a master class, and the traffic on 880 was bumper to bumper. What happened?” He stepped toward me again, draping one arm tentatively over my shoulder.

I nodded toward Ruby and Che, willing the shoulder to soften, and motioned them back to their rooms. “Gladys,” I whispered, catching his hand while I mouthed the words, “is a bitch.”

“Nothing new there. Coulda told you that six years ago,” he whispered in my ear, leaning over to nibble the lobe. “What was the emergency that couldn’t wait?”

“I’ll tell you later. Everything’s okay now, I think. I’ll fill you in on the way to the Hendrix meeting. It’s tonight, isn’t it? God, I can’t believe those cops got acquitted. Beating up a Panther never counts.” I tossed the salad, keeping my voice neutral, although in the way of long-married couples I understood exactly what I was lobbing. I glanced over my shoulder to measure his reaction.

His face tensed and tightened, pinching his features, and the telltale nerve throbbed in his neck like a steady drumbeat. “You know how the brothers—and the sisters—feel about us lately.” His arm loosened from my shoulder until it felt as if he’d peeled away a blanket, and a chill blew over me.

Be careful, I thought. Wait until I’m not so upset about Ruby. But the caution never made it from my brain to my lips. “Screw them,” I blurted. “If you’re comfortable with me, they’ve got to accept us.” And I jiggled my shoulders, knocking his large hand completely off. “Even Bobby?” I asked, remembering how he used to moan at our table over my stuffed pork chops, laughing about The Pig and wolfing down plenty. He’d bounced Ruby and Che on his knees for years when they were small, even joined Ruby and me singing my father’s sacred old union songs, the ones I’d grown up on, invent­ing new verses to my favorite, “Which Side Are You On?” Together we’d belted out “Don’t scab for Mister Charley, don’t listen to his lies/Us black folks haven’t got a chance unless we organize,” and roared our solidarity together. How could Bobby not want me at the meeting?

“Christ, Red!” Solomon shook his head. “Do I have to explain it again?” He stretched to his full six foot one, straightening his spine even farther, and began to inch backward, one scuffed loafer at a time. His face was as impassive as his eyes.

I couldn’t stop myself, even as I heard the whine of my voice, like the sharp swish of a falling bomb. “What’s the matter, don’t want to take the white-bitch wife?” What’s happened to us: The good-looking mystery man playing his soulful guitar in a Mississippi dirt yard? The slender girl in lace-up sandals frisking like a puppy, willing to do anything—“I’d get shot,” I once declared to a roomful of Panthers— for civil rights? The playful couple blowing bubbles onto naked bodies, swirling the suds into patterns before lunging onto each other? Swear­ing, “Soul mates forever.” Warm images from the past raced through my mind even as I heard myself direct Ruby, who’d reentered the kitchen with her brother, “Don’t let Cesar lick that spoon full of hamburger juice in your hand” and saw my long arm curl around Che’s muscular shoulder to sprinkle garlic powder in the sauce. Che danced away, as if he were allergic to my touch.

“Elizabeth—look, I’m sorry I missed the meeting,” Solomon said quietly, taking a deep breath, jerking me fully into the pres­ent. After a pause he said, “Here’s to . . .” He raised his glass. “The revolution.”

I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. Looking like a hollowed-out shell, the man leaned against the yellow wall next to the stove, already splattered with grease despite my recent paint job. I twisted the oven dial to 400, holding my face tight and my breath shal­low. He couldn’t paste us together with revolution. Not anymore. I shook my head.

“Christ!” he said, banging his beautiful head softly against the wall. “I give up.”

Ruby, her face enveloped in steam, grabbed the simmering pot of beans and slammed it into the sink, trying to silence us, I knew, while Che slipped quietly out of the house. I heard the rhythmic plunk, plunk of his ball against the stoop. Even the dogs quieted and slunk to the living room. “Not now!” I told Solomon, tightening my jaw and nodding in Ruby’s direction.

“Look, I’ve had it with you blaming me every time I can’t make every single one of those damn meetings called at the most incon­venient times.” He took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt, then burst out, “And you’re the one who said—”

“Not now!” I turned my back and threw hunks of cheese on the pizza before I slid it into the oven. Jeez, I thought for the thou­sandth time, why am I so pale, the classic red-headed milky white? In a political crowd my skin always screamed white, white, white, like a neon light shining out from the earth tones around us.

“Daddy, something happened today,” Ruby interrupted.

“Not now,” I snapped, momentarily forgetting the incident at school. “Your father and I are talking. Please. Leave us alone for a few minutes.” I nodded toward the living room.

Instead of trotting off, Ruby turned to me and stretched out her hand. “The last sip? Please.”

“No, you’re too young.”

“She only wants a taste,” Solomon protested, handing her his nearly empty glass. “Here’s a sip, sugar.”

“Solomon!” I warned, reaching for the glass. But it was already at her lips, and before I could snatch it back she’d downed the wine in one gulp.

Within two minutes her eyes glazed over, and she nearly stum­bled on her way to the table.

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