After a while, she pulled into the driveway of an old white farmhouse set back from the road by a deep lawn. There was a cornfield to the left, and a few more houses scattered to the right. Kids, a couple of them white, were taking turns on a tire swing that hung from a big tree in the front yard. Some older men were playing horseshoes near the side of the house. And even before I opened the car door, I felt the thrum of music in the air. Chance the Rapper. I smiled, already moving my head to the beat. I had the feeling I was going to like it here.

Lisa and I began walking across the lawn to the house. The day was finally beginning to cool off a bit, but I was still perspiring after a few steps.

“Are the white kids from the neighborhood?” I asked.

Lisa laughed and I was stunned when she put an arm around my shoulders. “Honey,” she said in a voice I hadn’t heard her use before, “I’m related to every one of these folks, one way or another. Our history goes back a long way. There were white big shots who had black women on the side, or forbidden love that couldn’t be out in the open, or rape, maybe. Who knows? A lot of powerful men and powerless women over the generations. It all adds up to a rainbow of hues in a black family.” She dropped her arm from my shoulder and immediately seemed to shift back to the distant Lisa I had come to know.

The outside of the house had a choppy appearance, as though it had been added onto time and time again over the course of many years, but when Lisa and I walked inside, the warmth of the smooth wood floors, the low ceiling, and the chintz curtains gave me a homey feeling, as if we were stepping back in time. The rap music faded into the distance, and inside, the main noise came from the chatter of aproned women preparing huge trays of food and the hum of a window air conditioner.

Lisa walked with me from room to room, introducing me to what seemed like an endless series of cousins and aunts. One of the gray-haired women hugged Lisa and said, “How’re you doing, darlin’? I know you missin’ your daddy.”

“Fine, Auntie,” Lisa said. Returning to my side, she led me into a sitting room where several women sat close together on a sofa on either side of a small, shriveled woman with nearly white hair and coffee-colored skin. The little woman looked up when we entered the room.

“Dodie!” she exclaimed to Lisa, reaching toward her with frail-looking arms that protruded from the ruffled, loose-fitting sleeves of her pink blouse.

Lisa moved forward, taking the old woman’s hands.