“Who would have thought?” My mother beams with pride. “Our very own Albert Einstein sittin’ right here in dis’ beated-up ole apartment. Didn’t think ya momma knew folks like dat, did ya? I’on know what da hell he did, but I knows he was real smart. Just like you. You really somethin’, girl.”

My eyes fall. I quickly change the subject.

“Anybody need anything from Chesterfield? Gotta go re-up my stash of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, Starbursts, and Jimmy Dean’s hot sausage. Cain’t get none of that at Dartmouth.”

“Oh yea, I was gon’ tell you to pick up some oxtails today. S’posed ta be good luck. I wanna celebrate you finishing yo first semester by cooking a nice dinner this weekend. Oxtails, greens, black-eyed peas, cornbread, and a lemon pound cake.”

“You cookin’ all dat dis weekend?!” my father exclaims in glee. “Then shit, I’a be back early fo sho. Shit. Round seven den. Won’t even go ta Shorty’s and hustle Butch out da rest’a his paycheck. Save dat fa next week.”

“Only two things can bring you home early from gambling, nigga. Food and I won’t mention tha otha one in front of chirruns.”

“Ain’t no chirruns here,” Dre interjects.

“Hush, boy, you da youngest’a of ’em all. You always gon’ be my baby boy.”

“But why you goin’ all the way to Chesterfield? Chapman’s is right up the street. Dey got all dat and oxtails.” Something in my mother’s voice changes. She sounds near and far away at the same time.

“Chapman’s closed four years ago,” I respond confusedly. “Don’t you remember? John Boy moved to Florida to take care of his father. He opened Chapman’s down there.”

“Huh?!” Dre sits up in his chair. “What is you talkin’ ’bout! Chapman’s neva closed. You been doin’ white people drugs up dere? You must be high.”

“Chapman’s not closed, sweetheart,” my father interjects. “Just went up dere yesterday ta get a pack of cigarettes. Damn near seven dollars a pack now, but deys open fa sure.”

“Fifteen or sixteen should be enough,” my mother says, still facing the stove, and increasingly sounding not like herself. Her voice becomes hollow and wispy. Devoid of her somehow, but full of something else.

“Fifteen or sixteen,” Rone says. “I’ll eat dat many myself. Better get like…”

“The Last Supper,” my mother interjects. “We’ll have it this weekend. It will be special. Healing.” My mother finally looks in my direction, locks eyes, and smiles with nostalgic serenity, as if an angel has just come down from heaven and blessed her in the light. It’s strange, but my brothers and father don’t seem to notice. I look down to avoid her piercing, ethereal gaze.

“Well, I’ll be back in a bit,” I say uneasily. “See ya’ll later.”