Seger Park

By Jake Sudderth

Rome Jeter is a blue-chip recruit and an only child who is mature for his age. As his life becomes complicated, the very social systems that raised him fail miserably. He is betrayed by the police, the press, and even mentors.

This far-reaching novel addresses generations of change as the very people responsible for corruption and mismanagement stay in power, and many of their subordinates realize they have been used and seek redemption. Some are successful, but many fail.

Growing up in Philadelphia, Jeter encounters adults admirable and ribald, humorous and crude. This outrageous and moving story leads to one conclusion: your present life is only secure if your plans for the future are sound.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662440410

Book preview

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Seger Park

Jake Sudderth

Copyright © 2021 Jake Sudderth

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2021

ISBN 978-1-6624-4040-3 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-4041-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

For Cole

Who knows Philadelphia well

Chapter 1

High in the air, under a summer sky, the ball majestically balanced on the rusted metal rim. Rome Jeter was grasping for the prize, poised for movement, careful not to snatch the orb while it made contact with the rim. His elbow was firmly planted in an opponent’s chest as he snatched the ball with two hands as it fell free. Before Rome landed, Marcus Robinson called for an outlet pass.

I’m flying, Chairman! Jeter launched the basketball toward Robinson as low post players clawed at his fingers, hopelessly trying to steal the ball. Rome’s hands were enormous. They engulfed the ball. You had to catch him by surprise if you wanted to steal the rock. Years of pawing rubber, synthetic leather, and sometimes dry old leather basketballs on the way home after playing for hours made basketballs comfortable. Rolling them off his fingers while lying in bed at night made the game intimate. The ball was like an appendage of his body, something of comfort. Leisure hours were spent moving the ball across fingers and arms, playing circus with the basketball. Now I know how the Globetrotters started, thought Rome as he played with the ball late at night.

After taking a perfect pass from Jeter in stride, Robinson raced to the basket and declared he was fouled while attempting a layup. In this game, offensive players called their own violations, a practice that minimized arguments or violence. Jeter ambled to the other end of the blacktop, moving with a distinctive strut.

Fuck you, Chairman! Fuck you and your family. The taunt came from Derek Greer, a smooth shooter known for his marksmanship but little else, certainly not defense. Jeter glared at Greer and began heading his direction, then a broad smile graced his face. He pushed Greer with his right arm while walking to the other end of the court, and they both broke into laughter. Derek was just playing with Jeter. He wanted no part of an angry hulk.

Greer was like many kids who grew up playing ball in Philadelphia, talking trash and messing with other players were part of the culture. Actually, Greer was secretly proud of Jeter. He was able to brag that he played alongside and against the phenom at an early age. Basketball observers had been singing Jeter’s praises for years, but kids who had been playing with Rome since he was small knew about his special presence on the court long before the professionals got involved.

Jeter moved to the free throw line and took his customary position in the second slot, close to the basket. During pickup games, most people didn’t take rebounding and boxing out during free throws seriously. Taking live free throws was strange practice in itself. Many of these boys were young men of the street, and they took some things very seriously, and basketball qualified. If you were going to learn the game properly, every aspect would be addressed on the playground, an asphalt laboratory for the serious. When you play, you are practicing, said Marcus Robinson’s father on several occasions to his son. There ain’t no such thing as just playing part of a basketball game. You need to do it all on the court. The boys took this advice to heart and played out everything; teams were even granted time-outs.

Rome had a big reputation, so he was all effort on the concrete most of the time. The worst feeling in the world was not playing poorly in a high school league game; it was being embarrassed on the playground. When your boys were talking about how Nathan or Boxy or some other kid nobody had ever heard of lit you up on the court, it followed you home, on the bus, in the hallways, and in many of the living rooms you called home. If the tale got back to your coach, the story started anew. Rome had no interest in serving as somebody’s punch line. He always made an effort on the playground.

Silly pickup games presented dilemmas that never showed up in organized basketball. When referees were involved, you knew what you were getting. The timing of the game, spacing, and calls like Too much time in the paint kept the game fluid. The more situations you see, the more you will be ready for serious tests was another oft-repeated refrain by Robinson’s father. The words rang true as Rome sized up the man in front of him, who seemed bigger than the court itself. At six-four and over three hundred pounds, Rudy Powell was hard to move and hard to move around. You would never see someone like this in AAU, Jeter thought. He couldn’t even get up and down the court! But Powell could block the lane and his man and the sun at the same time. He was a big obstacle.

The second free throw clanked off the back of the rim, and Jeter snatched the ball over the outstretched arms of Powell as the big man’s hips and ass pushed him away from the lane. His futile attempt to box out Rome was symbolic of his day on the court, sweating and wheezing while at the mercy of a better man. Cursing and shaking his head was all he could do after watching Jeter bank in a putback from close range. Powell slammed the ball on the ground in disgust, and one of his teammates was forced to wait for it to reenter the orbit before bringing the ball inbounds.

After the game, Robinson and Jeter walked down South Street, ate pizza, watched girls, and dreamed of more basketball, their normal summer routine. Rome held the ball. Sometimes, he dribbled; sometimes, he just put the worn leather under his arms and held it like a baby. His mother treated the B-balls he used with oil or shoe leather, depending on the condition of the equipment. She was a real artist when it came to extending the life of material objects. As Rome shifted the ball from hand to hand, he thought of his mother’s comments on balls, shoes, and everything he cherished. It is pointless to buy something of quality if you are not willing to do the maintenance, she uttered on a weekly basis.

Jeter’s behavior—walking and talking with a ball all the time—was not out of the ordinary in Philadelphia. Neighbors and migrants passing through the area in which he lived, Northwest Philly, often pushed carts or hauled large boom boxes around. Some even carried heirlooms in garbage sacks if the goods were important to them. On South Street, it was a different story. He looked like an impostor among people shopping and relaxing. Nobody else looked ready to play a strenuous game or even move quickly if necessary. Even the police officers looked tranquil.

Look at all these musicians, thought Marcus as he passed one freaky hippie with shaggy hair after another. Funky hats and wild sunglasses adorned heads with headphones and phones jammed in their ears. On South Street, they were the outcasts. Tourists and college students were the biggest groups, and the tourists were from the area. Rome was used to looking different. At age seventeen, he was six-nine and a half and 255 pounds. He also looked the part of a playground legend. He never smiled easily; a scowl was his natural predisposition. Even parties and family gatherings didn’t change this initial demeanor. He looked like he was perpetually sizing people up.

What’s a matter with your boy? asked Rome’s great-uncle Burnie one time. Does he know he doesn’t have to pay me a dollar when he smiles? Even the joke told in Rome’s presence did not elicit a smile. As he sauntered down South Street trying to fit in, he didn’t. Rome was conscious of this fact, and those who knew him well theorized that this fact explained why he felt more comfortable on the basketball court than off. Can you imagine walking around hitting your head on lampposts all the time? squawked Burnie at the same party. That boy looks like Herman Munster. He’s too big for his clothes, the house. His head is going to hit the moon someday.

The jokes were true. Rome’s stature and behavior matched his look. His shooting touch was rough, his ball handling needed improvement, and he was an average passer inside. At times, the ball looked tiny in his hands, but he blocked shots and rebounded everything. This final skill was his signature move, and it created his court persona. Jeter worked hard and was recognized as an ideal teammate, a protector first and foremost. He grabbed the ball and dispensed it to fellow players, a simple game when played correctly. He started the break, and he controlled tempo. He wasn’t the point guard, but he could control the tempo of the game at times, and he listened well, which made him popular with coaches.

When someone brought the ball into his key, he disrespected them, according to his father. That meant he blocked their shot. Early in his basketball life, Rome took great pleasure in swatting the ball out of bounds or spiking it into the ground for effect. As he matured on the court, he realized showboating should be left to other people.

He had recently perfected the more difficult skill of blocking shots and taking the ball or grabbing it in midair after an errant shot. A deft pass started fast breaks if somebody down the court had advantages in speed or numbers. If strong defense and efficient offense were the goal, Rome would make sure his team never lost possession of the ball. His nickname was silly, derived from a coach years earlier who declared Rome was the Chairman of the Boards. The moniker stuck, and people didn’t even know what it meant. But the name signaled respect because it spread, and the boy from Philly attracted plenty of attention on the court.

And what really drew attention to Rome, made him popular among observers and coaches in Philadelphia, was that Jeter played angry, with a chip on his shoulder, not always the case with a young big man. Jeter was particularly intense on the court when someone from an opposing team made a shot. At that moment, he felt powerless—nothing to do but wait till next time up the floor, wasted effort, wasted work. There was nothing to show for a task that included moving large men out of the way and positioning himself near the basket better than anybody else. Waiting for the ball and watching it dip into the net is the most helpless feeling in the world, he would tell younger players.

He made the game sound poetic, an admirable trait cherished by older generations, accustomed to hearing only about dunks and showboating from young men. Since he never smiled, his scowling, grunts, and passion showed that he took the game seriously and gave the impression that Rome hated to lose. Fathers could point to him and tell their sons he played the game the right way, with love. He never showed anybody up on the court, and he only grunted when dunking if he was trying to send a message to somebody.

Polite off the court, Rome addressed elders with respect. His first coaches tore into him to make sure he could take the emotional punishment that a boy with talent would endure. He was forced to be tough, no-nonsense. I can’t believe how hard the coaches are on Rome, Pop, Marcus would tell his father after practice. His father’s reaction became more comprehensible as the years rolled on: If a tall kid like that makes it big, the coach knows he will look good.

Shrewd basketball observers felt Jeter’s limited ego might hurt him when he took his game to college. His AAU summer team coach, Simon Rudel, was always telling him he was getting too close to the basket, underneath the goal, a terrible spot for shots that clanked off the rim and vaulted backward. But Rome could not help himself. He was attracted to the rim like a human magnet. With his long arms and quick jumping ability, he figured he could reach back to snare most rebounds anyway. Jeter also hated scoring. He thought guys putting up big numbers on weak teams were selfish. When he told people this fact, they did not believe him. It sounded like bullshit. Who hated to score?

Veteran East Coast talent evaluator Phil Jesper even bugged Rome’s coaches about this perception when he cornered them near the floor during warm-ups or on their way to the locker room. Do you think Jeter can score in double figures in Division 1? He was referring to the highest level of college basketball. Rome was a high-end prospect. As a so-called recruiting guru, Jesper was nervous that his glowing reports about Rome might not come true. Phil, the kid can score at will. He just chooses not to, said Rudel. With his footwork, he will dominate inside if his coach sets up their offense through him.

Jesper was an annoyance but a necessary conversation target for coaches because he was an itinerant gossip. He delivered as much information as he gathered. If you wanted to know which schools were capturing the attention of a rival player or which player was not getting along with his coach, Jesper was the person to speak with. Sometimes, he is worth listening to because he gives away information, Rudel confessed to his assistant, Jon Markie. He said the next team we play in this tournament is using a 2-2-1 zone. Wait until he gets a look at Jeter against that defense. He’ll stop asking questions. Rudel’s prediction came true as Rome scorched their opponent for thirty-three points on easy layups and dunks. He also spent some time at the foul line as the backline defender fouled out trying to stop him.

Rudel spent a lot of time explaining to Jeter that spending a little time away from the basket would be a selfless way of helping the team. He could pick up long rebounds facing the basket instead of being caught in a tough position with the ball. And you would be in better position to receive passes from teammates in trouble on offense, stressed the coach. These were methods Rudel tried after discovering that standard motivational techniques did not work with his talented pupil. He appealed to Jeter’s sense of team, his emotional connection to teammates and winning.

Rudel keenly observed that Jeter was a brute in stature but sensitive in reality. This facet of his personality did not only manifest itself in the locker room. On the court, Rome was a model citizen around authority figures. He hands the ball to the referee politely, and then he says ‘Thank you’ and ‘Yes, sir’ to everybody who checks him in at the scoring table, Rudel told his assistant Reggie Louden, laughing at the thought. Yeah, and if he weren’t any good, nobody would care, responded the young coach. Since he’s the best in the league, he gets to be a role model.

And that summed up Jeter in the eyes of many of the grown-ups watching him on the court and off. Surprisingly polite, he took directions seriously if the message had meaning. In school, the effect was the same. Those who did not follow sports at all assumed Rome was a junior when he was a sophomore, and as he prepared for his senior year, many of the uninformed in the school thought he had already graduated. Convincing the phenom to score, however, that was a different question.

Rome, if you stop getting caught under the backboard, you will score about thirty a game.

Coach, I’m not reading the stat sheet. This is different, thought Rudel at the time. When he told Jeter setting screens for teammates on every play was not necessary, that his game would be more attractive to college recruiters if he showed an ability to step out and make an outside shot once in a while, he was met with a long stare. That reaction was followed by a lengthy pause after a long drink at the courtside drinking fountain. After wiping his face, Rome addressed the comment. Rudel began getting nervous as the seconds ticked. He wondered if he had offended his star player.

Coach, I really prefer doing the dirty work, and the last thing I care about is being in a beauty pageant for recruiters. Who is this guy? thought Rudel, who kept his mouth shut and just nodded. He rarely encountered a teenager who acted like he was fifty. Most of the players he mentored were interested in enhancing their individual games. For a while, he even thought it was an act; but after watching Rome give teammates advice on and off the court that bordered on lectures from an old man (Focus on getting your teammates a shot, not yourself was one of his consistent refrains), he realized the strange behavior was really Jeter’s personality. It was all natural, just him. I have no idea where this behavior came from, said Rudel to his wife, Becky, who was pleased her husband’s team was so good that he rarely complained during the summer schedule.

Rudel warned Jeter’s high school coach, Jim McClemmons, about the reluctant superstar, and his new coach suffered the same frustrations when trying to adapt Jeter’s game. I like to rebound and pass, said Rome when encouraged to shoot by McClemmons during halftime of a league game.

I don’t care what you like. I am trying to win basketball games, bellowed the coach, who had a very different style than Rudel. He always looked exasperated after these exchanges, like the wind was taken from his body. During close games, the coach’s delicacies completely vanished, and he said, I am trying to win a fucking basketball game. Shoot! McClemmons’s intensity won Jeter over, and he did look to shoot more and eventually developed a complimentary game to his defense and board work, and McClemmons was certain his prodding was the only thing that caused this shift.

While polite, Jeter respected intensity, and McClemmons had plenty to go around. I realize you do not want to shoot all the time, that you want to be a team player, said the coach on several occasions when alone with Jeter after practice. But we have a problem. I want to win basketball games. It benefits me and the team if you shoot and score more. If you really want to be a team player, shoot the fucking ball! McClemmons usually delivered this sermon while holding a basketball and actually shooting it, going through the motion of waving goodbye and watching the sphere arc toward the hoop with plenty of spin. The coach was hyper, and he was best when moving, jumping, or demonstrating rather than sitting on a bench or behind a desk.

His intensity finally won Rome over, who, while not inclined to put his coach’s interests ahead of his own, did eventually concede that they were seeking the same goal: a winning team. Coach is crazy, and I like that, Rome would tell his mother.

By his junior year, Jeter was one of the best low post players in the nation, able to use his body and gain position on either side of the key and use a drop step, spin move, or simply turn and shoot with either hand in traffic. He even developed a pump fake to draw large players into the air so he could drive past them or head to the free throw line after they landed on him or hacked his arm in the act of shooting. I have to keep doing this bullshit so we can win according to coach, he confided to Marcus, who was well aware of his coach’s intent.

You have to make sure Jeter shoots the fucking ball, McClemmons told Marcus, his trusted point guard. This kid is going to give me a heart attack, and it’s going to be your fault. Marcus just stood silent and nodded when either one of them spoke to him in confidence. He was the ideal listener for both of them and the glue that kept the team on its intended course. He didn’t really care about the outcome; he just wanted to stop listening to their emotional outbursts and play basketball.

Playground time was wide open—no coaches, no advisers—and summer pickup games were all about showing off or playing in the most natural way possible. Rome always did the latter, which meant rebounding, blocking shots, and passing too much. South Street was shiny on this particular Friday. Dirt and sweat from the previous night poured into nearby storm drains, forced by early morning street sweepers and hoses bunched up in corners of the street. Church attendees and residents in sweatpants and paint-stained clothes wearing baseball caps to mask messy appearances were replacing joggers and opportunistic dogs cluttering the street. Smells of sweet sausage, cheese, and peppers wafted in the air. Water ice was spilling in white cones.

Marcus only ate pizza, so he spent much of his time reviewing pies and women’s figures. He was a veteran admirer, and like a good point guard, he only acted when necessary. He did not draw attention to himself or make loud, lewd noises. Rome appreciated his behavior. He was all too familiar with loud, obnoxious boys, a natural affliction among late teenagers. At his height, drawing attention to himself was the last thing on his mind.

Jeter wore a hat pulled down as far as possible. Like postparty revelers stumbling to work or on their smoke breaks, he was in no mood to make a spectacle of himself after their pickup game. He wanted to stop and say hi to his father, who worked security at a nearby department store, and he was trying to figure out a way to lose Marcus politely. He just needed one girl with a shapely ass to catch M’s attention and he would be free for a while.

Marcus lived in West Philly, a district where black and white collided, so heading over near South Street, on the southern edge of Philadelphia’s Center City, was a simple subway ride or walk away and a break from normalcy. To the west, white kids attending local universities moved into semicrumbling homes sustained and preserved by African American families for generations. As visitors traveled further west, they encountered blacker people. Those situated to the east, near the students, were of lighter skin. The glue that held young people in the neighborhood together were the playgrounds that crossed all the boundaries. A kid from one edge of the neighborhood could play in someone else’s territory and integrate with another child interested in sports, climbing equipment, or simply making mischief. When everybody was on the playground, color and shading did not matter. Back inside homes, it did.

Marcus’s uncle Walt, who lived in Marcus’s parent’s house, called the light black people the toasties. He never said anything about people to the east. Uncle Walt had a lot to say, and once he got going, he was hard to stop. When Rome visited Marcus’s house where the loquacious relative lived, he always naturally cringed after walking in the door, wondering what Uncle Walt would say next. I haven’t seen this many white-black people since I last attended an Urban League luncheon, he said once while he and the two boys walked toward Franklin Field on the University of Pennsylvania campus. Another time, Marcus’s older sister, who was called Em, announced she was heading over to visit a boy in the thirties thirty blocks away from where she and Marcus grew up at the twilight of a family picnic.

When that girl shows up in that neighborhood, those whiteys are going to think they are being invaded by spooks. After a great pause and some laughter, Walt, lifted up from an ugly, dirt-encrusted couch, did a little shuffle, and said, Now I am not saying your sister is ugly, but she is going to scare some folks over there. I’ll tell you what, there are going to be some funny faces in toastyville tonight. Then he laughed out loud at his own thoughts.

The last time Rome had visited the Robinson household, Walt had fallen asleep with a small portion of a pork sandwich resting on his gut. Good God, look at that slob, thought Jeter upon entering the home. A few minutes later, he was aroused from his own daydream by an inquisitive yell: Why don’t you shoot the ball more, you big dummy? After this experience, Rome wondered if Walt was just faking it when he slept on the couch.

As Rome recalled the oddities of Uncle Walt, a young woman with a lively ass (it was bouncing all over the place) made her way across South Street. He simply nodded in her direction, and Marcus took the bait, quickly following the young woman and making her acquaintance. Rome could tell she had some attitude. Marcus would be walking several blocks to actually get her name or phone number. She was not the kind of girl who would slow down for you; any interested party would be forced to catch her. Perfect, thought Jeter. That was easy. Marcus’s behavior was inevitable. Unlike Rome, he moved through life as if he was being timed with a stopwatch, hoping good things came quickly. He was built for youth, not longevity.

Marcus was six-one and stocky for a boy his age. He was filling out quickly, and he was strong. Both of his parents had wide shoulders and hips, and his sloping shoulders and deep chest mirrored his father’s, who now had a sizable gut to match. College basketball coaches watching Marcus play AAU games in the summertime always whispered about his weight to their assistants with notebooks in the foyer or underneath the stands, as players were assessed by observers as if they were cattle. Would this kid always be quick, or would every coming year strain his knees? He was one of those kids who looked thirty-five when he was seventeen.

Marcus never took any of the talk very seriously in public—all good athletes have doubters—but privately, he worried that his career and his athletic prowess would be short-lived. People from West Philly, who remembered his father, Mel, as the quickest fifteen-year-old they ever saw, wore skeptic expressions when Marcus’s future came up. They were familiar with the gene pool, and they figured Marcus would take his talents as far as he could, but the limitations might come early. The boy had a baby face that accompanied a man’s body, and confidence spewed from his mouth. What neighbors could not tell the boy (they were concerned they would break his heart) was that his father kept eating until he looked like a middle linebacker instead of a point guard. You better stop eating, or they are going to have to get you a bigger moving truck, said Walt one night when Rome was visiting.

The cruelty of the genetic code was witnessed in flesh and blood as Shale Robinson worked the neighborhood as a furniture mover in his early twenties after staring as a junior college basketball player in Maryland with poor grades. He started slinging moving dollies after dropping out of Bowie State when he discovered the coach actually expected him to go to school and he decided studies were not his thing.

Uncle Walt only spoke of Shale’s career openly when the latter was at work or fishing. The story always ended the same and sent chills down Marcus’s spine: He was like lightning when he was young. Nobody could catch him. Nobody could even come close to catching him. Then one day, others players were just a step behind, then half a step, and then they caught him, and he started getting fat as hell. It was just sad, man. I couldn’t even watch him anymore. It made me cry.

Witnessing a perennial jerk like Walt turn maudlin when confronted with memories of Shale’s fall shook Marcus. His mother could not even discuss his dad’s basketball career, which confirmed the pain the past caused his father. He felt like every day, the clock was ticking.

Marcus handled himself well socially, much better than Rome, who kept most of his thoughts to himself. He spoke easily to women, never nervous. When he noticed an attractive girl at school or on the street, he moved differently. His focus on going through his early life efficiently resulted in a strong focus on tasks at hand. When he had a goal, he underwent a metamorphosis.

He moves like a different person, said Rome to his girlfriend, Tina, one time while watching Marcus approach two attractive young women in the hallway at school—not a complete strut or one of those odd side-to-side swinging arm shuffles that pseudo gangsters incorporated, something of his own. Marcus stuck his chin up and out and walked taller somehow. Rome liked telling him he was six-one on the basketball court and six-three when meeting girls.

As Marcus chased his new chocolate princess up South Street, Rome called out, I’ll catch up with you later.

Meet at J. Davids, he said without even looking at Rome, who smiled as he watched his buddy pursue new meat. J. Davids was a local coffee shop. He would give Marcus about forty-five minutes to get the girl’s number.

Meanwhile, he began walking in the other direction, toward the downtown Daffy’s store. Marcus could be sloppy with time; boy, Robinson would loiter at the coffee shop for hours if prompted. He would probably even try and score some day-old pastries.

After walking past more of the usual Friday Philly crowd, shoppers from the suburbs, visitors walking around Center City, and a smattering of bums and pimps, Rome arrived at the Chestnut Street entrance to Daffy’s. He saw his father immediately, stationed near the door. Reggie Jeter sat with his arms folded, a coffee-stained sports page balanced delicately on a nearby clothes rack. His eyes were moving back and forth, darting from spot to spot, the gaze of a man focused on the movements of strangers. Privately, he confided in Rome that he let the most poor of Philadelphia’s criminals off the hook if they appeared young and destitute. They exited the store with a stern warning and a lecture and then a pat on the shoulder, a sharp squeeze of the arm, and a look somewhere between grief and a pleasant goodbye, the complicated expression a funeral home director masters.

You can teach a minor a lesson when you catch them shoplifting, Reggie told Rome. But you’re not going to teach a young man with a starving child anything. They are just trying to feed their family. While in the confines of his own home, Reggie Jeter was even more forthright. Everybody is always talking about legalizing drugs, bellowed Reggie within thin walls on a run-down street in Kensington. Somebody ought to legalize eating.

Rome knew his father did not really believe that it was illegal to eat, but he knew what he meant: people in America shouldn’t be starving. Reggie had been working two jobs for years, and the extra cash he pocketed for doing part-time security work in Center City ensured his house was always the best-looking property on the block.

Hi, Pop.

Hey, buddy. What brings you my way?

I was just over on South Street with Marcus, and I headed to the big D after Marcus started following a girl.

Ah, the sweet science, said Reggie, who called women science. You meetin’ any science these days, boy?

Nah. Just Tina.

Good. Plenty of time for that nonsense. Jesus, are you still growing?

Nah.

Reggie was always surprised by Rome’s height. The old man was eight inches shorter than his son, and he knew Rome received his height from his mother, who was nearly six feet tall and big-boned with high cheekbones, a woman who commanded attention when entering a room. Natasha Howard, Rome’s mother, attracted attention when nobody was focusing on her. She was habitually well-dressed and observant by nature. She looked people in the eye and spoke with strong diction in confident tones.

Reggie never mentioned her by name. Your mother was his signal call or Rome’s mother if he was speaking with someone other than his son. He was careful to show respect for the woman who bore him a son, but privately, he seethed about her attitudes and uppity feelings about others, people he cared about. Natasha had informed Reggie years earlier that he did not deserve her, and all four of Reggie’s sisters were kept at bay for years when they sought to spend time with their nephew, the only son of their only brother.

Rome’s mother was a beautiful girl growing up in Folsom, a suburb of Philly. Her family was middle class, but she spent time with friends from nearby Haverford and Bryn Mawr, suburbs full of young white girls, upper middle class icons. Natasha was nicknamed SC for self-centered by her own father. She was an only child, who participated in everything at school and spent much of her early life developing focused social plans. She was a strong student and a good athlete. Her body was curvaceous and womanly at age thirteen, heavy breasts supported by powerful square shoulders, features that settled in Rome. Her ass was round and moved with authority when she walked, and her thick body was balanced by beautiful caramel skin, luscious lips, and straight large teeth. A broad smile surfaced when she was amused, when young Ms. Howard wanted to impress people. When she was angry, she was scary—flaring nostrils, wide eyes, and a fierce sneer.

Natasha surprised her family early in life when tall, attractive, and wealthy white boys showed up at the door for dates. These young men intrigued her, but she never let them do anything besides hug, kiss, or fondle her. Often, she would blow a lucky boy who had showed her a great time in Philadelphia, including dinner at one of the city’s finest restaurants, a show, and flowers and gifts, unbelievable experiences for a precocious young girl. When her beautiful, plump lips wrapped around an excitable cock, she was assured of several additional special evenings until the unsuspecting boy ran out of money or realized he would get no further with Folsom’s brown queen.

Don’t they allow black boys on campus anymore? her father often said to her mother after Natasha bounded out the door for yet another fine meal.

Maybe other boys have figured out she is just toying with them, answered her mother, who was never fooled by the routine.

If the boys didn’t interest her at all, Natasha did have a routine. She would suggest they take a walk around the nearby Haverford College arboretum and then pretend to not feel well. If they were really uninteresting, she would pick the short loop around one of the ponds. If they were worth spending a few minutes with, Natasha would pick a longer path. She was a better listener than talker.

On a hot July evening, twenty-year-old Natasha, then a student on scholarship at Villanova, was sunning herself outside Mario’s, a nearby haunt for attractive women and wealthy men. Bored and confused about her love life and tired of dating young Catholic boys wearing laundered shirts, she viewed eighteen-year-old Reggie Jeter across the street working on his car and sipping a coke during breaks. He looked rugged and confident. After fifteen minutes of random staring, Natasha’s impulses took over. She sauntered across the street, swishing her voluptuous hips every time her body twisted. Hi was all she said.

After three hours of chatting, they made love in Reggie’s Ford Galaxie for