Crescent City Connection

her back in bed, crying. “Mama, I peed myself.”
    “Honey, you were scared to death. Mama’s so sorry to scare you like that.”
    “Mama, what Troy do make you scream like that?”
    “He just surprise me, honey. He say something let me know he got a mean streak, and I felt so disappointed I scream out.”
    A mean streak like your daddy had
, she thought.
But even Delavon wouldn’t hurt no animals or children. I mus’ be getting . Jesus, don’ let me get no worse! Please help me find a good man sometime.
    She had got Shavonne into bed and told her a bedtime story and was just beginning to feel peaceful again when the phone rang. It was her boss asking her to come to the office the next morning.
    Jesus, don’t let the po-lice be there
, she prayed.
    She prayed all night long she’d be able to handle it all right. When she arrived, she saw that everyone was there who’d worked at Meredith’s that day, and they were called in individually. That meant she was probably okay.
    When it was her turn, she acted as if she couldn’t have been more surprised and said “darlin’” and “honey” a lot and she could tell she was the last person anybody in the company would suspect.
    She worked hard at her popularity and it was paying off.
Now I just gotta pray nobody else gets blamed for what I done
, she thought to herself, but she didn’t think anyone would. If fingerprints were found, they’d lead to Troy and that trail would lead straight to her. What she had to do was keep him out of her life.
    Well, no problem,
she thought.
He the last man I want to see.
    Shavonne stayed at a friend’s house that night, and Dorise called her sister. She was so lonely and—when you got down to it—so depressed she had to talk to someone. Her sister said, “Girl, you sound awful. What’s wrong wit’ you?”
    “I’m not seeing Troy no more. He didn’t turn out the way I hoped.”
    “You picky, girl, you know that? You just too picky.”
    Dorise wasn’t about to tell her the truth. When she didn’t say anything, her sister said, “How’s my little sugar-pie?”
    “Shavonne sleepin’ over at a friend’s house.”
    “She is? Well, let’s go, girl. Le’s go out.”
    “I don’t think so. I think I’ll just sit home and watch the tube.”
    But her sister came to pick her up in half an hour, dressed for meeting men. “Come on, girl. Put on somethin’ show off your nice behind. We gon’ go listen to some music.”
    Feeling more or less like she was in a trance, having very little mind of her own, Dorise followed orders.
    Her sister took her to a place outside the neighborhood, a place with a whole new crowd. Dorise had a few drinks and felt better.
    A fine-looking man talked to her, too, a man who worked for a painting contractor, but she couldn’t get interested to save her life.
    She was afraid of him. She was afraid of any man right now.
    But it was so hard being alone, trying to raise a child alone. And then there was the specter of sex. She’d forgotten all about that little thing until Troy reminded her so vividly.
    It sure was like cigarettes and drugs—once you had some you wanted more and more and more.
    She craved male attention and she was nice by nature, so she just didn’t have it in her to shine the fine-looking man, and in no time at all he seemed to have gotten it into his head that she was just dying to leave with him.
    “Can’t do that,” she said. “It’s a school night.”
    “You go to school?”
    “My little girl does.”
    “You got a little girl? I love kids—always wanted to have some myself.”
    “Listen, I gotta go.”
    “At least give me your phone number.”
    “Maybe I better get yours, darlin’. I don’t want to take no chances you won’t call.”
    She tore it up as soon as she and her sister were in the car.
    “What you do that for?”
    “I just don’t know what to believe and what not to believe these days. I been wrong my only two tries, and I just can’t afford to do it again.”
    “You gon’ be a nun or what?”
    “I’m gon’ pray about it. See what I can figure out.”
    She entered her empty house feeling more depressed than ever.
    * * *
    The Monk was in the gallery courtyard painting an angel when he realized he was humming to himself. He had had an uncontrollable urge to abandon his pregnant painting for a while and paint more angels that looked like Lovelace.
    And why not? He had to pay for it by dusting every piece of African art in the