Thrown-away Child

him—somehow.”
    Though she had ceded the master bedroom to Perry, the rest of the narrow row house belonged to Violet. What did she need with that big old room upstairs anyhow? That room where Willis had spent all those years dying? The little bedroom next door, where Ruby and Janice slept as girls—that would do just fine for Violet these days. It held all she needed: a closet full of stored-up things anybody else probably would have junked long ago—a cherry-wood chiffo-robe, her mother’s handed-down treasure that was plenty roomy enough for her few clothes; the matching cherrywood bureau and bed, the bed she and Willis shared.
    But mostly, Violet did not sleep in that marriage bed. It held memories of Willis too strong to bear on an every-night basis. And so Violet and Perry had fallen into a sort of upstairs-downstairs routine.
    Every night after dinner—which Perry usually cooked, she had to give him that—they would go their separate ways. Violet would settle into the couch in the parlor with a cup of tea, a paperback book, and her store-bought spectacles. She would take off her shoes, find something tolerable on the radio, and read. Eventually she would doze off right where she was, usually still dressed in her blue polyester maid’s uniform. Perry would be upstairs, meanwhile, smoking and drinking and watching TV until the purple dawn.
    A few weeks ago on one of these routine evenings, Hassie Pinkney had come visiting, without the advance warning of a phone call. There stood Miss Hassie at Violet’s door, wearing lace gloves and a flowered dress with a hat to match and holding a leatherette Holy Bible. Miss Hassie and her big nose, Violet thought-' broad and bumpy black as an overripe avocado rind, and always stuck someplace where it had no business being stuck.
    “You miss three Sunday preachings in a row, Vi,” said Hassie, staring at Violet’s wilted uniform, then down at Violet’s bare feet. Violet thought, For somebody with an avocado nose, the magpie got an awful superior look. Violet kept her own face carefully blank. “Minister Tilton, he tell me to come by see that you still alive.”
    “Tell Zeb I’m breathing fine, thanks kindly.”
    “You mind if I come in sit for a while, Vi?” Hassie looked past Violet into the parlor, suspicion and disapproval flooding her face. She cocked her head toward the droning sound of Perry’s TV, drifting down the stairway.
    “I’m busy reading.”
    Hassie sniffed. She lifted her Bible and pressed it righteously against her bosom, and said, “This here’s the only book I ever be needing to read.”
    “That figures.”
    Hassie scowled and changed the subject. “What’s that nephew of yours doing upstairs with his noaccount self?”
    “Boozing, smoking, frying his brains on TV.“
    “Ain’t all he do. The nigger be up to something.“
    “What you dreaming?”
    “Ain’t dreaming. Perry be all the time coming round the levee by me. Like he some sorry lost dog. He sit down back of that old cottage you and Willis had, and he write and write in some book. And he Peep at me, too.”
    Sounds like you’re the one peeping.” ain’t here to argue, and maybe you don’t want 0 hear about none of this.” Hassie waggled her head, er way of sneering. “Vi, how come you take in such a nasty man?”
    “I read in the Scriptures once how we all supposed to do good unto others, how we supposed to love the least of God’s children as good as the best.”
    “Well, I don’t know.” Hassie squeezed her Bible and ignored Violet’s Christian sentiments. “I guess you going to be all right around here.”
    “I get a little bone tired of some folks is all.“
    “Your spirits got the need of lifting.”
    “Maybe so.”
    “We be seeing you down to church anytime soon?“
    “By-and-by.”
    Then by-and-by Hassie was gone. Violet watched her march down Gibson Street with her gloves and floral Sunday clothes. And her Bible clutched tightly to her chest, as a shield against the taunts of sidewalk heathens. Yo, mama—I got something right here in my pants do you better than God do you... Where you get that fine dress?... Tell me all about how Jesus love my black ass, church lady.
    The impotence of idling men on street corners making crude passes at women also made Violet Flagg bone tired. She closed the door and locked it, then sank back down into the parlor couch. Billie Holiday was singing “Don’t Explain” on the radio. Violet skimmed through the