“Mira, I think he’s after me,” Violet said. Bess raised her eyebrows. Nikki was alerted. Men tuned to Violet like bees to bottle gentian—the boys in the hood who’d “Hey-babe” her, as if she were Mookie’s stunning girl friend in Do the Right Thing. She was dusk on the island to the young Rican men. The white boys drooled, but were too shy to speak to her.
“No, not that. I gave a landlord a month’s rent and security deposit for that Riverwest walkup. Then I come to find out he rented it to three other women with children, just like me.”
“That’s evil,” Bess weighed in.
“I know someone in the DA’s office,” said Nikki.
“I turned his butt in, but the police won’t do anything,” moaned Violet. “He’s two-faced and goes by different names.” Then she whispered, “I found out this guy’s got a gang for his other business. What if they come after my kids?” Roberto looked her way.
“We need to bring some prayer into the circle here,” said Bess.
“We need to bring some prairie into the circle,” countered Nikki.
“I see it all in the shades and textures,” said Violet then, as her soft, cinnamon face relaxed a little.
“What if we get the community men back in here?” Nikki brainstormed. Trapped by circumstance—in a bind over rent, no abode, an oldest son who won’t stick with school even for sports—Violet certainly needed role-model protectors.
“If they come to help, not to help themselves,” Bess preached.
“Yeah, maybe we can get the Africanists back in here,” Violet said, perking up. She might have welcomed a stable suitor, especially after her history with men. (If only raising kids and finding romance were wings of the same bird.)
Suddenly, the day’s first visitor came barging in—Toni, the 30-something W-2 trainee with blue jeans, stringy blond hair, and an Audubon hooded-warbler T-shirt.
“Hello, elders,” she said, looking at Violet’s sewing partners. The older women nodded.
Violet kindly greeted Toni’s T-shirt message, “This craft shop is my sanctuary.” Violet’s own traumas hardened like a red planet inside her and spun into motion with each new reminder of hard, female circumstance. At her best, she could barely patch together a day with the kids fed and clean-clothed. But at work, Violet created a calm orbit for even the bi-polar Toni whose manic stitching made the flag dresses look like crazy-quilts.
Almost as soon as she was settled, Toni pricked herself with her needle. “It won’t be finished unless it has blood on it,” Violet affirmed, smiling, remembering. The gingerbread-faced girls used to sing: “Lady, touch the floor; lady, turn around; lady, take your bags; and get out of town.” Violet learned those songs at the same, young age that she learned to sew. But the woman who taught her handicrafts—you must learn to mend—would later put her out of the house as a young teen for being too dark and too bold. (Surely you’d think, there must be a granny back on the island, wondering what became of her young, wild flower.)
