“You think Violet should take up with the poet?” asked Nikki. “The other name for purple coneflower is Black Sampson.”
“Don’t go there,” Bess replied with a rolling chuckle. “Besides, you have a finished room in your basement, don’t you?”
“My husband says no way,” Nikki answered. You want, like, Rosie Perez living in our basement, he had said. “I could have killed him,” Nikki whispered, immediately embarrassed by her overreaction.
“We’ll keep praying,” Bess said.
“Are you going to pray for Violet’s apartment landlord?” Nikki ventured.
“I pray he gets what he deserves,” answered Bess, then wished she could have taken it back. Instead the women straightened out the leather and mud-cloth for next week’s fashion bags.
Down the road, Harold shepherded Violet as she shopped in the neighborhood of the menacing landlord. Harold watched the jaws drop on the young men’s faces all around as Violet, exuberant in her short skirt and tank-top, wandered through the aisles of Goya nectars and cans of gandules, giant aloe plants, and huge, mutant avocados. The moment was worth more than gold fillings.
When they left, he asked, “Violet, when’s the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday.”
“There’s a whole garden in the back of my house. Just take what you need, whatever’s ready.”
“Can you stop by the taco place on the way back?” Violet requested.
Baby Face’s When Will I See You Again? pined on the car radio. Harold cruised cautiously to the nearby drive-through.
“It’s not real chimichanga,” Violet said, nervously, “so it shouldn’t take long.”
Violet ducked down a little as they went through. But as they left, a young guy in a Raiders pullover approached on the right. Before Harold could even think, there was a “crink, crink” on metal. The car pitched.
Violet screeched, “That’s a gun!”
Harold shifted into shop-steward mode and almost did a wheelie to get away from the teens spraying out in every direction. “Are you hit?” he called out. “I don’t think so,” she hollered back, but she was feeling her sides and back. Harold knew the door of his old Ford wagon had bullet holes in it.
“What the hell was that, a robbery?” he protested. “I’m going to District Three.”
“No, no,” Violet pleaded.
“The security cameras could nail that kid. The police…”
“That doesn’t work for people like me. Take me to the shop.”
Bess and Nikki jump as Violet barges in the shop door with more thunder than Toni ever could.
“I need to get the hell out of here.”
“Violet, what’s the matter?” Bess cries out.
“Right now! I need to go. Help me! Pack up the kids’ clothes.” Violet’s voice is quivering, shoulders shaking, her hair a mess, on the verge of tears. Harold comes in then, looking chagrined.
“What happened?” asks Nikki.
“He had his gang shoot up my car,” Violet screams. She is bobbing like a boxer, trying to decide which direction to go in her shop, what to do next.
“We stopped at the drive-through to get some…” Harold begins.
