married to the mom. But he’s head over heels in love with the girl. She comes to the studio sometimes. Her name’s Kara—about a year older than Delaney.”
“That could be good or bad.”
“What do you mean?” Violet asked.
“Depends if the girls get along.”
“You’re already planning my life with this guy? I think you’re getting a little carried away. A
lot
carried away.”
“This is what women do, Ms. Epps. We meet a man, we develop a crush, we get carried away. It’s perfectly ghastly, but we never learn.”
“Who said I have a crush on Michael?”
“Please. I know a crush when I see one. Hell, I
invented
crushes. As to your Michael, well, he is exactly the kind of man I would have been all over in my day.”
“Really? I thought you had a weakness for blond-haired, blue-eyed leading-man types.”
“I like martinis,” Mrs. Parker said. “It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t adore a whisky sour every now and then.”
Violet’s interest was piqued; interracial dating was almost unheard of in Dorothy Parker’s day. “So you would date a black man?”
“Would and have.”
Violet’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“My dear, I hope you don’t take me for a racist. I devoted much of my life to the civil rights movement.”
“No, no. Not a racist at all,” Violet said, worried she had offended her guest. “I know how passionately you fought bigotry and injustice. You even got yourself arrested—”
“Sacco and Vanzetti,” Mrs. Parker said.
“Yes.” Violet had read that Dorothy Parker protested the unjust murder trial of two Italian immigrants in the 1920s. “They took you away in handcuffs.”
“A lot of good that did.”
Violet nodded. She knew the men had been executed. She also knew that, guilty or innocent, the prejudice against them for being foreigners and anarchists had sealed their fate. Violet wished she could say something supportive, like, ‘You fought the good fight,’ but it sounded too facile for something so tragic. It had to have been an excruciating injustice to witness. “I’m sorry,” she simply said.
“It just about ruined me.”
“But you didn’t give up.”
“Never. And that’s the cold, hard truth about me. I’m the greatest little hoper that ever lived.”
Yes, Violet thought. It was why she left her entire estate to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and the NAACP—her abiding hope that the world could change.
“I’m sorry if you thought I was accusing you of being prejudiced,” Violet said. “I know how hard you fought.”
Mrs. Parker waved away the comment. “I’ve been called worse.”
“You must have been bursting when you heard about our 2008 election…I mean, you know about President Obama, right?”
“I do…” Mrs. Parker said, and stopped. She was literally choked up.
Violet waited while her guest tried to collect herself, but Mrs. Parker seemed unable to speak.
“I guess you didn’t think we’d ever get this far,” Violet offered.
“But I did. And isn’t that the damnedest thing? I suppose inside every cynic beats the heart of an idealist.”
Chapter 12
Delaney started taking piano lessons when she was eight years old, and Violet had been to almost every recital. But last year’s performance was only two months after the accident, and the girl wasn’t emotionally ready for it, so they skipped it. That meant this year’s recital would be the first time Delaney would play without her parents in the audience. Violet was almost sick with worry. How on earth would the kid get through this?
The event was in a cavernous subterranean space beneath the showroom of a large piano store, and the mood, as always, was exuberant. The parents were nervous and excited about their children’s impending performances. The kids, dressed in crisp clothes reserved for special events, were proud and anxious.
Sandra and Malcolm sat on one side of Delaney, and Violet sat on the other. The piano teacher, Mr. Lawrence, introduced
“That could be good or bad.”
“What do you mean?” Violet asked.
“Depends if the girls get along.”
“You’re already planning my life with this guy? I think you’re getting a little carried away. A
lot
carried away.”
“This is what women do, Ms. Epps. We meet a man, we develop a crush, we get carried away. It’s perfectly ghastly, but we never learn.”
“Who said I have a crush on Michael?”
“Please. I know a crush when I see one. Hell, I
invented
crushes. As to your Michael, well, he is exactly the kind of man I would have been all over in my day.”
“Really? I thought you had a weakness for blond-haired, blue-eyed leading-man types.”
“I like martinis,” Mrs. Parker said. “It doesn’t mean I wouldn’t adore a whisky sour every now and then.”
Violet’s interest was piqued; interracial dating was almost unheard of in Dorothy Parker’s day. “So you would date a black man?”
“Would and have.”
Violet’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“My dear, I hope you don’t take me for a racist. I devoted much of my life to the civil rights movement.”
“No, no. Not a racist at all,” Violet said, worried she had offended her guest. “I know how passionately you fought bigotry and injustice. You even got yourself arrested—”
“Sacco and Vanzetti,” Mrs. Parker said.
“Yes.” Violet had read that Dorothy Parker protested the unjust murder trial of two Italian immigrants in the 1920s. “They took you away in handcuffs.”
“A lot of good that did.”
Violet nodded. She knew the men had been executed. She also knew that, guilty or innocent, the prejudice against them for being foreigners and anarchists had sealed their fate. Violet wished she could say something supportive, like, ‘You fought the good fight,’ but it sounded too facile for something so tragic. It had to have been an excruciating injustice to witness. “I’m sorry,” she simply said.
“It just about ruined me.”
“But you didn’t give up.”
“Never. And that’s the cold, hard truth about me. I’m the greatest little hoper that ever lived.”
Yes, Violet thought. It was why she left her entire estate to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and the NAACP—her abiding hope that the world could change.
“I’m sorry if you thought I was accusing you of being prejudiced,” Violet said. “I know how hard you fought.”
Mrs. Parker waved away the comment. “I’ve been called worse.”
“You must have been bursting when you heard about our 2008 election…I mean, you know about President Obama, right?”
“I do…” Mrs. Parker said, and stopped. She was literally choked up.
Violet waited while her guest tried to collect herself, but Mrs. Parker seemed unable to speak.
“I guess you didn’t think we’d ever get this far,” Violet offered.
“But I did. And isn’t that the damnedest thing? I suppose inside every cynic beats the heart of an idealist.”
Chapter 12
Delaney started taking piano lessons when she was eight years old, and Violet had been to almost every recital. But last year’s performance was only two months after the accident, and the girl wasn’t emotionally ready for it, so they skipped it. That meant this year’s recital would be the first time Delaney would play without her parents in the audience. Violet was almost sick with worry. How on earth would the kid get through this?
The event was in a cavernous subterranean space beneath the showroom of a large piano store, and the mood, as always, was exuberant. The parents were nervous and excited about their children’s impending performances. The kids, dressed in crisp clothes reserved for special events, were proud and anxious.
Sandra and Malcolm sat on one side of Delaney, and Violet sat on the other. The piano teacher, Mr. Lawrence, introduced
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