cutting through gatherings, shooting down statutes and pointing out the blood and abused flesh. Those who swelled their little unarmed strength into the reckoning one of leagues, clubs, societies, sisterhoods designed to hold or withhold, move or stay put, make a way, solicit, comfort and ease. Bail out, dress the dead, pay the rent, find new rooms, start a school, storm an office, take up collections, rout the block and keep their eyes on all the children. Any other kind of unarmed black woman in 1926 was silent or crazy or dead.
Alice waited this time, in the month of March, for the woman with the knife. The woman people called Violent now because she had tried to kill what lay in a coffin. She had left notes under Alice’s door every day beginning in January—a week after the funeral—and Alice Manfred knew the kind of Negro that couple was: the kind she trained Dorcas away from. The embarrassing kind. More than unappealing, they were dangerous. The husband shot; the wife stabbed. Nothing. Nothing her niece did or tried could equal the violence done to her. And where there was violence wasn’t there also vice? Gambling. Cursing. A terrible and nasty closeness. Red dresses. Yellow shoes. And, of course, race music to urge them on.
But Alice was not frightened of her now as she had been in January and as she was in February, the first time she let her in. She’d thought the woman would end up in jail one day—they all did eventually. But easy pickings? Natural prey? “I don’t think so. I don’t think so.”
At the wake, Malvonne gave her the details. Tried to, anyway. Alice leaned away from the woman and held her breath as though to keep the words at bay.
“I appreciate your concern,” Alice told her. “Help yourself.” She gestured toward tables crowded with food and the well-wishers circling it. “There’s so much.”
“I feel so bad,” Malvonne said. “Like it was my own.”
“Thank you.”
“You raise other people’s children and it hurts just the same as it would if it was your own. You know about Sweetness, my nephew…?”
“Excuse me.”
“Did everything for him. Everything a mother would.”
“Please. Help yourself. There’s so much. Too much.”
“Those old reprobates, they live in my building, you know….”
“Hello, Felice. Nice of you to come…”
She did not want to hear or know too much then. And she did not want to see that woman they began to call Violent either. The note she slid under Alice’s door offended her, then frightened her. But after a while, having heard how torn up the man was and reading the headlines in the
Age,
the
News, The Messenger,
by February she had steeled herself and let the woman in.
“What
could
you want from me?”
“Oh, right now I just want to sit down on your chair,” Violet said.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t think what good can come of this.”
“I’m having trouble with my head,” said Violet placing her fingers on the crown of her hat.
“See a doctor, why don’t you?”
Violet walked past her, drawn like a magnet to a small side table. “Is that her?”
Alice didn’t have to look to know what she was staring at.
“Yes.”
The long pause that followed, while Violet examined the face that loomed out of the frame, made Alice nervous. Before she got up the courage to ask the woman to leave, she turned away from the photograph saying, “I’m not the one you need to be scared of.”
“No? Who is?”
“I don’t know. That’s what hurts my head.”
“You didn’t come here to say you sorry. I thought maybe you did. You come in here to deliver some of your own evil.”
“I don’t have no evil of my own.”
“I think you’d better go.”
“Let me rest here a minute. I can’t find a place where I can just sit down. That’s her there?”
“I just told you it was.”
“She give you a lot of trouble?”
“No. None. Well. Some.”
“I was a good girl her age. Never gave a speck of trouble. I did
Alice waited this time, in the month of March, for the woman with the knife. The woman people called Violent now because she had tried to kill what lay in a coffin. She had left notes under Alice’s door every day beginning in January—a week after the funeral—and Alice Manfred knew the kind of Negro that couple was: the kind she trained Dorcas away from. The embarrassing kind. More than unappealing, they were dangerous. The husband shot; the wife stabbed. Nothing. Nothing her niece did or tried could equal the violence done to her. And where there was violence wasn’t there also vice? Gambling. Cursing. A terrible and nasty closeness. Red dresses. Yellow shoes. And, of course, race music to urge them on.
But Alice was not frightened of her now as she had been in January and as she was in February, the first time she let her in. She’d thought the woman would end up in jail one day—they all did eventually. But easy pickings? Natural prey? “I don’t think so. I don’t think so.”
At the wake, Malvonne gave her the details. Tried to, anyway. Alice leaned away from the woman and held her breath as though to keep the words at bay.
“I appreciate your concern,” Alice told her. “Help yourself.” She gestured toward tables crowded with food and the well-wishers circling it. “There’s so much.”
“I feel so bad,” Malvonne said. “Like it was my own.”
“Thank you.”
“You raise other people’s children and it hurts just the same as it would if it was your own. You know about Sweetness, my nephew…?”
“Excuse me.”
“Did everything for him. Everything a mother would.”
“Please. Help yourself. There’s so much. Too much.”
“Those old reprobates, they live in my building, you know….”
“Hello, Felice. Nice of you to come…”
She did not want to hear or know too much then. And she did not want to see that woman they began to call Violent either. The note she slid under Alice’s door offended her, then frightened her. But after a while, having heard how torn up the man was and reading the headlines in the
Age,
the
News, The Messenger,
by February she had steeled herself and let the woman in.
“What
could
you want from me?”
“Oh, right now I just want to sit down on your chair,” Violet said.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t think what good can come of this.”
“I’m having trouble with my head,” said Violet placing her fingers on the crown of her hat.
“See a doctor, why don’t you?”
Violet walked past her, drawn like a magnet to a small side table. “Is that her?”
Alice didn’t have to look to know what she was staring at.
“Yes.”
The long pause that followed, while Violet examined the face that loomed out of the frame, made Alice nervous. Before she got up the courage to ask the woman to leave, she turned away from the photograph saying, “I’m not the one you need to be scared of.”
“No? Who is?”
“I don’t know. That’s what hurts my head.”
“You didn’t come here to say you sorry. I thought maybe you did. You come in here to deliver some of your own evil.”
“I don’t have no evil of my own.”
“I think you’d better go.”
“Let me rest here a minute. I can’t find a place where I can just sit down. That’s her there?”
“I just told you it was.”
“She give you a lot of trouble?”
“No. None. Well. Some.”
“I was a good girl her age. Never gave a speck of trouble. I did
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