I run to Garfield Park and take shelter in the Conservatory. Clutching my aching arm, barely seeing the lush plants and trees, I wander from glass room to glass room until I find myself standing at the edge of a pool. Pennies glitter at the bottom.There’s a penny lying on the walk beside my feet. I pick it up and throw it into the pond with a wish that splits itself in two and refracts with the ripples in the water.I wish I could sing. I wish I could talk to Theo.I remember then. Theo wrote his phone number on the bulletin for the African Methodist Church. I put that bulletin in my pocketbook. I’m carrying that pocketbook now.I don’t know Nils’s number. That’s why I’m not calling him. That’s why. And the fact that Dad would want me to do that, given the choice. Dad would expect me to do that. Dad knows me so well.Men sow their wild oats. Women become tramps.But that’s not what happened to me—not Friday or Tuesday night. And it didn’t happen last Sunday, either. (Was it only a week ago today?) When Theo heard me singing and found me on my knees, he was only a gentleman and I was only a lady.
