Francis used the money he made working at a stamping plant on Jefferson to better equip himself for winter and improve his appearance. It was his fifth job, and it didn’t pay as well as the salt mines, but he’d managed to work at the stamping plant a whole month without quitting or getting fired. Galoshes were most appropriate for a night as icy as this one. Still, Francis wore the wingtips. They pinched his toes. He aimed to take Odella to the Gotham Hotel. He’d passed by the hotel on the bus, heard that Paul Robeson, Joe Louis, and local political figures had dined there. He would take Odella and elevate himself in her eyes, perhaps his own eyes too. Lately, starting over seemed more feasible than returning to Arkansas, begging for Viola’s forgiveness, and bringing his wife and child back up to Detroit. There was a good possibility that Viola would not forgive him. He had no way to explain the long months of silence. Better to make that silence permanent, to look forward, to push the guilt away from him and focus on making something of himself with the woman he had in front of him.
