Chet helped with the dishes as CeeCee threw her doll around the living room. Violet persuaded her to get into the tub by promising jellybeans on her next visit. She read the only children’s book in the house to the little girl, a beaten copy of “Cinderella” she’d delivered months ago. CeeCee listened wordlessly and began snoring softly after five pages.

Chet wanted to turn on the radio, but Violet persuaded him to sit on the front porch and talk. She sipped water as he outlined his school problems one by one: the meanest bully in class wanted to fight him after school. Mrs. Dothard got onto him every single day for talking too much. Math was boring. Finally, in the most casual manner possible, “I never have lunch or lunch money, and everybody makes fun of me.”

Violet reacted by fetching her purse and extracting fifty cents. “Hide this in your room. You should be set for a week.”

Chet pretended to swipe a bug from his cheek, but she knew it was a tear. He hugged his scabby knees and laid his head on them. “Are you going to see Johnny tonight? Tomorrow night?”

“That’s none of your business, Chet.” She shook her head at him with a smile. “But no. He’s busy and I won’t be with him again until Sunday afternoon.”

Chet nodded. “I was just wonderin’.” He stared out at the street for a minute. “I’m tired, Violet. I think I’ll go on to bed.”

She was completely surprised; bedtime was usually a major battle. “Okay, honey. Sweet dreams.” She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll wait out here for your dad.” Violet watched the sky and wondered where Johnny might be. Was he thinking of her?

At nine thirty Mr. Wilson walked up the street, exhausted by hundreds of impatient travelers at his train station ticket window. He greeted Violet with a wave. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, they were angels.”

“I kinda doubt that.” He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose and reached into his pocket, handing over twenty-five cents more than Violet had secretly given his son. “Will this be enough?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Wilson. I’ll just get my things.”

He held the door for her and followed, collapsing onto the couch and closing his eyes. “Did Mrs. Wilson say when she might get home?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry, she didn’t.”

He sighed and put a pillow behind his head. “No matter. I’ll wait up for her.”

Violet thought the poor man deserved so much better than his conniving wife offered. She gave him her brightest smile and said, “Your children are very nice, Mr. Wilson. You should be proud.”

“Oh, I am. I’ll see you next time.”