NO STRINGS ATTACHED. HE HAS CALLED THE PHONE INSTALLED IN her rented room in the wood frame house on Cayuga Street seventeen times in succession. Why no answer, where the hell is she?—“You’re sure, nobody else knows this number?”

ANYWAY, YOU’RE PAID OFF THE BOOKS. OWE THEM NOTHING, they don’t owe you anything.

Still: you are thinking yes, you will continue to work for Maid Brigade. On non-teaching days. Exclusively female clients.

Not lying to Orlando Metti. Not exactly.

Good to get your hands on all the money you can. While you can.

TWENTY-DOLLAR BILLS. FIFTY-DOLLAR BILLS. A ONE-HUNDRED-DOLLAR bill, pressed into my hand.

Smiling to myself. Well. You’ve earned it, Vi’let.

Some of it is required to keep myself alive. Some of it is hidden in a drawer, to be sent to the Johnson family on Howard Street, South Niagara, in next February’s Valentine.

OPENING THE GILT-WRAPPED LITTLE BOX. FUMBLING, MY FINGERS are clumsy.

As Metti stares greedily, grimly.

(OK. I’m drunk: with this man drinks aren’t optional but obligatory.)

Lifting the bracelet out of tissue paper. Gold-plated. Heavy, unwieldy. Telling the man beautiful so beautiful thank you. Immediately I see that the clasp is impossible, never will I be able to put this beautiful bracelet on my wrist by myself using just one hand. Never will I be able to put it on my wrist unassisted.

Nor is Metti sober enough to assist right now.

“Shit! Fuckin thing is so fuckin small. . . . Should’ve had you along with me in the fuckin store.”

Metti’s face darkens with blood. It is the first time I have seen him so furious. Trying to open the miniature clasp, then to close it properly, is too great a challenge for the man’s fingers; his coordination is poor when he has been drinking, like now.

“God-damned fuckin . . .”

My solution is to take the bracelet from Metti. Close the clasp using both hands. Then attempt to squeeze the bracelet over my hand and onto my wrist which turns out to be not so easy.

“What’re you doing? You’re gonna break it . . .”

Still I continue for I understand that the gold-plated bracelet must be put on my wrist. There is no way to endure the next hour if the bracelet is not on the wrist of the gift-recipient to be modeled for the man.

Turning the bracelet, tugging at it, trying not to wince with pain as I squeeze it over my knuckles, or nearly.

“Be careful! You’re gonna break it . . .”

Metti is sounding already aggrieved. His face is dangerously flushed.

In his medicine cabinet I have seen prescription pills: hypertension.

“. . . if you do, your arm is gonna be the next to break . . .”

Laughing as if it’s a joke. Yes probably meant to be a joke.

But at last the bracelet is on my wrist, and looks beautiful indeed, and the gift-giver is gratified.