“Did a black person hurt you, Mr. Sandman?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! No one has hurt me. I’ve tried to explain to you! This isn’t personal, it’s principle. Even if I ‘liked’ one of them, I would not want our race to be contaminated by their genes . . . Some of them are attractive, yes, and even intelligent, to a degree. I grant you, there are astonishing black musicians, singers, dancers. Athletes—of course. But their cousins, brothers, fathers—those are the problems. The weakness of white women, in succumbing to them . . . The race issue in the U.S. isn’t black people we know, our students, our servants and the people who work for us, for instance in the school cafeteria, or collecting trash, it’s the ones making trouble politically, and the ones who are their relatives. Thugs just getting out of prison, or on their way in.” Mr. Sandman spoke meanly. Words bubbled up like bile.

He went on, “Your brothers have been martyred because they are white, Violet. I’ve followed the case closely. It was a mistake for them to plead guilty—their legal counsel was incompetent. I’m convinced they’re innocent. They were defending themselves. Or, they were provoked. As I’ve predicted, there is a race war brewing. We have no choice about whose side to be on.”

My eyelids were becoming heavy. Mr. Sandman’s vehement words were like blows of a mallet that has been wrapped in a material like burlap. Hard, harsh yet numbing.

It was not an unpleasant sensation, sinking into sleep. For now my heart was beating less rapidly and nervously and my thoughts were not flashing and darting like heat lightning.

GENTLY THE VOICE NUDGED: “VIO-LET? TIME TO WAKE, DEAR.”

Gently the hand nudged my shoulder. With an effort I opened my eyes. Seeing a man stooping over me, feeling his humid meat-breath.

Seeing with alarm that the sun had disappeared entirely from the sky and night pressed against the windows.

In a silk robe I was lying on a bed. A four-poster bed that creaked as the man’s weight settled heavily upon it.

The silk robe was royal blue on the outside, ivory on the inside. It required some time for me to realize that something was wrong.

Was I naked, inside the robe? My skin tingled, as if I’d been bathed. Lotion rubbed into my skin. Talcum powder on my breasts, belly.

A shock to comprehend. I could not allow myself to comprehend.

The ends of my hair were damp. At the back of my mouth was something dry and gritty like sand.

“Sleeping Beauty! Time to open those beautiful myopic eyes.”

My eyes were open. But I was not seeing clearly.

Did he—bathe me? Removed my clothes, carried me into the bathroom?

In the bathroom was a marble tub with claw-feet. An antique tub, deep as an Egyptian coffin. Vividly I remembered.

A worn tile floor, slick with wet. A camera-flash, blinding.

“Ah, good! You’re waking up, are you? Yes.”