Winston held open the plateglass door, allowing violet to pass through. Kathy caught sight of a big blue bruise on her chin. Violet was all the time walking around like that, making no effort whatever to cover the marks. No dark glasses. No makeup. No wide-brimmed hat, which might have helped. She went about her errands-supermarket, post office, walking Daisy to school-with one or both eyes black, cheek swollen, her lips puffy and plump from one of Foley’s blows. She made no excuses and she never explained, which left Foley looking like a fool. How could he defend himself when she never accused him of anything? Everyone in town knew he hit her, but no one intervened. That was considered their personal business, though Kathy’s mother often said it was a total disgrace. Kathy’s mother thought Violet was trash and she said Liza was asking for trouble if she hung out with her. Just the night before, sitting at the top of the stairs while her parents were in the living room, she heard her mother talking about Violet and Jake Ottweiler, who’d been seen slow-dancing at the Blue Moon. Violet was oversexed, a regular nymphomaniac (whatever that was), and her mother was disgusted that Jake would have anything to do with her. She was getting all worked up, her voice rising (which made it easier for Kathy to hear) when her father blew his stack. “Christ, Livia! Is that all you have to do, sit around and pass along ugly gossip? What the hell is wrong with you?!”

They’d argued, and her mother had hushed him because she was worried Kathy might overhear them. Personally, she’d agreed with her mother. Violet was a tramp. Kathy picked up a batch of papers and crossed to the filing cabinet by the door so she could hear what Violet and Winston said. The two were focused on the car and didn’t seem to notice her hovering nearby. Winston was saying, “Make no mistake, this is not your basic sedan. This is Chevrolet’s five-passenger coupe. 235 engine, Powerglide, dual carbs, and exhaust. Full hub caps, even has a beehive oil filter, if you can imagine such a thing.”

Violet clearly didn’t know a filter from a fish fillet. “It’s the color I love,” she said, running a hand along the front fender. The hood ornament looked like an eagle or a hawk in full flight, beak foremost, wings back, speeding through the air in a stylized pose.

“The color’s custom-only one of its kind. Know what it’s called? ‘Violet Slate.’ I kid you not.”