Sweet Violet and a Time for Love by Leslie J. Sherrod Page B

open the vanity drawer, lifted up the towels that were covering the positive tests. “I’ll call Dr. Baronsen in the morning.” I slid the drawer shut and then reached for my household cleaning supplies under the sink. Snapping a pair of yellow gloves on, I opened the plastic bag and dumped its contents into the bowl of the vanity. After making sure no bugs or other horrors were evident on the purse that had been hidden inside, I studied the outside of it.
    It was an old-fashioned handbag, a worn patent leather clutch bag with a broad shoulder strap and tarnished silver clasps. A long shot, I knew, but maybe a wallet, an ID, something would be inside that would let me know where to take it, where to leave it. As crazy as it felt and sounded, I couldn’t just throw this stuff away. I needed to get it to where it belonged so I could move on with my life.
    Move on with my marriage.
    Does pregnancy make you a little crazy?
    I looked in the mirror, tried to picture me with a baby bump, and then I looked back at the bag.
    I held my breath as the clasp gave way, realizing that I was afraid of what odor could roll out of its hidden bowels, considering how bad her breath had been. But there was no odor. In fact there was nothing at all. I sighed, wondering what to do next? Just throw it away? Keep the bag in my car in case I saw her while driving around Baltimore? Keep it at Leon’s bakery to see if she’d come rapping on the glass again? His shop was near the Harbor, as was the shelter where she last reportedly was. She had to be in the area somewhere, though Sister Agnes, the woman who ran the shelter, seemed to have no knowledge of who Frankie Jean or Sweet Violet was.
    That fact bothered me.
    Maybe that’s why I could not let the bag go. Knowing that a vulnerable old woman was walking the streets of Baltimore unknown and unnoticed made the social worker in me want to do something about it, even something as small as ensuring that she got back her belongings. A housecoat, purse, and slippers. She had to have other clothes somewhere. Where could she be? What was her story? What is her right or real name? Stop it, Sienna! Don’t get involved. You can’t save everybody. I wasn’t just a social worker anymore. I was a wife who had her own family and needs to attend to.
    There was nothing else I could do, I decided, other than keep it in the trunk of my car in case I ran into her in the street. In the trunk, it would be safe, accessible, and out of the sight of Leon. The bag was an eyesore to my marriage, representing my unwillingness to let things go; things that ate away my time with Leon.
    What was the Christian thing to do in all of this?
    I’d gotten back into the Word lately. Prayed more. Went to church every Sunday, Bible Study when I wasn’t busy.
    What would Jesus do? I chuckled to myself thinking of the bracelets and bumper stickers with the WWJD acronym that was popular back in the 1990s. I chuckled, but the question felt real to me.
    I had a husband who was, despite Leon’s perception, my priority. I also felt a pull of compassion for the vulnerable that insisted that I act, a pull that had led me to my career, that had pushed me to my present roles.
    Where was the balance?
    And what about my time?
    Leon had practically accused me of mismanaging my time—no, my priorities—but didn’t he realize and respect the demands on my schedule and my attempt to balance it all? He was my husband, not a baby. Was that what he needed? A caretaker?
    I could feel the heat rising from the top of my head. I imagined wisps of steam rising from off of me like a cartoon character, asterisks, exclamation marks, symbols and all.
    I felt like cussing.
    My moods.
    This was going to be a long nine months.
    I had a husband and I was about to have a baby. How could anyone think I would ever have “time” again?” All I had at the moment was the pressing need to pee again and to