35. A WOMANS INTUITION
A WOMANS INTUITION
VIOLET
Ididn't mind walking home this late, not usually.
The air felt cleaner somehow without all the noise of the day, and it gave me a minute to breathe.
A quiet space to think, to feel my own heartbeat, the place where most of my poems first began to take shape.
I was halfway down the street, boots scuffing against damp cobblestones, when I heard them.
Footsteps, quick and purposeful coming up behind me.
“Evening, Miss Violet.” The voice curled around my spine. My stomach clenched so fast, it felt like instinct, like some small, primal part of me understood danger before my mind could name it. I didn’t stop walking, just eased my pace enough to glance over my shoulder.
It was Father Frederick, his coat buttoned neatly up to his throat, white collar shining under the gaslight. He smiled as if this meeting was just happenstance, like a priest strolling behind a working girl after midnight was the most natural thing in the world.
“Evening.” I answered, voice flat, my hands buried deep in my coat pockets, fists clenched as I kept walking.
He closed the gap between us in a few strides and then fell into step beside me. “Late night?”
“I work nights,” I replied, letting the shortness of my answer make the point for me. I wasn’t looking for conversation.
Still, he walked alongside me like we were sharing some gentle stroll through a manicured garden, not a narrow street that stank of ash and spilled ale. “Fine night,” he mused, tilting his head toward the sky. “God’s own hush over everything.”
“Mmm,” I said, uninterested, silently willing him to leave me alone.
He tilted his head, studying me. “I don’t believe I’ve ever asked where you’re from. Your family—are they still living?”
“No family.” I said plainly. “Raised at St. Brigid’s Orphanage, out by the old railway.”
“Oh?” The syllable stretched too long in his mouth, like it held meaning I didn’t understand. “Tough place to grow up, I’d imagine.”
“You’d imagine right.”
Still, he didn’t take the hint. “I must say,” he continued, “you’ve carried yourself out of it all with such grace. Not many can claim that.”
I said nothing to that. We continued walking, the silence growing more awkward as we crossed under a broken streetlamp.
For a moment, the shadows cut deep across his face, as his eyes stayed on me.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he went on, voice sliding toward casual in a way that made my skin itch, “how did a young woman like yourself come to work at The Oily Cat?”
I stopped, just long enough to look him in the eye. “I do mind,” I said, somehow managing to keep my voice level. “And I’m not interested in talking to you about that.”
He put his hands up in defense. “Of course. I only meant to better understand your story.”
I started walking again, picking up my pace, but he followed without effort.
“You know,” he said with a tone that made my stomach twist, “your name suits you. Violet. Something delicate. Something . . . rare.”
I didn’t respond, but something about the way he said my name like he was tasting it, like it had become sacred to him in some twisted way. Whatever small hope I’d had that I was overreacting evaporated in that moment.
“God sees you,” he whispered, “All of you. And He loves you still. Even in your . . . line of work.”
My boots hit the stone louder now, more deliberate.
“You’re an angel, Violet, that’s what I see. A creature of beauty—meant for more than this.” His voice dipped low. “The men who pay for your time don’t see it, but I do. There’s something holy in you. I felt it the first time I saw you. Like a . . . calling.”
I turned the corner, hoping he might walk past, hoping he might leave. He didn’t. His footsteps stayed close behind mine.
“I see the shame they put on you,” he went on, almost feverishly, “but you carry it with such grace. It's as if God made you to endure. To shine.”
I could feel his eyes on my neck, down to my shoulders.
I hated the way his voice shaped each word, like they were precious to him, like he was savoring some secret.
I took one more slow turn, easing us back toward the edge of town, past the lamp with the crooked glass, past the alley with the red door.
We were coming back up the block now, the lantern light spilling out from the porch of The Oily Cat.
Bernadette sat on the front porch in her usual chair, whiskey in hand, eyes fixed on the street.
I felt Father Frederick slow his pace beside me. “Strange,” he said with a little laugh, “didn’t realize we’d circled back.”
I didn’t say anything. My feet stayed steady on the path.
Bernadette stood the moment she saw us. Her eyes flicked to me, then to him, and something hard settled into her stance. “Well, well,” she said, stepping off the porch. “didn’t realize the good Father had taken up moonlit strolls with my girls.”
He gave a small bow, hands raised. “Bernadette. I was simply walking Miss Violet home. These streets can be unkind after dark.”
“They can.” She agreed in a slow tone that was anything but friendly. “That why you were following so close?”
His smile faltered just a hair. “I was sharing the Lord’s word.” He quickly sputtered. “A shepherd watches his flock.”
Bernadette crossed her arms. “She isn’t your flock. And she doesn’t need watching, least not by you.”
“I meant no harm,” he held up his hands in surrender, “only concern. There’s a light in her, and the Lord moves in strange ways—”
“You don’t get to talk about the Lord and look at her the way you do.” Bernadette snapped, and the sound of her voice in that moment, scared the shit out of me.
“I assure you—” he began, straightening to his full height as if he were beginning a sermon.
But Bernadette stepped closer, inches from him. “You can assure someone else. You don’t speak for God, Father Frederick, not here. Not to her. Now get the fuck off my property.”
He stood there for a moment too long. Eyes darting between us and his smile drying up at the edges. Then he turned, adjusted his cuffs, and walked back into the dark, his steps the only sound for a long while.
Bernadette watched him go. She didn’t move until his footsteps vanished, then she looked at me. “You alright?”
I nodded once. “Yeah.”
She didn’t press. Just looked me over a moment longer like she was checking for cracks. Without a word, she lifted her glass, took one last sip, and held it out to me.
The whiskey was warm from her hand, still half-full, and burned when I took a sip.
She met my eyes then. “You don’t owe anyone shit, Violet.
Not a smile. Not a word. Not your patience, not your grace, not your comfort.
Especially not to people who make you feel small, or scared, or like you’re less than.
” Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second, then hardened again.
“Being polite doesn’t make you a good person and it doesn’t keep you safe.
Sometimes, being nice gets you hurt or gets you killed.
You don’t owe them that. You owe yourself honesty.
You owe yourself boundaries. You owe yourself the right to walk away, to scream, to run, to do whatever the hell keeps you alive and whole. ”
She reached over and took my free hand between hers.
“People will try to guilt you. People will tell you you’re being ‘difficult,’ or ‘mean,’ or ‘ungrateful.’ Screw them.
Your safety, your peace, your body, your heart—they’re yours.
Nobody else’s. And don’t you ever forget it.
” There was no pity in her voice, just conviction.
Like it was a truth she’d herself learned a long time ago, and now she was offering it to me.