“I know you’re there, Helen,” Mommy said. There was music playing on a stereo inside, and the voice of someone on the phone. She went to the apartment door and listened. Mommy stepped past them and walked through a haze of reefer smoke and took the elevator to the eighth floor. Nicholas Avenue, with junkies and winos standing out front. It was a dilapidated housing project near St. Mommy got the address and went to the place herself. She told Ma she didn’t know much about the lady other than that she wore a lot of scarves and used incense. She’s living with some crazy woman,” Jack said. Weeks passed, months, and Helen didn’t return. He was an old-timer who called school “schoolin”’ and called me “boy.” He had run off from Jim Crow in the South and felt that education, any education, was a privilege. They spoke a completely different language. “It’ll work out.” He had no idea what to do about Helen.
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