Bebe Moore Campbell

by 72 Hour Hold

  “I don’t know. The night before she went in, I think she was smoking weed.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I smelled it outside her window.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. Even the most optimistic Child of God on the planet had to acknowledge the lure of weed to the manic.

  “She only gave it up once,” Mattie said. “Took me three attempts to quit smoking.”

  “I’ll hold that thought.”

  “Nona is doing okay,” Mattie said.

  More guilt assailed me as soon as she mentioned her daughter’s name. Nothing like your child’s bipolar relapse to make you a self-centered depressive. I hadn’t given Nona a thought.

  “That’s great,” I said, maybe a little too enthusiastically.

  “She’s getting out early. In two weeks, maybe.”

  “Is she going to stay with you?”

  “Where else?”

  “She has a father.”

  “With a new wife. Ray doesn’t want her there. I don’t want her to go where she’s not welcome. God never gives you more than you can bear.”

  “Why do people always say that? There have been times when I’m far past what I can bear, and you’ve been there too.”

  “We’re still standing, and we’re stronger.”

  “How’s your friend?” I asked, sidestepping a philosophical discussion.

  “Sizzling. You’ll meet him tonight at Gloria’s party.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, honey, tonight. You said you’d bring monkey bread.”

  “God, I’m glad you reminded me. I have to find out when Trina leaves the hospital.”

  Mattie started laughing. “When Nona gets out, I should ask the warden if her cell is available.”

  “I’ll take the top bunk.”

  I LEFT AN INVITATION TO GLORIA’S PARTY ON ORLANDO’S answering service, hoping he wasn’t busy, and then slid back under the covers. Finally, I called Frances at the shop and told her to expect me in the afternoon. “I guess Adriana told you Trina’s in the hospital again.”

  “She’ll be all right,” Frances said, which is what she always said. “I’m more worried about you.” She paused. “Some guy was with Adriana this morning when she came in.”

  When Frances described him, I could feel my heartbeat quicken.

  I STAYED IN BED UNTIL NOON. THEN I GOT DRESSED AND drove to the hospital.

  When I stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor, a man was bent over the sign-in sheet at the desk outside the locked doors of the psychiatric ward. When he stood up, I could see his face.

  “Clyde.”

  “Trina called me last night and told me she was here. What happened, Keri?”

  “She was at her program, and she started becoming manic.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I—”

  “I’m her father. I have a right to know. There was no reason to have her put in a psychiatric hospital.”

  My voice began to rise. “She hit somebody. And for the record, I didn’t have her put in the hospital. The group leader did. But I agree with her.”

  “So what if she hit someone? Maybe the person deserved it. Maybe he did something to her. I’m getting her out of here.”

  “Clyde, Trina was smoking marijuana. That may have been what triggered this episode.”

  “She doesn’t belong here.”

  “It’s only for three days. They’ll get her back on her medication. That’s what’s essential. You don’t understand.”

  “I’m signing her out,” Clyde said, staring at me.

  “You can’t do that, Clyde. Nobody can. She’s on a three-day involuntary hold. The law says she has to stay here.”

  “Damn!” His frustration was etched into the lines across his forehead.

  I put my hand on his arm, mostly to calm myself. “Let’s just go see her.”

  He pulled away from me. “You go first.”

  Trina was sitting in the television room, drinking a soda. The same young man who’d been with her in the smoking area had his hand around her shoulder; when he saw me, he pulled her closer. Trina was talking to him in a normal voice, her back to me. His expression made her turn around.

  She glared at me so furiously I stepped back. I was carrying several fashion magazines, which I’d brought for her. Instinctively, I clutched them against my chest. Trina flounced off the sofa and walked away, leaving me alone with the young man.

  “Why won’t she talk to me?”

  It was an involuntary question, about as useful as praying to the moon. For a moment, he looked bewildered; then he smiled, and I could see two things: Trina’s new friend was handsome, and he was my enemy.

  “We both get out tomorrow.”

  I passed Clyde on my way to the social worker’s office. He was pacing and looking at his watch. In theory, we should have gone to plan Trina’s aftercare together, but it was clear we weren’t playing on the same team.

  Rosario Perez’s office was located on the second floor of the Weitz Center. One of the psychiatric facility’s many social workers, she didn’t remember me, but I remembered her, and not just because of her blazing red hair. I’d sat in her office during Trina’s first hospitalization, and she’d made me believe that everything would be all right. Looking at her now, I felt bitterness. At nine o’clock in the morning, Ms. Perez’s desk was piled high. She gave me a blank stare.

  “Mrs. Whitmore,” she said, her tapered fingers drumming against the folder that was spread open before her.

  “I’ve spoken to you before,” I said. “When my daughter was here last summer.”

  She nodded, scanning the folder.

  “Your daughter is bipolar. She was taking part in the partial program downstairs.” Here, she made a little sound of sympathy and looked my way. “Do you have a plan for her care when she leaves tomorrow?”

  “I don’t want her to leave after just three days. I’d like the hold extended,” I said quickly.

  “You’re familiar with the process.”

  I nodded.

  “Tomorrow there will be a hearing to determine if your daughter should stay or go. She’ll have representation from the court. Frankly, I don’t think they’ll keep her.”

  “She’s not taking her medication.”

  Mrs. Perez closed the folder. “How do you know that?”

  “I can tell. Maybe she’s taking some, but I think she’s cheeking most of it.”

  Mrs. Perez sighed. “This isn’t a perfect system. Your daughter is”— she flipped through her papers—“eighteen. We can’t force her to take medication.”

  “She attacked someone,” I said.

  Mrs. Perez nodded, glancing at Trina’s chart. “But she hasn’t done that since she’s been here. If your daughter hasn’t swallowed the medicine, she’s at least put the pills in her mouth. She’s gone to some group sessions. The best thing for you to do is to get her reinstated in the partial program. Mostly likely, she can get back in as soon as she leaves here. Why don’t you speak with Elaine?”

  I sighed. “When can I pick her up?”

  “Assuming that her hold isn’t extended, tomorrow, anytime after five.” She shook my hand, her face impassive.

  THERE WASN’T MUCH HAPPENING AT THE STORE. A FEW CUStomers were milling around. Adriana sat behind the register looking bored. There were things that needed to be done, letters I should have written, papers that needed signing, but I ended up standing next to her.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Nothing. It’s slow.”

  “With you.”

  She looked surprised, then lowered her eyes. “Nothing.”

  “I care about you, Adriana. Keep going to the meetings. Talk to your sponsor. I don’t want to see you get caught up again. ”

  “I won’t,” she said, but there was no conviction in her voice.

  THE SWEET DOUGHY SCENT OF BAKING BREAD WAS WAFTing on the breeze that blew over Nin
ety-first Street in Inglewood. The aroma hit me before I opened my car door. The street wasn’t beautiful, just a row of one-story wooden cottages and neat linoleum-square lawns. A solid blue-collar community, nothing remarkable about it, except that the air the denizens breathed was enriched and made luxurious, like the ermine collars of royalty, by the labor of Monkey Bread Man.

  My after-work timing was good. On weekends and holidays there was usually a long line wending its way from the small porch to the house that smelled like smiles and heaven. On this Friday evening, there were only three people ahead of me. It was a pleasant wait.

  “Hello, darling! What can I do for you?”

  Monkey Bread Man stood in the middle of his living room, surrounded by scores of bundt-cake-shaped loaves wrapped in heavy aluminum foil. I’d never even heard of the rich, sweetish yeast bread before I moved to California. Now I couldn’t imagine any celebration without it.

  Everywhere I looked there was bread: stacked up against the walls, shoved inside the fireplace, piled against the windows and on top of the sofas and chairs. There was scarcely any room to walk except for a narrow pathway from the door to the center, where the ebullient master baker stood, clad in a white apron, its center pocket bulging with bills. Monkey Bread Man ran a cash business.

  “Two large,” I said.

  He gave a nod to a small boy, his grandson, whom I hadn’t noticed standing near a chair. The youngster picked out two cakes, put them in bags, and handed them to me.

  “That’ll be—” the boy began, then looked up at his grandfather.

  “Twelve and twelve,” the Monkey Bread Man said, tapping his finger against his head.

  “Uh, twenty-four dollars,” the boy said. He looked to be about seven or eight.

  I handed him a twenty and a five, and he passed the money to his grandfather.

  “Teaching him the business?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Trying to keep him busy,” he said. “You don’t keep them occupied, the streets will be raising your children. Then you gotta fight the streets if you want them back.”

  He nodded as he put the money into his apron pocket and handed me a dollar in change.

  “That’s why I keep this one right where I can see him. ’Cause I done fought the streets once.”

  The bread was still warm when I set it on my kitchen counter. The aroma followed me to my bedroom, curled around me as I stripped. It was no less intense when I’d finished showering and began to dress.

  The party was in the standing-around-talking stage by the time I got there. Mattie and her heat-in-the-sheet man had already arrived. He said his name fast: Roger or Richard. He was a backslapping kind of man, loud voice, megawatt smile. Short on looks, long on charisma. They were in the living room drinking margaritas. Mattie looked happy. So did Roger or Richard.

  Gloria was cooking, a glass of wine in one hand, a big spoon in the other. Mattie followed me into the kitchen.

  “Smells good,” I said, “and I’m hungry. How are you?”

  Gloria shrugged, took a sip of wine, and kept on stirring. “I’m doing fine and getting ready to do better. What’s up with you?”

  The thought of laying down my burdens was appealing. Rehashing them would have been a more appropriate term. Gloria listened attentively; then she put down her spoon, walked over to the counter where there were at least half a dozen bottles of champagne and wine, poured a glass of Chandon, and handed it to me.

  “You got twenty-four hours left, girlfriend. You might as well make the most of them.”

  “I’ll keep Trina in prayer,” Mattie said, “but Gloria is right. Tonight you need to party. Feel free to borrow Roger for a spin around the floor. He’s quite the stepper.”

  “You said he wasn’t cute. I think he’s nice-looking,” I said, knowing I was lying.

  “In a Johnny Cash kind of way,” Mattie said, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, he has many fine attributes to recommend him.”

  As if on cue, Roger appeared with Milton, and we all toasted, talking and laughing until Gloria had finished cooking; then we helped her put the food, plates, and silverware on the table. When I went back into the kitchen, Orlando was standing there.

  “I figured I’d find the true sisters in here,” he said, then held out his hand, pulled me to him, and kissed my cheek.

  I reintroduced Orlando to Mattie and Gloria, then introduced him to Roger and Milton. The men immediately separated from the women and began discussing the merits of the Lakers.

  “The guy you’re with looks familiar,” Gloria whispered.

  “He should,” Mattie whispered, and I began laughing.

  “What?” she asked.

  “He was the man who helped you into the car two nights ago, when we went out to dinner after the meeting and you had too much wine.”

  “Oh, God. I hope he doesn’t recognize me,” Gloria said. She looked at me. “Damn. You work fast.”

  “I knew him way before that. Don’t you remember? He came to a couple of meetings. We’ve been on and off for years.”

  “Wasn’t he on that show?” Gloria asked.

  I nodded. “He’s done a lot of television, movies too.” Why was I feeling proud?

  Mattie winked at Gloria. “So now you’re on?”

  “Yeah, we’re on again.”

  Gloria suddenly clapped her hands. “You guys get out of this kitchen and get the party started. Gentlemen,” Gloria called, and the men looked up, “the ladies want to dance.”

  We dutifully moved into the family room, where a young twenty-something DJ with baggy pants and braids in his hair had set up his equipment. Up-tempo beats blared from his speakers. Orlando took my hand and led me to the floor.

  Orlando’s steps had been honed on Big Shoulders rhythms. My Buttermilk Bottom style was more easygoing. But we melded on the dance floor. Freestyle, that’s how we grooved best. No rules, no regs, no patterns.

  The floor was crowded when we decided to take a break. On our way back to the kitchen, Orlando saw a woman he knew. I was used to his many spontaneous reunions with people who’d worked or gone to school with him or shared a moment of his life. When the next record came on, he asked if I minded if he had a dance with his old friend, and I didn’t mind at all. Even when he was dancing with someone else, Orlando seemed to be standing next to me.

  Milton grabbed my hand when he saw me alone, and we began twirling across the room away from Orlando and his home girl. That’s how it happened that I was the one to see Milton’s eyes grow large as he looked beyond me, beyond the crowd of Electric Sliders, the conversationalists, holding up the wall with their chitchat, to the munchers, tearing through Gloria’s offerings of barbecue chicken, greens, and potato salad to the sofa. Seated there, his hands folded in his lap as though he’d just concluded a prayer, was Milton’s son. Wellington wasn’t dancing or eating or chatting, just looking straight ahead at nothing in particular. There were people on either side of him, but he remained apart from them, his eyes empty and disconnected.

  “Wellington is here,” Milton said quietly. “Let me go speak with him.”

  I trailed Milton as he walked over to where his son was sitting.

  “How are you, son?” he asked, his voice quiet and calm.

  Wellington didn’t answer.

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  Wellington hunched his shoulders and leaned back. The people close by listened for a moment and then began to drift away.

  Gloria rushed over. “Wellington, are you—”

  “He’s okay, honey,” Milton said. “Leave him alone for now.”

  “He just came in. The door must have been open.”

  “We’ll deal with it later.” He patted his son’s knee. “You okay, buddy?”

  Wellington didn’t look at either one of his parents.

  Gloria sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s all right,” Milton said. He pulled Gloria to him and gave her a hug. “Don
’t worry. I have his meds upstairs.”

  People started coming up to Gloria and Milton, telling them good-bye. I felt hands on my back, and when I turned Orlando was smiling at me.

  “What’s going on?” He looked at me and then at our hosts.

  “Everything is fine,” Gloria said.

  “You sure?”

  She nodded. “Go dance.”

  The music was slow. The crowd on the floor had thinned out, so we had more room. I could dance and watch Gloria as she sat on the sofa with Wellington, who wouldn’t look at her.

  “Is that her son?”

  I nodded.

  “Off his meds?”

  “Yeah.”

  The record had ended. The rest of the couples had drifted from the floor. We walked over to the sofa. Wellington was sitting quietly, Gloria on one side and Milton on the other.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  Gloria looked up and smiled. “Everything is under control.” She patted her son’s knee. “We’ll be all right.”

  “Well, I can stay,” I said.

  “No,” Gloria said. “You’ve got Trina to deal with tomorrow. Finish your date, honey. Have some fun tonight.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me close to her. “Milton and I may go for conservatorship.”

  I nodded as I let the word make a home inside my mind and renewed the options: Let the kid run wild; lock the kid up. Conservatorship. Maybe that was my North Star, if I needed one.

  Orlando and I stayed the entire evening. We danced by ourselves in the middle of the floor. We drank more wine and ate more food. After the rest of the people had gone, we helped clean up and then played bid whist with Mattie and Gloria while Roger watched and told jokes and Milton sat with Wellington. After one game of cards, Orlando stood in the middle of the floor and performed Hamlet’s soliloquy. Then he sang “Killing Me Softly” in a lustrous tenor. Our little group applauded and whistled, all except for Wellington, who stared straight ahead, his mind tuned in to other voices.

  When I got to my car outside Gloria’s house, Orlando said, “Do I follow you or do you want to follow me?”

  One of the smart things Orlando had done when he was making money was to forgo the requisite star’s mansion in favor of a triplex. He lived in one unit and rented out the other two, which provided him with a modest income. His unit was the most spacious of the three, and he’d decorated it in a spare masculine style: white walls, dark furniture, giant-screen TV. Everything was neat, and when he opened his refrigerator there was cooked food in covered pots.