Bebe Moore Campbell (26 page)

“I’ve gone through that. I felt like a beggar asking people for information about my child. I begged, and they still wouldn’t tell me anything,” I said.

“It’s hard not to become frustrated. But then I began to recognize that there really wasn’t anything they could tell me that was in any way not subject to change within microseconds. They could report that she was fine, had taken her medication, quit smoking, and was winning converts for Jesus, and by the time I’d made it to the hospital to witness the miracle, she’d be racing down the hall naked, screaming curses at everyone she passed. The updates are a waste of time. The system, the illness, the day-to-day management, all of it. It is what it is.

“Growing things provides me with a simple seasonal routine. It’s a good routine for someone who is in mourning. You can’t always beat what is difficult in your life. Sometimes you have to let it win and shout hallelujah anyhow.”

It sounded like giving up to me.

He smiled. His teeth were bright white, a young man’s smile. “Will you massage my wife again, while you’re here?”

“I’d be happy to,” I said.

I’d treat his wife, but I’d never agree with him. I hadn’t brought Trina on this journey to accept the cards I’d been dealt. I was here to throw in that hand and pick up the one I was supposed to have.

TRINA WOKE UP IN TIME FOR DINNER. JEAN HAD DONE THE cooking, as she had at her own house. Trina stumbled to the table and ate with her head down. Afterward there were movies and games and beads to string in a large room off the kitchen. Trina sat on the couch and stared at the screen, but I could tell she wasn’t taking in anything. Jean tried to talk her into playing Scrabble. She refused, but she did join Angelica at a card table filled with jewelry-making paraphernalia. Angelica had been working on a bracelet pretty steadily for at least an hour. I heard Trina tell her that it was pretty, as she sat down at the table. Angelica thanked her. They passed ornaments back and forth.

The rest of us—Brad, Wilbur, Jean, Bethany, Pete, and I—were in the room with them. Supervising, as it were. We watched movies, read the paper, talked a little, and kept our eyes on the two girls, who seemed to be bonding over colored glass. Jean got up after a while and made some coffee and tea. We supervisors sat around, sipping hot drinks. It was almost like a party, just not a very happening one.

THE DAYS TOOK ON A SERENE RHYTHM. WE AWOKE AROUND eight o’clock and had breakfast. Every morning, Wilbur checked on the girls. Then we all went to shell almonds, although Angelica still refused to do the work. For the rest of us, the hours seemed to have been extended. We shelled until one or two o’clock, and gradually the one bucket became one and a half and then two. Lunch was late, a farmhouse repast of fish or chicken, a salad, and several vegetables. After lunch there was yoga, crafts, art, or reading. At some point early in the evening, I would go into the master bedroom, light some candles, play soft music, and massage Cecilia. Dinner came around seven. Cleanup time followed, and then there were movies and games. At night, Wilbur was prescribing less Haldol for Trina.

For several days, Angelica didn’t have any bad dreams. Neither did I.

I made my daily calls right after lunch. The store was the first one. I usually talked with Frances, whose efficient reports always removed any worry from my mind about the business or her ability to handle it. Sometimes Adriana was there, sometimes not. We spoke briefly twice. Adriana seemed anxious. I could tell by her voice that she was uneasy. She made me feel sad whenever I spoke with her.

Once I called PJ. He sounded far away and very young; I could tell he didn’t really want to talk. I could hear Lucy calling him. He got off the phone without mentioning if he’d spoken to his mother or his father. But he didn’t really have to tell me. I knew he hadn’t.

I called Orlando two days after our last conversation. He was at home. He’d just come from an audition.

“It didn’t go well,” he said, his voice tight.

I should have left him alone. Orlando had his own routine for getting himself out of the bad-audition blues. Instead I was patronizing. I think I said he’d nail the next one.

“Maybe I’ll even get my own radio show,” he said, his words laced with sarcasm and a bitterness that stunned me. I knew enough not to touch that one. Seconds later, Orlando mumbled a terse good-bye before I could tell him that he didn’t need a radio show to impress me. All he needed to do was—what? Stop chasing rainbows? Get serious about life? Give up the one thing he really loved? We’d had those conversations in the past, and I wasn’t ready for the repercussions. I had other things on my mind.

Clyde was harder to get hold of. When I did hear his voice on the phone, he had exactly fifteen seconds to give me before he had to go on the air. So I ended up turning on the radio. But listening to his show wasn’t a conversation, which was all I really wanted in the first place.

ON OUR SIXTH NIGHT, AS WE WERE ABOUT TO PREPARE FOR bed, Brad whispered to Bethany and me that we should pack up, because we’d be leaving in a little while. I’d just finished massaging Cecilia. As usual, Pete was sitting in the room with us. I watched his face through the light and shadows that the candles made. The thought of leaving them made me feel empty, even though, in a real way, I’d found something I thought was lost. I was like some old pianist who hadn’t touched her instrument in years, only to discover that, when she did play, the songs were still there inside her. My hands, my fingers were working again. Rona had given me a sense of what was still within me. Cecilia made me know for sure.

Wilbur had left several hours earlier with a quick wave. I had no idea if I’d see him again. I could hear Jean singing as she cleaned up the kitchen. Brad wouldn’t answer me when I asked if she would go all the way with us, but I figured that she would. Then, just as the girls were leaving with Brad and Bethany to tidy the barracks, Jean’s cell phone rang. Everyone in the room seemed startled; it was the first ringing cell phone we’d heard other than mine. And then it was comedy time, with Jean running around trying to find it, the rest of us trying to guess where the sound was coming from. And, of course, just as she retrieved the phone, it stopped ringing.

“It’s probably Eddie,” she said. “He’ll call back.”

And he did, later that night when we had started to drive north. Trina and I were in the front seat with Brad. Jean, Angelica, and Bethany were in the back. My child was dozing, her knees bent, her head against my shoulder. If I closed my eyes I could pretend that
peace
of mind
was the locomotive I was riding and I could ride that train all the way to a tranquil place. Or at least that was the way it seemed. But that was before I realized the tracks led to a swamp.

I turned around when Jean’s cell phone rang and saw her head jerk forward. She said, “Hello, Eddie,” and then was silent, as her lips began to quiver and her shoulders tensed. I could hear him through the phone, some of what he said. I heard the word
police
very clearly.

When she hung up, Jean repeated what her husband had told her. The police had come to their house earlier in the evening because a woman had reported what appeared to be the abduction of a young black woman by a white man, three white women, and a black woman in a vehicle with their license plate.

I waded into the swamp as the water covered first my ankles, then my knees, and kept on rising.

23

WE RETURNED TO PETE’S HOUSE—WE WERE LESS THAN HALF an hour away—hustled the girls back to the barracks, and left them with Pete. He didn’t ask any questions, accepting Brad’s “Something has come up” with a nod of his head.

Brad, Bethany, Jean, and I filed into the dining room and sat down at Pete and Cecilia’s table. Jean searched all our faces. No one spoke for a moment.

The first thing out of Jean’s mouth was surrender. “I think we should drive back to my house. Go to the police. Tell them it was all a mistake,” she said. She was looking at Brad, speaking in a low voice.

Brad didn’t respond. Jean started to repeat her words, and Brad gave her a look that told her that he was thinking. She stopped talking.

I glaced at Bethany, who was seated next to me. I could tell she wanted a cigarette. “Fuck that,” she said. She stood up and began pacing. “I didn’t come all this way to go to jail.”

Brad ignored her. “The police are going to want to see Trina. She’ll implicate everyone.” His voice was low, so that we all had to lean forward to hear him.

“If we just tell the police that she was in the midst of an episode, they won’t—” Jean said.

“Police don’t care about episodes, Jean. They care about the law. Kidnapping sentences are harsh,” Brad said.

“Brad—”

“I can’t jeopardize the program.”

Brad and Jean continued to whisper back and forth, a heated exchange of opinions, while Bethany and I listened. We could lie low at Pete’s for a few more days, in hopes that everything would blow over, and then continue on our way. That was Brad thinking aloud. But that would mean explaining everything to Pete, making him an accessory. Technically, Pete already was part of the crime by virtue of being in the program, Jean said. But staying in his house would just get him in deeper, Brad said carefully, as he looked over his shoulder at Bethany and me.

It was one thing to break the law in theory, to feel that the justness of your cause warranted a risk, to view punishment as a remote possibility; it was quite another to sniff the scent of the consequences in the wind that touched my face. That odor filled my nostrils, making it difficult to breathe.

“Look,” I said. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but this is more than I bargained for. Since my child is the cause of the problem, maybe we should leave.”

Brad shook his head, as though that simple gesture were enough to override my decision. “Not the answer, Keri. In her current state, Trina is likely to expose us.”

“Who is she going to tell? What could she say? She doesn’t know who you are or where she is.”

Brad shook his head. “You’re not prepared to deal with Trina. She won’t be admitted to a hospital. She’s not yet committed to taking her medication. You’d be right back where you started.”

I could feel myself wavering.

“We need to keep going,” Bethany said. “They’re small-town cops. How hard are they going to press? I mean, hello, how many real crimes involving dead bodies don’t get solved?” When Brad didn’t respond, her voice rose. “They’re fucking small-town cops, not rocket scientists.”

Brad looked away from Bethany and me and kept on brainstorming, as though we’d never spoken. Jean stayed quiet. We could drive to the next stop, park Jean’s car, rent another one, and deal with the police when everything was over, he said. Maybe even take Trina back there once she had enough medication in her system to say what was in her best interests. And ours. But there was no guaranteeing that the police would wait patiently for us to volunteer an explanation.

Jean reiterated her original suggestion. She sang her one note in a higher key, this time a shrill soprano. If we went home and faced the music, the police wouldn’t believe Trina no matter what she said. Any claims she made would sound preposterous. All they had to do was call some of the hospitals in LA and have them send the records, and it would be clear that Trina had a mental illness, which made everything she said suspect.

The hospitals wouldn’t release the records, Brad countered, and if they didn’t, what proof did we have that Trina had bipolar disorder?

Anyone could see that Trina had problems, Jean said. Her voice had climbed to a squeaky register, Minnie Riperton notes, only flat. Her hands flailed uncontrollably. Jean’s distressed face revealed a woman who was easily browbeaten. At the moment, she was more scared child than Earth Mother, more frantic woman than New Age spiritualist. There was no wisdom in her eyes, just fear. Of the four husbands, my guess was that at least two of them had knocked the shit out of her on a regular basis and she’d gone back for more. Why had I listened to her? Why had I placed my future in her trembling hands?

I could hear the panic in their voices. It grew louder and louder, as did my own doubts. They didn’t possess magic—or even answers. Nobody had ever sicced the dogs on them before, and for all their secrecy, their first-names-only and late-night cruising, they were unprepared. And now we were bound together by the same shackles, tracked by the same hounds.

If anything happens to me, Trina will be lost.

“I’m leaving,” I said, pushing back my chair. “If you won’t take me to rent a car, I’ll call a cab.”

“With no money?” Brad said.

It was true: Brad had my wallet. It only occurred to me now that one of the reasons Brad had confiscated it was for an occasion such as this.

“We’re not going to force you to stay,” Jean said, “but we think it’s in Trina’s best interest and yours if you do. You’ve come so far. Really, this is no more than another challenge. Honey, if you weren’t here, your challenges would be far more perilous. Think about the reason you called us.”

“What did Eddie tell the police, Jean?” I asked.

She looked at Brad before she answered.

“He told them that the woman was mistaken: No abduction had taken place, and the people the woman saw—us—were all going on a trip together, on a retreat. He told them Trina was probably just playing around.”

“How did the police respond?”

Jean glanced at Brad again. “They said they had thought of that, but the woman was certain the girl was in serious danger.”

Jean sounded defensive to me. “What else did they say?” I asked.

“They kept asking questions,” Jean said.

“What kind of questions?”

“About the car. Who was driving.” She shifted a little; the motion caused small animal noises to escape from her seat. “They wanted to know where
I
was.”

“Where
you
were?” I asked.

She opened her mouth and then put her open palm over it.

“Do they know you?”

Something about the way Jean slumped against her chair told me there was more.

“Do they know you, Jean?”

Brad looked at her. Jean’s hand came down. Her eyes were nearly closed.

“Oh, Jesus!” she said. We waited. “They’ve been to the house before.”

Of course they had. “Because of your son,” I said.

Now her eyes were completely shut, as though she didn’t want to see the words she spoke. “No, not because of my son—at least, not recently. Because—”

“Jean,” Brad said.

It was generic caution, a yellow light flashing: Careful, careful, don’t tell too much.

The old rules didn’t apply. Jean sped right through. “Three years ago I got arrested for attempted assault. Eddie was seeing someone, a younger woman. I came back from a trip, and she was in my house. I punched her—well, him too, but she pressed charges. So—”

“Holy shit,” Bethany said.

“So what happened?” I asked Jean. “You said she pressed charges.”

“I plea-bargained. I got probation and community service.”

“Are we the community service?” Bethany asked. She hooted, her laughter a sudden burst of noise, like a shot in the night.

“You never told me,” Brad said. His tone was flat and empty, somewhere between rage and resignation. His incredulity was palpable. So was mine. How could he not know something so essential?

“They may come after us,” I said. It was what we all were thinking. Might as well say it.

“I didn’t think that . . .”

Jean’s voice trailed off as Brad stood up. We all watched as he left the room.

“Brad is upset. He’s invested so much in this. It’s his entire life. I mean, he really doesn’t have much outside of—” She stopped abruptly and gave us a half smile. “This is bad,” Jean said.

She looked so morose, so unlike her “everything’s fine” self. I reached out and patted her back. “You and Eddie seem so happy,” I said.

Jean looked surprised. “We are, sweetheart. We love each other. I forgave Eddie a long time ago. He hasn’t had a bimbo in ages.”

“Not every woman can say that, goddammit,” Bethany said.

“I was married to an alcoholic who couldn’t keep a job and liked to hit me. Next was an alpha male who spent all his time making money and was never around. And then there was Steve, who also had a handy right hook. Eddie and his girlfriends . . . I guess by that time I was tired and ready to make a deal. He was helping me with my son. I was willing to look the other way. But the woman I punched out was just a little too bold. She didn’t play by the rules. Funny thing is, after I hit her, Eddie stopped cheating. It was as though he felt my punch, like it went right through that girl and knocked some sense into him.”

“Why did you go after the woman when it was Eddie you wanted to hurt? Women always go against each other,” Bethany said.

Jean looked surprised. “I didn’t want to hurt Eddie. I wanted him to respect my feelings, and I wanted to scare her away. I knew exactly what I was doing. That punch wasn’t the result of some heat-of-the-moment passion; it was planned. I was angry that night, but I was in full control. She was a crybaby. She started bawling and Eddie was trying to comfort her and keep me away, so she thought she’d won. But she’d lost. Eddie likes strong women.”

“So you forgave him,” I said.

“I needed him, and gradually I forgave him. He stopped cheating, and I began to love him again.”

A simple formula. Forgiveness always sounds easy, even in the Bible. Especially in the Bible.

“I just didn’t realize the repercussions for what we’re trying to do,” Jean said, her words bringing us back to the matter at hand, which had nothing to do with forgiveness.

The door opened, and Brad returned.

“We’re going to stay here,” he said. His voice said, I am the leader. It said, I am in control. But something was shifting.

““Tomorrow morning, I want you to take me to rent a car,” I said.

“We’re staying here,” Brad repeated.

“Maybe you are, but
I’m
going home.”

“Take your daughter back home, and we can’t be responsible for what might happen. You knew the rules when you signed on, Keri. You knew what we’re doing is illegal.”

“I’m not going to surrender our lives to you, Brad. Listen to me: The police are looking for all of us. That’s not some vague hypothetical thing. It doesn’t make any sense to stay here. I’m leaving.”

“Trina’s not in any shape for you to travel alone with her.”

“You let me worry about my child.”

“The best thing for both our girls is to stay right here,” Bethany said, looking at me. “We had a reason for doing this, and that hasn’t changed.”

“Maybe nothing’s changed for you, but it has for me. What good am I to Trina if I’m in jail?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Bethany said. “Nobody’s going to jail. Some hick cop gets a little overzealous, and all of a sudden you’re talking about jail. That’s crazy.”

“Black people go to jail in this country for bullshit every day. So don’t tell me nobody’s going to jail. The way it works in America is, I’d be the only one to go.”

They all got quiet for a moment.

“If it’s possible for you to go to jail, it’s just as possible for Trina to be jailed or killed because she’s in the middle of an episode,” Brad said. “Not too long ago, the LAPD shot a schizophrenic man right in your neighborhood. Killed him. Do you want that to happen to Trina?”

It took a minute before I realized he was talking about Crazy Man, another minute before I allowed myself to be persuaded by the logic of what Brad was saying. “Never run my train off de track, and I ain’t never lost a passenger.” That was Harriet Tubman’s claim to fame. She was always in charge. My conductor wasn’t prepared; his train was in danger of derailment. The North Star couldn’t guide him. How could I let him lead me? But what choice did I have?

“Let’s just get the fuck out of here,” Bethany said. “You’re coming, right?”

I sighed, then nodded slowly.

Bethany turned to Brad. “Then we should go now. Let’s stick to the plan.”

As we walked to the car, Trina was alert and perceptive beside me. She knew that something was up. I could tell by the focus in her eyes, the arch of her pliant back. My child glanced at our faces, saw the tension there, knew things had changed, and sensed an opportunity.

“Will I be out of here in time to go to school?” she asked me. Her tone was conversational and casual.

“I don’t know.”

“Wherever you were going to take me, you don’t have to anymore. I just want to go back home. I’ll stay on the meds and go to school. Why are you trusting these strangers? It’s not necessary. I’m already better. My good judgment is back.”

Trina’s clear voice with its reasonable tone was seductive, particularly given the changed circumstances. She wouldn’t try to run away again. She’d take her meds and never cheek them. She kept talking, her voice a long-playing CD that soothed and lulled, as the words kept coming without a break in sentences that rolled from one to another without pause. I listened without being persuaded. Mania is a spinning top. Sometimes it looks as though it has run down, but just a little wind can get it going again.