"You're smiling," Bethany said.
"I feel happy. Our girls are alive. We're not in jail. We've got bean pie and wine. I'm not scared anymore. I feel strong."
"I feel fucking great," Bethany said.
THE NIGHT OF THE PLAY, I WORE THE GREEN PANTSUIT, THE one we couldn't sell. A silk flower covered the stain. Below it my heart beat fast. Orlando was sitting next to me and PJ was next to him. Bethany was on my other side. Frances and her new boyfriend, Mattie and Roger, and Gloria and Milton were seated in the same row. Marie, my patient and forgiving old friend, sat behind me. Emma was next to Bethany. Clyde, of course, was out of town. He'd sent flowers, enough to fill five vases. Orlando squeezed my hand.
Bethany leaned over toward me, just as the lights went down and the pianist began to play. She looked good. Her hair was loose, freshly cut and colored. It touched my face. "Honey," she whispered, "this is what they call a breather."
Long ago I sat on the top step with Ma Missy, watching my mother pass out on the living room floor from too much scotch. It was a bad time. Ma Missy held me close as I wriggled and writhed. She rocked me and hummed something that made me still, made me smile. Our song.
Maybe, after the devastation, what you're supposed to do is rebuild the space in your mind that's been blown away, but never fool yourself into thinking that it's stronger, that you've erected some impenetrable fortress that won't be hit again and again and again. Things fall down, people too. Crazy men wander the land, crashing and crumbling, and nobody gets a warning. There is always another swamp to cross. Passengers are both lost and found. Ol' Harriet learned that the hard way, the first time she retraced her path, erased her scent, outwitted the dogs, and followed the only star that lit the way, only to discover that when she got where she was going, new hounds were waiting. But there was that cool space on the bank of the murky water where she lay on fragrant moss, undisturbed for hours, and there was no barking, no sound of twigs snapping. A breather.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.
I'd like to thank my editor, Phyllis Grann, for continuing to be my champion and for having faith in this project. You are the best in the industry, and I value your wisdom and guidance. As always, thank you, Lynn Nesbitt, for your expert handling of the business part of writing. To the members of my four-generational household: Mom, Ellis, Maia, and Elisha, your background noise helped to create the rhythm of this book. Ellis, you especially contribute such beautiful music to my life. Don't ever stop. And for all the faithful ones, courageous enough to believe that hard times can make way for good outcomes and even happy endings, may God bless you.
Bebe Moore Campbell.
72 HOUR HOLD.
Bebe Moore Campbell is the author of three New York Times bestsellers: Brothers and Sisters, Singing in the Comeback Choir, and What You Owe Me, which was also a Los Angeles Times Best Book of 2001. Her other works include the novel Your Blues Ain't Like Mine , which was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and the winner of the NAACP Image Award for Literature.
www.bebemoorecampbell.com.
ALSO BY BEBE MOORE CAMPBELL.
Sweet Summer, Growing Up With and Without My Dad.
Your Blues Ain't Like Mine.
Brothers and Sisters.
Singing in the Comeback Choir.
What You Owe Me.
Sometimes My Mommy Gets Angry.
end.