Free Bebe Moore Campbell by 72 Hour Hold Page B

to lead to even more brain discord later on.
    Gloria took the wine from the waitress before she could put it down. As she gulped it, red drops spilled onto the table. She didn’t notice. “He wanted to come in and eat, take a shower.”
    “Did you let him?” I asked.
    “The girls did. They’re still the adoring little sisters. Milton wasn’t home, so it wasn’t very smart. Anything could have happened. But he was so dirty. I gave him a scrub brush and some Pine-Sol. He was one funky brother.”
    We started chuckling.
    “That bad?” I said, still laughing.
    “Shiiiit. Dove ran out the door; Lifebuoy jumped out the window. Dial was going for the liquor cabinet.”
    We hooted.
    “And he had the nerve to get an attitude with me,” Gloria said, shaking her head. “Anyway, he took a shower, had a shampoo. I washed his clothes, fed him, and sent him on his way. Haven’t heard from him since. My sister said that she saw him downtown last week, and he looked as though he’d been beaten up.”
    “Oh, God,” I said.
    “Maybe you should get conservatorship,” Mattie said. “You could have him put in a locked facility.”
    “That’s a hard choice to make,” I said. Locking up your own kid— the thought made me shudder.
    “Yeah.” She finished her glass of wine. “You know, Wellington didn’t like to bathe when he was a kid. I’d send him up to get a bath and brush his teeth, and he’d just put on his pajamas and get in the bed. He was always so surprised when he got busted. ‘Aw, Mom, how’d you know?’ I’d say, ‘Knucklehead, the soap is dry. The tub is dry. The washcloth is dry. The toothbrush is dry. Duh!’ He didn’t voluntarily clean up until he hit puberty and discovered the ladies. Then we couldn’t get him out of the bathroom. Some girl must have given him some in eleventh grade, because after that Milton and I used to call him Mr. Obsession for Men.”
    “He’s so handsome,” I said.
    We’d all shared pictures of our children.
    “Yes, under the grime he’s a good-looking guy. Under his dread-locks, he’s got a sharp but malfunctioning brain. I’m trying to get him into another living place, but to qualify he has to be sober for thirty days. And then, you know, when he was living at the last one, the people didn’t run a very tight ship. I know for a fact that some of the residents smuggled in alcohol, including my son. So . . .” Her voice trailed off. “How’s Nona?” she asked Mattie.
    “Nona’s holding on. I visited her at the prison two weeks ago, and she looked good.”
    “Were you able to get her into the mental health section?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “There’s a waiting list.”
    “How much longer will she be in there?”
    “Three months.”
    Gloria and I made noises in our throats. Nonverbal empathy.
    “I think if she weren’t in jail she’d be dead,” Mattie said. She chuckled. “It’s cheaper than A Caring Place. I’m still paying that off. Six thousand dollars for a four-week stay. That’s room and board, group sessions, private counseling, family counseling. The insurance is only paying half, and it took about twenty phone calls and I don’t know how many letters to get them to pay anything. I’m in yet another support group: Mothers of Mentally Ill Inmates.”
    “You mean, Mothers of Mentally Ill Inmates with Bills,” Gloria said. “After a while, support groups will replace families. It won’t be about who you’re married to. All the official forms will ask for date of birth, social security number, and support group affiliation.”
    We laughed hysterically. We always either laughed or cried like crazy whenever we got together.
    “Seriously, though, we need to start a group in the ’hood,” Gloria said. “ The Come Out of the Closet Support Group.”
    We all chuckled.
    The waitress appeared with our sandwiches. Gloria asked for another glass of wine.
    “It’s always going to be like this,” she said, taking a sip.
    “Oh,