Bebe Moore Campbell by 72 Hour Hold

Trina?”
    “Trina’s fine, and so am I. How are the boys? I saw PJ riding in a car on Crenshaw a couple of weeks ago.” Just saying PJ’s name made me smile.
    “Yeah, he was probably on his way to get his tattoo.”
    “What kind of tattoo?”
    “The wrong kind. Lucy called me and said he had the words FUCK YOU tattooed on his lower back.”
    “Oh, my God. So I take it Lucy’s on the warpath.”
    “You got that right,” Orlando said.
    Orlando’s ex-wife was not an overly patient woman, nor did she subscribe to modern child-rearing practices. When her sons were younger she didn’t spare the rod. A tiny woman, she nevertheless packed quite a wallop. I’d been a victim of her wrath one night when she had followed Orlando and me to a bar. In the ensuing argument she stuck to her theme, which was that if Orlando could afford to buy me a drink, he could pay his child support on time. Before I had time to express sisterly solidarity, I was the recipient of a great deal of the drink that she tossed in Orlando’s face. She later apologized, but I’d always questioned her sincerity.
    “On the other hand, Jabari is rolling. Every college in the nation wants a piece of him.” Orlando’s older son was gifted both academically and athletically.
    I could see PJ with his scrawny teenage body, all decorated with tats, swaggering down high school halls, his pores exuding do-or-die bravado. He would stumble through life, learning everything the hard way. His older brother, stable, dependable Jabari, was risk-aversive. PJ was my favorite.
    Orlando sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll go eat my lunch all by myself. Listen, I start rehearsals for a play. Will you come see me? Think about it,” he said, when I didn’t respond.
    We stared at each other. He wasn’t really handsome; his features weren’t chiseled enough for that category. Just shy of six feet, broad in the shoulders with a bit of a belly, he exuded power without doing much of anything. Orlando was the kind of man who opened his front door when the bell rang without asking for a name or looking through a peephole.
    “That man!” I said after he left. Frances just laughed. “You just don’t know,” I said, and she laughed harder. “Is that stain out yet?”
    She shook her head. “I’ve tried everything. Whatever it is don’t want to come out. In fact, I think it’s worse.”
    Back in the office I examined the jacket. The spot was spreading. Instead of a dime, it had now grown to the size of a quarter. I picked up the jacket, folding it across my arm. “I’ll take it down the street.” Most repairs we tried to fix in-house. But the cleaner’s at the end of our block specialized in hard cases. An ancient Jamaican man was the commander of an arsenal of solutions and potions that made most dirt disappear. “The Old Man will get it out,” I said.
    AT ONE-THIRTY, I TOSSED THE JACKET ONTO THE BACK seat of my car, drove down to a little restaurant near the hospital, and had lunch. I left my car on the side street and trudged over to Beth Israel’s Weitz Center. Usually I waited for Trina outside, but by three-ten, when she still hadn’t come down, I decided to go in. Occasionally she dallied to talk with some of her group mates or to one of the counselors. Today wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to get her.
    Jasmine scented the air as I climbed the stairs. Inside, I walked past the security guard, beyond the station where a Japanese woman with a kind face handled insurance and payments, down the hall to where the partial program was located. There was no one at the front desk, and when I glanced quickly around the large area into the various rooms, there were people milling around but no Trina. A dark-haired woman emerged from one of the offices in the back, and I recognized her as the program coordinator.
    “Mrs. Whitmore, is it?” she asked. Her British accent made her words sound somewhat formal.
    “Elaine, please call me Keri. I came to pick up my