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.

He took out a bottle of wine and poured a little into two glasses.

"This week I have an audition for a sitcom pilot," he said. Before I could say anything, he added, "Don't ask. Very dumb plot. But I'm auditioning for the producers."

Saying lines for the producers was a step above auditioning for the lowly casting agent. Orlando was telling me that he was still somebody in the business.

"Congratulations."

"So I am, once again, a man with prospects. Ebb and flow, baby."

He grinned at me, and I prayed for him on the spot. Asked God to give him the gig, just to keep that grin on his face. That grin would be good for PJ.

"Well, here we go again," I said, as we sat on his sofa sipping the wine. "Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy ride." He knew who I was talking about.

"Oh, that," Orlando said. "Love you, love your kid. Let me amend that: Love you; won't punch your kid out. Ain't that the way it goes?"

I took his hand and kissed each knuckle and then his palm. "That's the way it goes."

8.

ORLANDO WAS STILL ASLEEP BESIDE ME WHEN I CALLED the hospital the next day. I recognized the voice of the Nigerian woman who answered the phone at the nurse's station at the Weitz Center. She was austere, by the book. A million ways to say hello in Yoruba, and she couldn't think of one. Maybe the residual affects of colonialism or the British school system had messed with her mind. Sister wasn't giving up no love.

"Hello, Ms. Shonibare, is Elijah there?" I asked.

"Elijah is busy with patients."

"May I leave a-"

"Try again in forty minutes. He takes a break then." She hung up.

After ten minutes, I dialed again. This time the voice was lighter, speaking English words with the rhythm of Tagalog. I pictured the small Filipino man, Marco.

"Hello, Marco, this is Keri Whitmore. We've met before. My daughter, Trina, is on the ward."

"Oh, yes. How are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm calling about Trina. How is she today? Has the psychiatrist been in to see her? I don't think she's taking her meds. When I saw her last night, she was very wired."

My hands opened and closed as I spoke. He paused, and I pictured him reading the chart.

"Mrs. Whitmore, did you know that your daughter hasn't listed you?"

"What do you mean, she didn't list me? I'm her mother."

"She's eighteen. She's an adult. If she doesn't list you, I can't give you any information."

"I know that you check for drugs. Was anything in her system?"

"Mrs. Whitmore," he began.

I knew what that pause meant.

Only days before, we had celebrated her birthday. Now those digits meant that my child was out of my control.

"But I'm her mother. She lives with me. She's my dependent. I'll be paying her bill, whatever the insurance doesn't cover. I have a right to know what's going on. She may be coming home tonight. I have to know what I'm dealing with."

"I'm sorry."

I sat up in the bed, still holding the receiver in my hand. Orlando's eyes opened, then closed, then opened again.

"What's going on?" He sat up.

"They won't tell me anything because she's eighteen."

He tried to pull me to him, but I was too edgy to be comforted. I got up and began to dress.

"Don't you want me to fix you something?" he asked.

"Thanks. I'm okay."

"What are your hours today?"

"Saturdays are eleven to seven."

"There's a rehearsal for the play this afternoon," he told me, as he walked me out. "I'll be at the theater from about one to five. If you need me, I'll have my cell on vibrate."