𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄

12. | RUNNING UP THAT HILL

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Diana's Aunt Missy had a saying: "There's an appointed time for everything."

Years of Sunday service, Wednesday evening Bible study, and extended stays down south in Bessemer had made the old biblical saying stick to her like glue. It was like a stone etching, chiseled into the crevices of her spirit.

Sometimes, when Diana closed her eyes, she was a girl again, standing just steps away from the holy altar in a tiny Alabaman church, shoulder to shoulder with her brothers and sisters. The second oldest of five (Chico had only been a twinkle in her father's eye at the time), garbed in a white, frilly dress and well-polished, patent leather shoes, twisting her foot against the grating itch on her ankle as the pastor gave a sermon from the Book of Ecclesiastes.

There is an appointed time for everything
and a time for every affair under the heavens.

And thanks to Aunt Missy, some sections would fire at will:

A time to kill, and a time to heal
a time to tear down, and a time to build.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh
a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

While her mother was up north recovering from another bout of tuberculosis, her Aunt Missy would stand in as one of many parental figures, drilling in each sacred stanza until the words rattled from their mouths as quickly as a show tune.

Diana wasn't sure how well it had stuck with her siblings, but there was something to be said about how years later, she could still hear parts of The Book and her aunt's low, soulful voice.

She heard it as a Supreme when, in the beginning, their first few albums went by without little to no fanfare. She heard it much later, too, in 1981, as she was coming off the heels of one of her most successful television specials. Swinging from the highest high to the lowest low was a knack she had perfected quite well. And low was stooping over the tiny table in her empty hotel room, lonely and hopeless, crying until her body had no more tears to give.

There were other moments after that, but the potency of the verses paled in comparison to where she was now—in Hayvenhurst's studio, reckoning with the ache in her gut.

Once again, she looked at the calendar on the wall of the tiny break area. August 1986. It hadn't exactly been a year, but it was getting there.

Where exactly does this fit into the divine equation, Aunt Missy?

Light from an outdoor lamp slithered in through a break in the blinds. Her shadow was a dark umbra, stretching across the tile, swimming the surface of the gray countertops. Years she had spent seeing this body of hers, naked or otherwise, in different forms of light. Only, lately, darkness had taken precedence. But she couldn't stay in this little corner all night contemplating that, could she?

Her eyes flickered between the percolator and the water dispenser. She went for the coffee first. It was stale and bitter. She dumped it in the sink, going for the water instead. As she drank, distant talk trickled into the room. Among the voices, she heard Michael, his usual sweet falsetto smooth and lower pitched.

She downed the water and bared her teeth against the empty cup. At the sound of incoming footsteps, she discarded the cup in the trash, focusing on the tiny water droplet on her shirt as the disembodied footsteps fleshed into a person.

"I thought you'd already left us, Miss Ross."

The glass of a painting hanging above her provided a small reflection. The person wasn't entirely discernible, but she recognized the voice and the makings of the hat from anywhere.