you a secret,” Jessie began, her voice at first too small and unobtrusive for Macon to even hear. There, she had said it. And, as she did, she heard the little voice, but she pushed it back, so far back it couldn’t reach her. “Before I tell you though,” she pushed on, “I want you to forgive me for knowing you all this time and never telling you before. Why Inever told you had more to do with me than anything I didn’t trust about you.”
“What is it, Jessie?” Macon said, moving from the chair to sit next to Jessie on the top step.
The voice in her head was mad now, enraged that she had stifled it, dared to ignore it. And as it puffed itself up, gathered steam, Jessie said, “Just promise me that what I tell you stays between us. You can’t even tell Courtland okay?”
“I promise.” Macon squeezed Jessie’s hand.
“Well,” Jessie said, “it’s something I thought I would just forget one day, but it seems like I can’t do anything but remember.”
BRIGHT LIGHTS
S HE WAS LOSING him. Even as her words filled the cavernous, suddenly lonely room, she was losing him and she didn’t know how she could get him back. The reader sat at a desk before her, his eyes glued to the script speaking the other roles in the scene. Her favorite scene. The role she was born to play. The director stood beside the room’s only window, arms folded across his chest, gazing at her with a studied indifference she could neither decipher nor defeat. Five minutes after her departure he might not remember her name, but inevitably he would recall every flustered line, each unsure move she had made. She had been called back for a second audition, had not slept the night before, had done little in the week since the previous audition except think about this moment. Prepare for it. Pray about it. Now it was here and she was losing it. With every word, each breath, each movement, she was losing the scene and their attention. Had there been a moment in the last ten minutes when she could have reclaimed it?
“Mama, you don’t understand. It’s all a matter of ideas, and God is just one idea I don’t accept. It’s not important. I am notgoing out and be immoral or commit crimes because I don’t believe in God.”
Ever since she first read the play she had wanted to be Beneatha, had felt she
was
Beneatha. She would have been, could have been Beneatha too, if she hadn’t been Jessie Foster first
.
“I don’t even think about it. It’s just that I get tired of Him getting all the credit for all the things the human race achieves through its own stubborn effort. There simply is no blasted God—there is only man and it is
he
who makes miracles!”
Why couldn’t they see or hear Beneatha in her? She had allowed some of the girl’s confidence to rub off on her—wanting to be a doctor and talking back to her mama. If they didn’t give her the role, give her what she felt was hers, she’d have to give all that goodness back
.
The reader was saying Mama’s lines, the ones that claimed her daughter, retrieving her from independence and blasphemy. Her head rolled back as though slapped, her eyes filled with real, imagined tears, too proud to shed, and then she said, “In my mother’s house there is still God.”
“There are some ideas we ain’t going to have in this house. Not long as I am at the head of this family,” the reader said, his voice dull, detached.
“Yes, ma’am.”
That slap had only made her stronger, that’s what she liked about the girl. Nobody could turn her around. She had gotten Lincoln to work with her on the part, over and over, polishing this scene until he got so sick of it he refused to hear it again. Maybe she had worked on it too much, had wanted it too badly. Was that possible? Not after she had let this girl get under her skin, walk down the street beside her. No, please, Lord, don’t tell me you can lose something just because you wanted it too much!
“Like a child,” the reader
“What is it, Jessie?” Macon said, moving from the chair to sit next to Jessie on the top step.
The voice in her head was mad now, enraged that she had stifled it, dared to ignore it. And as it puffed itself up, gathered steam, Jessie said, “Just promise me that what I tell you stays between us. You can’t even tell Courtland okay?”
“I promise.” Macon squeezed Jessie’s hand.
“Well,” Jessie said, “it’s something I thought I would just forget one day, but it seems like I can’t do anything but remember.”
BRIGHT LIGHTS
S HE WAS LOSING him. Even as her words filled the cavernous, suddenly lonely room, she was losing him and she didn’t know how she could get him back. The reader sat at a desk before her, his eyes glued to the script speaking the other roles in the scene. Her favorite scene. The role she was born to play. The director stood beside the room’s only window, arms folded across his chest, gazing at her with a studied indifference she could neither decipher nor defeat. Five minutes after her departure he might not remember her name, but inevitably he would recall every flustered line, each unsure move she had made. She had been called back for a second audition, had not slept the night before, had done little in the week since the previous audition except think about this moment. Prepare for it. Pray about it. Now it was here and she was losing it. With every word, each breath, each movement, she was losing the scene and their attention. Had there been a moment in the last ten minutes when she could have reclaimed it?
“Mama, you don’t understand. It’s all a matter of ideas, and God is just one idea I don’t accept. It’s not important. I am notgoing out and be immoral or commit crimes because I don’t believe in God.”
Ever since she first read the play she had wanted to be Beneatha, had felt she
was
Beneatha. She would have been, could have been Beneatha too, if she hadn’t been Jessie Foster first
.
“I don’t even think about it. It’s just that I get tired of Him getting all the credit for all the things the human race achieves through its own stubborn effort. There simply is no blasted God—there is only man and it is
he
who makes miracles!”
Why couldn’t they see or hear Beneatha in her? She had allowed some of the girl’s confidence to rub off on her—wanting to be a doctor and talking back to her mama. If they didn’t give her the role, give her what she felt was hers, she’d have to give all that goodness back
.
The reader was saying Mama’s lines, the ones that claimed her daughter, retrieving her from independence and blasphemy. Her head rolled back as though slapped, her eyes filled with real, imagined tears, too proud to shed, and then she said, “In my mother’s house there is still God.”
“There are some ideas we ain’t going to have in this house. Not long as I am at the head of this family,” the reader said, his voice dull, detached.
“Yes, ma’am.”
That slap had only made her stronger, that’s what she liked about the girl. Nobody could turn her around. She had gotten Lincoln to work with her on the part, over and over, polishing this scene until he got so sick of it he refused to hear it again. Maybe she had worked on it too much, had wanted it too badly. Was that possible? Not after she had let this girl get under her skin, walk down the street beside her. No, please, Lord, don’t tell me you can lose something just because you wanted it too much!
“Like a child,” the reader
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