2-in-1 Yada Yada (21 page)

Chicago's lakefront officially opened on Memorial Day, and Chicagoans flocked to the parks and beaches like Ulysses clones drawn by the Sirens' song. Even a crowd-hater like me. For one thing, the mosquitoes and bees had not yet begun to recruit troops and draw up battle plans for Labor Day, pretty much leaving the parks bug-free. For another, people-watching was at its greatest as bikers, joggers, dog-walkers, and baby strollers were practically bumper to bumper, and everybody and his Uncle Jimmy hauled their Weber grills to the lakefront for a family reunion. It was as if Chicago itself shook off the winter doldrums to celebrate the beginning of summer.

Which made going back to school the next day—for three more weeks!—grounds for mutiny in the hearts of students and teachers alike.

But now that Saturday was here, I might as well suck it up and make the most of the three-day weekend. Like groceries. I hadn't done a serious shop since before the women's conference, just darting into the store to pick up milk or bread or hamburger on our way somewhere else. But, as Denny subtly pointed out, the vittles situation was starting to get serious when the only cans on the pantry shelf were dog food.

Besides, I had to shop for Florida's party. Which meant chicken.
Lots
of chicken. I hoped “Baxter grilled” instead of Kentucky Fried would be okay.

After reminding Amanda that Edesa was coming at four o'clock for tutoring and laying down the law to both kids that their rooms had to be clean—not just kicking stuff under the bed—before they could do anything with friends, I set out armed with my list of errands. I'd dropped off the dry cleaning and stood in line at the post office—both near each other on Devon—and was heading back up Clark Street toward the fruit market and new Dominick's grocery store when I saw the red-and-blue sign:

ADELE'S HAIR AND NAILS

I was so startled, I hit the brakes, meriting serious horn honking from the car behind me and getting a single digit salute as the driver swerved around me into the oncoming lane. I circled the block and drove slowly north on Clark once more, on the lookout for a place to stop and gawk. Adele's Hair and Nails—that was it, all right. I'd totally forgotten that Adele had said her shop was on Clark Street, a two-lane artery through Rogers Park boasting so many ethnic businesses that the shop signs looked like someone shook up the alphabet and scattered the letters like so many dice.

A car pulled out of a parking space, and I pulled in. Why not? I was here; Adele was in there, doing her thing. Why not just go in and ask if she could come to Florida's party? We were both Yada Yada. Why not?

Because you're a big chicken, Jodi.
Adele hadn't exactly warmed up to me at the women's conference, and at least there I had the relative safety of the whole prayer group. But now . . .

I looked at the shop about two car lengths away. It looked innocent enough. Posters of women—mostly black women of different hues—with perfect skin and various hair styles ranging from waves to weaves stood behind an array of hair products in the window. Twinkle lights outlined the window—left over from Christmas?

Didn't look like a lion's den. But that's what it felt like as I locked the car, fed the meter, took a deep breath, and pulled open the door.

22

A
bell tinkled over the door as I walked in, and I was greeted with a strong, not unpleasant smell reminding me of the Tonette home perms my mom used to give my grandmother. And music—a male vocalist singing gospel something. Three beauty-shop chairs were parked in front of the long mirror covering the wall to my left, but only one was occupied. On the right side, behind the counter, I could see a couple of hair dryers—those standard beehive contraptions that looked like hairdos on a
Simpsons
cartoon.

A young woman wearing a smock and tight-fitting latex gloves was sectioning the hair of a woman in the first chair and daubing on a white substance at the dark roots with a small, square paintbrush. She looked up. “Be with you in a minute.”

I looked around the waiting area. Don't know what I'd expected, but not a comfy sofa and matching love seat making an L around a large coffee table. Another woman with light honey skin sat on the love seat paging through a copy of
Essence
and carrying on a conversation with the woman getting her hair done. “Her baby is just the sweetest thing,” she was saying. “Sings like an angel.”

“What? How old is he now?”

“Nine,maybe ten. He's good enough for the Chicago Children's Choir, I swear.”

I edited my vision of an actual baby “baby” that could sing like an angel and sat down on the couch, giving the three woman what I hoped was a friendly smile. I picked up a copy of
O
—Oprah's magazine—from among the available reading materials:
Ebony,
Jet,
and
Essence,
plus several issues of neighborhood newspapers. And a Bible.

“Whose CD is that she's got on? Kirk Franklin's new one?”

“Sounds like Fred Hammond to me.”

I'm not sure which surprised me more: the Bible on the coffee table, the gospel music flooding the salon, or the coffeepot, half-full, plugged in on a little table beside the love seat. A cake server snuggled among the Styrofoam cups, powdered creamer, and packets of sugar revealed some kind of cake or pastry under its glass lid. Everything looked so . . . inviting. Sit down. Stay awhile.

Somehow, “inviting” and “Adele” were concepts that seemed like the north and south ends of a magnet.

“Can I help you?” the beautician asked, moving from the chair to the counter as she toweled white goo off her latex gloves.

I came to the counter, my mind scrambling. Should I just ask for Adele, or . . . maybe I should get something done. Nails! Why not get my nails done for Florida's party tomorrow? I was tempted to grin, remembering all the painted nails around the circle at the women's conference. Mine excluded. How much could it be? Might be fun.

“Um . . . do you take walk-ins for a manicure?”

Lifted eyebrow. “You don't have an appointment?”

“No, uh, you see . . . I was just driving by when I saw Adele's shop—Adele Skuggs, right?” I glanced past the young woman toward the back of the shop. “Is Adele here by any chance?”

The young woman arched both absolutely perfect eyebrows as if to say,
“You
know
Adele?”
but obediently called over her shoulder. “Adele? Lady here wants to see you.”

“Give me a minute! I'm doing a comb-out!” That was Adele's voice all right. I smiled at the young woman, who returned to her client, and perused the shelves of beauty products that lined the wall just inside the door. Dudley's Oil-Sheen Spray & Moisturizer . . . Mizan Holding Spritz . . . KeraCare Detangling Shampoo . . . and several other brands of conditioners, moisturizers, and fixers, as well as small plastic packages labeled “Wave Caps.”

“Well, look who's here. Jodi Baxter of the Baxter Bears.”

I whirled. Adele had appeared behind the counter, big as life. Same short reddish 'fro. Same big gold earrings. Same little space between her front teeth. Same ability to tie up my tongue in a triple knot. The lion in the lion's den was looking at me with an amused smile.

“Hi, Adele. I . . . was just driving by and saw your shop! Decided to drop in and say hi . . . uh,
and
get my nails done, if you take walk-ins.” I held out my fingers. “They're in pretty bad shape.”

Adele did not look down at my hands.

“Or,” I added hastily, “I could make an appointment for another time if you're too busy. Last-minute idea anyway. Just thought I'd get gussied up for Florida's party. Tomorrow, you know.” I was starting to stumble over my own words, and I knew it.

Adele's eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Florida's party. Tomorrow.”

“Right! I sent out an e-mail to Yada Yada about it, but maybe you didn't see it. A five-year sobriety party for Florida. It was Yo-Yo's—”

I stopped in midsentence. A little old lady with dark freckled skin and graying hair appeared in my line of vision, pushing a walker between hair dryers and beauty chairs and muttering loudly. “Cain't get nothin' ta eat in this rest'runt . . . lousiest service in th' South . . . jest gon' find mahself 'nother place ta eat . . . bunch o' pig-headed—”

“MaDear!”Adele grabbed but missed as the old woman shuffled past in her pink slippers—at a pretty fast clip, in my opinion—making a beeline for the front door. Adele caught her before she got to the handle and turned her around. “You want somethin' to eat, MaDear? Come on. I'll fix something for ya.”

I stood transfixed, watching Adele usher the little woman in front of her, keeping a firm grip on “MaDear's” bony shoulders, which were encased in a faded blue housedress. Just as they were about to turn a corner beyond the hair dryers, Adele called out, “Come on back, Jodi. Think I can squeeze you in.”

Startled, I glanced questioningly at the woman on the love seat. “Are you . . .?”

“Me? Nah. I'm waitin' on Takesha, here, to do my hair.”

The young woman in the white smock—Takesha, presumably— nodded. “Go on. If Adele say she can squeeze you in, she can squeeze you in.”

The woman in the chair, her hair standing stiffly at all angles, laughed. “Yeah. She the boss.”

I walked toward the back and turned the corner into another leg of the shop. Two comfy-looking black vinyl chairs were poised on white porcelain pedestals that looked like mini-bathtubs. For soaking feet obviously, I told myself. Two more chairs were lined up in front of little white tables with all sorts of small gadgets and bottles of nail polish. Manicures.

Adele had parked her mother in a rocking chair and was tying her in with a padded Velcro belt. “Here you go.” She handed her a sandwich that she took out of a small refrigerator.

The old lady patted Adele's hand. “Yo' sweet.” She looked up quizzically. “What yo' say yo' name is?”

“Adele, MaDear.” Adele blew out a breath, as though easing the level of pent-up frustration. “Since the day I was born.”

She seemed to notice me then, standing in the middle of the narrow aisle. “Go on, have a seat. I've got a comb-out to finish. Be with you in five.”

I sat down at one of the manicure tables, dizzy with the events of the past two minutes. Adele's mother was more “demented” than my grandmother ever was. Maybe it was Alzheimer's.Out of the corner of my eye I watched the old lady take her sandwich apart, laying each piece separately on her skinny lap: slice of bread, square of rubbery American cheese, slice of balogna, another slice of bread. Then she proceeded to lick the mayonnaise off each one.

“ 'Bye, Adele! See ya in a couple of weeks. 'Bye, MaDear.” The comb-out waved in the general direction of Adele's mother and disappeared toward the front.

“Takesha!”Adele yelled after her. “Cash out Sister Lily, will ya?”

Then she was back. She eyed her mother. “Hmm. Oughta keep her busy for a while. Okay . . . you wanted a manicure?”

“Yes . . . I mean, if you're sure . . . I didn't have an appointment . . . how much do your charge?”

“Relax, Jodi.” Adele was washing her hands in the hair-washing sink. “It's all right. I was kinda surprised to see you, I guess.” She looked me up and down as she toweled her hands. “Sure you don't want a pedicure, too? Ten for the manicure, twenty for the pedicure . . . but I'll give you both for twenty-five. For coming in. Call it a first-time promotion.”

I was tantalized. Why not? I'd cut it off the grocery bill— somewhere.

Sitting with my bare feet in the Jacuzzi footbath, I watched Adele lay out her clippers and scrubbers, oils and lotions. “Pick a color,” she ordered, motioning toward the rows of nail polish. Oh, gosh. I didn't think I could go blood red. “That one,” I said, pointing at a soft coral color.

“Ah. Living dangerously, eh?” Her shoulders shook in a silent chuckle.

But when Adele, big and black, pulled up a low footstool and took my left foot out of the bath, a sense of . . . of impropriety welled up inside me. I couldn't do this! Adele was practically kneeling at my feet, rubbing some kind of cuticle oil on each toe . . . it felt wrong! Like the old days, before Civil Rights, when white women like me sat up high and mighty on their thrones and black women scrubbed the floors.

“Jodi! Stop jerking your foot. I'm gonna gouge you good with this cuticle cutter if you don't hold still.”

“Adele . . .” My voice came out in a squeak. “I feel . . . awkward having you work on my feet. I mean, you own this shop . . . don't you have a girl or somebody who does feet?”

Adele sat back and looked at me. Just looked at me. And for some reason, I started to cry. Big ol' tears just slid right down my face.

Finally she spoke. “Well, ain't you somethin' else. Know who you sound like, Jodi Baxter? Big ol' full-of-himself Peter. ‘Oh, Master! You shall never wash my feet!' Just couldn't swallow it. And what did Jesus say?”

I just stared at her.

“He said, ‘If I don't wash your feet, Big Boy, you ain't one of mine.'Well, something like that.” She chuckled at herself. “Then ol' Peter says,Well if that's the case, give me the whole bath!”

Adele, still sitting on the footstool, put one hand on her ample hip and shook a finger at me. “Well, Jodi Baxter, I ain't gonna give you a whole bath, but feet are my business, and this
ain't
a big deal. And if we gonna do this . . . this Yada Yada thing, better get used to it. You wash feet sometimes; you get your feet washed sometimes. Ain't that the way it s'posed to be? Now hold still.”

I PULLED INTO THE GARAGE an hour later than I thought I'd be, the back of the minivan full of groceries. Hitting the grocery store after getting all twenty digits oiled and lotioned and painted like a queen was a bit of a letdown. Here I was, still in my gym shoes covering up my now-gorgeous toes, when I
felt
like dancing barefoot in the grass wearing a gauzy gown, like those women who float through TV commercials for some kind of pain reliever.