2-in-1 Yada Yada (23 page)

We were singing the second song when I felt a poke in my ribs from the row behind me. “Hey, girl,” came a loud whisper. “Why didn't you save me a seat?”

I'm sure I grinned from ear to ear. “Florida!” I whispered and gave her an awkward hug over the back of my chair. She was dressed in black slacks and a loose-belted tunic—rose on black— and her hair was different. The crown of little beaded braids had given way to a cascade of shiny finger curls slicked back from her forehead with tiny combs. Chris and Cedric, looking manly in their khaki slacks and open-necked dress shirts, both gave me a little wave. No Carl though. Denny might be odd man out at this party, after all.

That was all from Yada Yada who came to Uptown Community that morning, but it was a start on our “church visitation.” I wasn't too surprised that others hadn't made it—after all, Adele had “MaDear” to worry about, and Chanda was a single mom with three kids. Probably getting a babysitter—or mother-sitter— for one afternoon was challenging enough. I was surprised about Stu, though. She had come again last week and talked like she'd be here this morning.

The service was nice, pretty typical for Uptown. From time to time I glanced sideways at Edesa and Delores, wondering how our medley of contemporary worship songs—sincere, but rather monotone in intensity, accompanied by a few hand clappers—compared to worship at their Church of the Holy Spirit. It would be fun to visit a Spanish-speaking church. I ought to go when Amanda could go with me.

During announcements, the teen group asked members of Uptown Community to sponsor work projects for the teens the first three Saturdays in June to earn the remaining money for the mission trip. It hadn't really hit me yet that both my kids were going off U.S. soil for ten days . . . without me. As people gathered around the teens to pray for them, I felt strangely warmed to hear Florida's familiar, “Thank ya,
Jesus!”
and “You are
so good,
Jesus!” join Avis's regular affirmations.

Our visitors had come by public transportation, so I got together with Avis right after service to work out rides to my house. Delores and Edesa wanted to run by Dominick's to pick up some potato salad; Avis said she'd take them so we Baxters could get home to get the grill going. That left Florida and her boys to ride with us.

I saw Pastor Clark talking to Florida and making a fuss over Chris and Cedric.
That's nice,
I thought. Pastor Clark carried a vision for more diversity in the congregation. Maybe he was trying to recruit them. But finally we all made it out the door and piled in the minivan that Josh had waiting—double-parked—in front of Uptown's storefront.

“Didn't know this was yours and Avis's church, Jodi,” Florida said, followed by a stern, “Get that seatbelt fastened, Cedric; don't you be fussin' 'bout it.”

“Yeah. Almost a year now—well, last summer. That's how I met Avis and found out about the job at Bethune Elementary.”

“Ain't that somethin',” Florida murmured as we pulled away, which I thought was odd. She couldn't have been
that
impressed.

BY THE TIME AVIS ARRIVED with her carload and a pan of hot macaroni and cheese, it was almost one-thirty and Chanda and Adele had just arrived, bearing a couple of bags of chips and a big pot of greens respectively. “Get that mac 'n' cheese in the oven,” Adele ordered, charging into the kitchen. She put her own pot of greens on top of the stove and turned the flame on low. “Nothin' worse than cold mac 'n' cheese.”

For a flicker of a second my territorial instincts rose up:
You
may be the boss of your salon, Adele Skuggs, but this is my kitchen
. . . but instead I tried to make conversation. “Where's your mother today, Adele?” I
was
curious. What did one
do
with someone suffering from Alzheimer's like MaDear, who was always looking to “escape” with her walker?

“My sister takes her on Sundays. Gives me a day off.” She seemed to notice the others who'd come in with Avis for the first time. “Hey, Edesa . . . Delores. Oh, my . . . this your baby? How ya doin', honey? How's José doin'?” Chatting all at once, the little group threaded itself through the back door.

“Amanda's out there somewhere, Emerald!” I called after them.

Chanda George had disappeared into the bathroom the moment she walked in the front door. Coming into the kitchen now, she caught sight of others in the backyard and made a beeline for the screen door, giving me a polite nod in passing. Then, as if on second thought, she stopped and enveloped a startled Avis in a big hug.

“That was interesting,” Avis murmured a few minutes later as the two of us set things out on the dining room table, buffet style. “Maybe getting everybody in the prayer group together is as important for Chanda as for Florida.”

“You think?” I hadn't thought much about Miss Lottery Ticket since the conference—Chanda didn't have e-mail, so we hadn't really communicated. I really had no idea what her life was like . . . single mom, three kids, cleaning houses for a living. Did we have
anything
in common? But I did appreciate that she had made an effort to come out on a Sunday afternoon—
sans
kids, thank goodness— to Florida's party.

Avis was staring at me, an amused smile on her face.

“What?”

She pointed. “Your nails. I thought there was something different about you today, but I didn't know what. You did your nails.”

“Nope. Got them done. At Adele's salon.” I waved my fingers under her nose, enjoying the “oh
really”
look on her face. I'd wondered if anyone would notice.

Josh and Amanda had Florida's boys and Emerald in the alley, shooting hoops against a neighbor's garage, while most of the women flirted with Denny, who was manning the grill. Okay, they weren't really flirting, but he was the only man present and was being his charming self, which meant giving each new arrival a big welcoming smile and talking like they were old friends. I knew I could count on Denny to help put people at ease.

The doorbell rang as Avis and I set out the last of the red-and-white paper plates and matching napkins and cold cups on a folding card table in the dining room. “I'll get it,” I said, hustling down the hall and pulling open the front door.

“Nony!” I shrieked, and gave her a big hug—before realizing that an absolutely gorgeous hunk of a man stood just behind her, six feet three if he was an inch. His skin was nutmeg, a spicy complement to Nony's darker skin, with deep-set eyes, a perfectly trimmed moustache and goatee, and—good grief!—dimples.

“Hi, Jodi,” Nony said, dressed as usual in a beautiful African thing—a royal blue dress with slits up the side, embroidered all around the neck and wide sleeves with a silvery design. “This is my husband, Mark, and . . .” She reached around behind her husband and pulled out two shy boys, each one holding a couple of liters of soda pop. “Marcus,” she said, tapping the slightly taller one, “and Michael.” Spitting images of their father.

“Come in, come in!” I beamed, awed by this beautiful little family. “Everyone's out in the backyard. The guy in the apron manning the grill is my husband, Denny. He will be so glad you showed up, Mark—so far he's been the only male at this hen party. If you don't count kids, I mean.”

Mark shook my hand warmly and gave a slight bow. “Delighted to meet you, Jodi Baxter.” I felt like Anna in
The King and I.
Yes, I could imagine this man was a professor at Northwestern University.

“Is Hoshi coming?” I asked.

Nony shook her head. “Can't. Writing a history paper.” She gave her husband a look.
“Some
professors expect way too much research.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Tell her we missed her . . . Oh. There's a chest of ice on the back porch for that pop,” I said to Nony's boys . . . just as I noticed a bunch more heads bobbing up the porch steps behind the Sisulu-Smiths. I stepped aside as Nony ushered her family toward the back of the house then returned to the open front door to welcome the new arrivals.

Yo-Yo! Followed by Ruth and Ben, carrying a big paper bag that said “the Bagel Bakery.” And lurking at the bottom of the steps, Yo-Yo's two teenage stepbrothers, whose slouch and averted eyes made it clear that they wished they were someplace else.

“Ohmigosh!” I said, dishing out hugs once more. “I didn't know if you guys were coming! Ben . . . Denny will be delighted. Three husbands ought to be enough for this crowd, don't you think?”

“Yes, plenty,” Ruth said. “They can do the dishes while we talk. No?”

Laughing, I gave her a big hug. “I am
so
glad you came, Ruth. You have no idea,” I whispered in her ear.

She waved me away like a pesky mosquito. “What's not to come? You have food, we eat. We are women, we talk. The party is Yada Yada, we pray.” But something in her voice made me think her bravado functioned more as an internal pep talk. Frankly, I suspected we had Yo-Yo to thank for getting them all here.

I hustled the latest arrivals out to the backyard—which seemed tinier by the minute—and for a few minutes hugs, squeals, greetings, and introductions degenerated into a general hubbub. I called Josh from the alley, who—if he was surprised at the growing number of kids, hid it well—managed to coax Yo-Yo's brothers, Jerry and Pete, to play three-on-three in the alley.

Well, that's everybody,
I thought. Everybody except Hoshi . . . and Stu.

I snuck away, hunted up Stu's number on the Yada Yada list, and called. Three rings, then an answering machine picked up. I hung up without leaving a message.

Strange.

25

F
lorida seemed to be having a great time. “That man of
yours sure can barbecue some gooood chicken,” she
conceded to me, her plate piled high with blistered
chicken, macaroni and cheese, greens, potato salad, and chips,
before moving on to trade good-natured insults with Adele and
Chanda, laughing and talking. I noticed she hadn't taken any of
the potato kugel Yo-Yo and Ruth had brought from the Bagel
Bakery. Shouldn't read anything into that, I told myself; she didn't
go for the “yuppie” food at the hotel, either.

Watching the steady stream of nine kids—most of them hollow-leg
boys—going in and out of the house with copious amounts of
food, I began to worry about dessert. Stu was supposed to bring it
. . . what did I have to substitute if she didn't show up? A quick
inventory of the kitchen came up with two partially eaten half-gallons
of ice cream and an unopened package of store-bought
cookies. That would have to do.

On the way back out to the backyard, I snatched the camp brochure I'd put out on the counter to show to Nony. She was chatting with Avis but excused herself when I waved the brochure at her and pantomimed,
For you.

“Didn't mean to interrupt,” I apologized. “Just didn't want to forget to give this to you—you asked about a Christian camp on the e-loop, remember?”

“Oh, yes. Let me see.”

Nony took the large brochure I handed to her and opened it up, disclosing a colorful display of photographs of kids zipping down a water slide, made up in clown faces, doing crafts, and riding horseback, sprinkled amid descriptions of the different age groups and specialty camps. “My kids have attended this camp for years,” I put in. “They love it! It's got all sorts of great activities—parasailing, canoe trips, a ropes course, even a horsemanship camp—on top of the regular stuff. And they bring in lots of popular youth speakers. Amanda would probably be going this summer, except she's going on a teen mission trip to Mexico, and the dates conflict.” I lowered my voice in that parent-to-parent confidential tone. “Good thing. No way we could afford both in one summer.”

Nony studied the brochure for a moment or two longer, then folded it up and handed it back to me. “Thank you, Jodi.”

“Oh, you can keep that.”

Nony shook her head. “One look at that brochure and my kids would say, ‘No way.' ”

I felt like I'd been slapped. She must have seen me jerk because she added, “The pictures. Not a single black face in the whole brochure. Except one picture, and they're
all
black in that one.”

I blinked. Really? I was sure I'd seen African-American kids at the camp when we took our kids or picked them up at the camp. At least one or two, anyway. “I'm sure they'd be wel—”

“It's not just that, Jodi,” Nony said, not unkindly. “Look.” She pointed to the one picture that showed several grinning dark faces just above a camp week described as “Urban Camp.” “See that description? ‘Underprivileged' . . . ‘inner city' . . . ‘scholarships.' That's the impression given by this brochure—that black kids are underprivileged, all live in the inner city, need scholarships, and come to this particular week of camp. Mark would have a fit.”

A hot flash of embarrassment crept up my neck. What a dork I was! I should have noticed . . . but I had to admit, it hadn't even crossed my mind.

As if to soften the sting,Nony gave me a kiss on the cheek. “It's all right, Jodi. I appreciate you thinking of the boys.” She retrieved her plate and moved off, as regal in our puny backyard as if it were a marble courtyard.

I retreated to the kitchen to stash the brochure . . . and started to feel defensive. I'd extended an invitation to share
my
world and been rebuffed. For that matter, how could this camp—an outstanding Christian camp in my opinion, at least up until the last five minutes—include any pictures of black middle-class kids having fun at camp . . . if they didn't
go?