2-in-1 Yada Yada (51 page)

I picked up the extension cord where it had dropped after someone—Stu, I think—had untied Adele's hands. I stared at the innocent-looking cord. Had I really tied up Adele Skuggs with this thing? Numbly, I connected the fan cord and the extension then plugged it into the socket. The cooling night air flowed into the room.

Denny returned with chips, salsa, leftover sweet tea, apple slices, and peanut butter. Not exactly the four-course meal he promised, but hey, he brought it out on a tray, and all I had to do was dig in. No complaint from me.

We sat on either end of the couch, our legs entwined, munching quietly for several minutes. Then Denny said, “God spoke to me.”

I stopped eating. “What do you mean?”

“When that woman lunged at me with the knife. God told me,
‘Grab her wrist. No one is going to get hurt.'
It was as if time slowed down, and everything happened in slow motion. She lunged. I grabbed. I pulled her across and tripped her. Not even sure how I did it, but I wasn't afraid. I knew God was helping me.”

I shuddered. “I was afraid.”

He leaned forward and began to massage my leg, the one with the steel rod in it. “You've had a pretty rough summer, babe.”

Wasn't
that
the truth! I could get a good pity party going if given half a chance. Yet if Avis could look for things to thank God for only moments after being grilled by a police officer, maybe I could put the pity party on hold.

“Adele came to Yada Yada, as you saw,” I mused. “Didn't get to talk to her, though. She seemed pretty distant—even before we got robbed. Avis told me to give her some space.”

Denny heaved a big sigh. “Yeah. What happened tonight won't make it any easier, will it?”

We sat quietly for a few moments, munching on our snacks and washing them down with sweet iced tea. Then Denny started to chuckle.

“What?” I dug an apple slice into the peanut butter.

He tried to wipe the grin off his face. “It's really not funny, but . . . while I had that woman pinned, I thought,
‘Does this crazy
person have a name?'
I mean, it wasn't so bad tackling a cutthroat druggie, but what if she has a name like . . . like Susie or Denise or Tammy? I tell you, my superhero status starts to slip if I had ‘Susie' spread-eagle on my living-room floor.”

“No!” I started to laugh too, which wasn't easy with peanut butter in my mouth. “She couldn't have a name like Susie. It's gotta be some street moniker. Like Krazy Kate or Maniac Mama.”

Denny's chuckles gave way to belly laughs. “Maniac Mama! That's it! I pinned Maniac Mama to the floor till the police came!”

All the tension of the evening erupted into hysterical laughter. I laughed so hard I almost lost all the snacks I'd just eaten. Even Denny was holding his side. Josh came out of his room, looked at us, and shook his head. “You guys are nuts.”

Yet in the middle of the night, when I got up to go to the bathroom, my half-awake brain was jolted by the thought:
Florida was
once a crazy drug addict.
My first memory of her flooded back: a tattered woman banging on the hood of my car, begging for money. Years ago. Just a panhandler then. Now she was Florida, my sister, my friend. Who but God could've done
that?

I had a hard time going back to sleep. What happened to our intruder once that paddy wagon drove off? She wasn't just a thief; she was a woman—like me. Did they put her in a cell at Cook County Jail? Was she getting any sleep? Did she have a family? Did they know where she was?

Does she have a name?

13

B
ecky Wallace. That was her name. We found out when Denny called the Twenty-Fourth District Police Station on Clark Street the next day and asked to speak to Sergeant Curry. It was Labor Day; we thought he might have the day off. But he called back a couple of hours later. I quietly picked up the kitchen extension but motioned madly at Denny to do the talking.

Sergeant Curry said “the suspect in question” was already in detox at Cook County Jail—a process that usually took about three weeks. After that, if she was found guilty, she was looking at some serious jail time. “Your wife and the other women she robbed willing to testify at her trial?”

Denny motioned at me to answer, but I shook my head and pointed back at him.

“Uh . . . probably,” he said, rolling his eyes for my benefit. “Do we have to press charges or something?”

“No. We've got your statements. That will be enough for an arraignment. The state's attorney's office will decide what charges to file and will contact you if there's a trial.”

I waggled my left hand across the room at Denny, indicating my bare ring finger.

“What about my wife's wedding ring and the other jewelry?”

A brief pause. “I'm sorry, Mr. Baxter. As I told you, it'll be awhile. Evidence.”

“Right.” Denny turned his back, as though he didn't want to get any more sign language from me. “What did you say the woman's name is?”

“Uh, just a sec. Got it here somewhere.”We heard papers shuffling. “Wallace. She gave her name as Becky Wallace.”

I just stared at Denny after we hung up. Surely the police sergeant was pulling our leg. The crazy woman who'd come charging into our house waving a ten-inch butcher knife and cussing like a gangbanger couldn't be a
Becky.

Denny must have been thinking the same thing as he gave me a sheepish grin. “Sure glad I didn't know that before I threw her down. What would the guys say if they knew I'd manhandled a girl named Becky?”

I snickered. But knowing her name did feel weird. I kinda wished we hadn't asked. It was easier thinking of her as “that drugged-out crazy woman.”

The last of the paint went on in Amanda's room—thanks to Josh and Denny—that morning, then Josh and Amanda took advantage of their last free day before school started to hang out at the lakefront, the last day the city lifeguards would be on duty. Well, let 'em. Tomorrow they'd stagger home with backpacks full of books and homework. And Josh had been getting college information in the mail all summer; soon he'd have to sit down and fill out applications and plan campus visits.

Let 'em have one more carefree summer fling.

As for me, I thanked God at least once every half-hour that today was a holiday. If I'd had to face the first day of school at Bethune Elementary after what happened last night, my emotions would probably be scrambled for life. I was sure Avis was grateful too. Everybody, in fact. We all needed a day to calm down and get our wits about us before facing real life.

Except Hoshi didn't have that luxury. What was happening with her? Her poor mother got the worst of it, and Hoshi was probably still picking up the pieces.

I dialed Nony. “Have you heard from Hoshi? How's her mother doing?”

A big sigh greeted my inquiry. “God in heaven, have mercy. The Word says the bruised reed will not be broken, nor the dimly burning wick extinguished . . .”

I waited. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether Nony was talking or praying. “What?”

She sighed again. “I went over to the hotel today. Mr. Takahashi insisted that they were leaving immediately. He was too polite to raise his voice in my presence, but he spoke sternly to Hoshi in Japanese, and when she shook her head, he stalked out of the room.”

“What?”

“I'm getting there, Jodi! When her mother went to the bathroom, Hoshi told me her father said, ‘This is what happens when a disobedient daughter turns her back on her parents and her religion.' ”

“Oh no.” I groaned. “He can't blame Hoshi! I mean, good grief!

They've got crime in Japan, don't they?”

“They're upset, Jodi. Her father wanted her to go home with them.Today. Hoshi said no . . . she wants to finish her education.”

“Are they paying her tuition? Could they—?”

“No. She has a full scholarship. But in Japanese culture, defying your parents' wishes is a very serious thing.”

I felt heartsick for Hoshi—but part of me sympathized with her parents. How would I feel if Josh jettisoned his Christian upbringing for Shintoism? I'd freak out too. I managed to ask, “So where is Hoshi now?”

“She went to the airport with them by cab. I told her to come back to my house afterward. She really shouldn't be alone right now, poor thing.”

I hardly knew what to think after I hung up the phone. What a mess.

DENNY DECIDED TO RUN OFF some of his pent-up emotions with a good jog by the lake. With everyone else gone, Willie Wonka followed me from room to room, standing in the way when I tried to move around the kitchen, lying on my feet if I sat down. He was getting on my nerves. Once I yelled at him to leave me alone—a lot of good that did, since he couldn't hear—but he looked at me reproachfully.

I relented. “Come here, guy,” I said, plopping into a chair in the dining room and inviting him closer. Willie Wonka immediately stuck his face in my lap.
Humph.
Give a dog an inch, and he'll take a whole city block. I took his sweet doggy face in my hands. “You're still upset by what happened last night, aren't you? Well, so am I.”

It was true. I felt so . . . violated. Like being strip-searched in a crowded room. A stranger had pushed her way into my home and threatened my family, my friends. I shuddered at what
could
have happened.

Willie looked hopefully into my eyes. So patient. As if waiting for me to say,
It's okay, don't worry, everything's going to be all
right.
Why were dogs so trusting? Didn't they know we humans usually didn't have a clue? Unlike us, dogs seemed to love with no strings attached.

I stroked Willie's silky brown ears, my thoughts tumbling. Why was it so hard to trust God when things didn't go right? Surely
God
had a clue. I mean, He's God! That's His job description! I knew God loved me—and all of us in that room last night. So couldn't I stop stewing about it and trust God to work it out?

Okay. I was going to stop stewing and start sewing. “That's it, Willie.” I got up abruptly, ending our little tête-à-tête. I had a sewing project to finish and research still to do on my Welcome Bulletin Board idea. The computer was free; maybe I'd do that first while everybody else was out.

While I was waiting for the computer to boot up, my own thoughts came around again.
God loves all of us who were in that
room last night. Even—

Whoa. Even Becky Wallace?

I WORKED FOR A WHILE ON THE COMPUTER, using a search engine to chase down the meanings of the names of the students who would be in my class. D'Angelo was easy: “from the angels.” So was Jade (“jewel”) and Cornell (“hornblower”). But I was excited to not only find Ramón (“mighty protector”) and Chanté (“to sing”), but also LeTisha (“joy”) and Kaya (“wise child”).

Hmm. So LeTisha meant “joy.” This was going to be interesting. Last year's LeTisha had been anything
but.
I was starting to get excited. How would the children react to learning the meaning of their names?

What about Jodi? I'd never thought about it before. Did my name—

The phone rang. I thought I'd heard Denny come back and hoped he'd answer it, but it kept ringing, so finally I tried to make a dash to the kitchen phone. My leg had stiffened up sitting so long, and I almost fell. The answering machine started to pick up by the time I got there.

“Hello? We're here! Sorry it took so long.”

“Jodi.” I recognized Florida's voice, but there was something in her voice . . . Was she crying?

“Florida? Is something wrong?”

“No. It's good. I'm just . . . Jodi, DCFS just called. They're bringing Carla home. Today.” Florida's voice faded; she must have put the phone down. Somewhere in the background I could hear her crying and praising. “Oh, thank ya, Jesus.
Thank ya!”

“Florida? Florida!” I called into the phone. This was incredible! Wonderful news. She'd been trying to get her daughter back even before I met her last spring. Even after Stu—our wannabe social worker—had located Carla, the red tape had been like hacking through a jungle. I could hardly imagine how Florida got through each day, not knowing for sure when or if she'd get her daughter back.

Florida finally came back on the phone.

“Florida, that's wonderful,” I said.

“Yeah, I know.” Florida blew her nose. “But you gotta get the sisters to pray for us; that's why I called. Because they didn't
tell
me in time to get her registered for school”—Florida's tone got testy—“so I gotta take off work tomorrow, and—”

“Of course, Florida. I'll send an e-mail to everybody.”

“That's not all.” I could hear the tug between pain and joy in Florida's voice. “The social worker said Carla's upset. She doesn't want to start a new school. Wants to stay with her foster . . .” I could hear her crying again, softly. “Jodi? Am I doin' the right thing?”

14

I
had no idea how to answer Florida. The right thing?
The right thing, Florida, would've been not to get strung
out on drugs and lose your kid in the first place!

But I wasn't about to say that. After all, “the right thing” for
me
would've been not to have a stupid fight with my husband and end up driving angry behind the wheel of our car—which had had far worse consequences.

A spasm of regret made me feel sick to my stomach.

Florida was hurting and waiting for me to say something. I tried. “Flo, I don't know. Except . . . God's done some pretty big miracles in your life already, including DCFS returning Carla to you
today!
So she can start school! You're always saying God didn't bring you this far to leave you, and He's not going to leave you or Carla now either.” I heard the words I was saying, desperately wanting to believe them.