2-in-1 Yada Yada (54 page)

Instead, I called up one of the name Web sites I'd been using to locate the kids' names and typed “Jodi” in the search box. I stared at the page that came up on-screen.

Jodi—a derivative of Joan.

Meaning: “God is gracious.”

Maybe I was just tired. Maybe the long, difficult summer finally caught up with me. Maybe it was just a reminder of something God had been trying to tell me for weeks. But I put my head down on the computer keyboard . . . and wept.

16

G
od is gracious . . . God is gracious . . .
I didn't tell anybody the meaning of my name right away. I wanted to tuck it into a private place in my mind and let it soak down deep. I'd looked up Christy's name too, just in case Britny asked again. All the variations of “Christine” meant “Christ follower.” What would Christy think about that? Was she or wasn't she? We weren't supposed to talk about our personal religion in public school.

Not that we had much time for chitchat. The first week of school was like trying to stay one step ahead of a steamroller driven by thirty devious eight-year-olds. One misstep, and the kids would run right over me. In the back of my mind I worried about Hoshi and wondered how Florida's little girl was adjusting, but it was Thursday night before I got a chance to call either of them.

Wednesday night, I'd decided to go back to Bible study at Uptown with Denny—I hadn't been since I'd been in the hospital. Pastor Clark was beginning a study of the book of James, which sounded promising. Good ol' James, a down-to-earth brother if there ever was one. Practical. Straight to the point. Unlike the apostle Paul, whose sentences rambled on and on like a sweater unraveling, with just as many knots to untangle.

I saw Avis at Bible study, but we didn't really get to talk except in passing, when she said she couldn't attend Rosh Hashanah at Ruth's church this Saturday, but she'd like to hear about it if I went. I told her Denny and I hadn't talked about it yet.

Thursday night things were quiet at the Baxter house. Josh was at Uptown, manning the soundboard for the praise-team practice; Amanda was baby-sitting the Reilly twins, nine-year-old sweeties whose mom sang on the praise team and dad played guitar. In the living room, Denny was watching videotapes of other soccer teams in the high-school league, trying to identify patterns and weak spots.

“Looks like it's just you and me, Willie,” I said to the dog. “Whatcha wanna do?”Willie Wonka ignored me and waddled off to do some male bonding with Denny.

I took the cordless out to the back porch and called Nony. One of her boys answered. “Smith residence. To whom do you wish to speak?”

I nearly fell off the porch steps. He sounded like an English butler. Weren't Nony's boys only nine and eleven? “Um . . . this is Jodi Baxter. To whom am I speaking?” To
whom?
I hadn't been this correct since high-school English.

“This is Marcus. Hi, Mrs. Baxter. Do you want my mom?”

I wanted to hug him. He was going to be a heartbreaker someday. He probably put his dirty clothes in the laundry too— unasked. “Actually, Marcus, I'm calling for Hoshi. Is she there?”

“I'll get her.”

I waited for what seemed a long minute, then I heard Hoshi's quiet voice. “Yes? This is Hoshi.”

“Hi, Hoshi. It's Jodi. I've been thinking about you all week. Nony told us your parents went home. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I'm okay.” Her voice was only a few notches above a whisper.

“How is your mom?—her hand, I mean.”

There was a moment's pause. “I don't know, Jodi. I haven't heard anything since they left last Monday. The Smiths let me call to Japan, but nobody answered.” She started to cry.

“Oh, Hoshi.” The poor girl was going through hell, and I just dragged it all up again. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—”

“No, no, Jodi, it's all right. Wait . . .” I could hear her blowing her nose before she came back on. “I'm happy you called. Please pray for my parents. That's all I know what to do. Nony and Dr. Smith—they are very good to me.”

“Do you . . . would you like to come to dinner sometime next week?”
Oh, you're rash, Jodi. You can barely scratch dinner together for
your own family on weeknights.
“Or do your classes start next week?”

“No . . . I mean, yes, I would like to come. Classes don't start till the last week of September. It would be nice to share the table with your family.”

We tentatively agreed on the following Tuesday, with Hoshi coming by the El and then we'd take her home. After we hung up, I went inside to check it out with Denny, but he was taking intense notes while guys in blue-and-gold uniforms—probably the Sullivan Tigers—ran back and forth on the TV screen. I knew better than to interrupt that focused look.

I retreated to the back-porch steps again and dialed Florida. Another male voice, but this one was deep and brief. “Yeah?”

I took a stab. Had to be Florida's husband. “Uh, Carl?”

“Yeah.”

“This is Jodi Baxter. Is Florida there?”

Carl Hickman didn't reply. He just yelled off to the side, “Flo!Phone for you.”

This time it seemed like I waited two, maybe three minutes. Finally Florida picked up the phone. “Hey, Jodi. Whassup?”

“Whassup yourself. I called to see how it's going with Carla. You get her registered for school?”

We chatted for about five minutes. The social worker at Carla's new school had been very helpful, she said, even suggested some family sessions with a school counselor to help ease the transition at home as well as school. “ 'Course you know, Jodi, if Carl got his-self a
job,
that would be one big help. Then we could get a bigger apartment. Right now I got all three kids in that closet they call a second bedroom.”

I remembered when Amanda and I had visited Florida's apartment— before the accident. All I'd seen in that little bedroom was a double mattress on the floor. Surely Carla and the boys weren't sleeping . . .

“Beds, Florida? You got beds for the kids?” I couldn't help it. Had to ask.

“Yes, thank ya, Jesus. Found a bunk bed at Salvation Army for the boys and an army-cot thing for Carla—actually, that's all we got space for till we get a bigger place. Sheets, though. We could use some twin bedsheets. And pillowcases.”

“I'll see what I can rustle up.” Amanda still had a birthday “coupon” for a new comforter for her bed. Maybe we should get new sheets, too, and pass on her old ones to—

I stopped myself. Why did I always think in terms of passing on the old ones?
Maybe you should get new sheets for Florida's kids,
Jodi Baxter. Would you want someone else's old sheets for your kids?

At least it sounded like things were coming along with Carla. Yet I still felt overwhelmed for her. What Florida said was true: they needed a bigger apartment, and Carl needed a job yesterday. Maybe I should ask Denny to talk to Pastor Clark about Carl.

The TV was still going in the living room when we hung up. Should I check up on anyone else? I'd talked this week to everybody who
hadn't
been at the robbery, and most everybody who had . . .

Except Adele.

Had anybody heard from her? Should I call? Just to see how she's doing after Sunday night? That would be reasonable, wouldn't it?

Instead, I headed back into the house, hung up the cordless, and pulled out my school bag. Really, I needed to review my lesson plans for Friday.

THE WEEKEND SLIPPED by, and I never did call Adele.

When I got home from school on Friday, I was too bushed to even think about going to Rosh Hashanah services with Ruth that night. And when Denny got home, he'd immediately gone out to the garage to work on the car—“while I've still got some light”— so the car wasn't available anyway.

I did check e-mail to see if Ruth got any response to her invitation, but this weekend must have been too soon for most folks, because only Stu said she'd like to come, probably on Saturday. Why wasn't I surprised? Stu always seemed to be first up to the plate. Several other Yada Yadas said they'd try for Yom Kippur.

I had to admit I was curious about Ruth's Beth Yehudah Congregation. Did we have anything going Saturday? I'd never been to a Jewish service before, even though there were a lot of synagogues in Rogers Park. Of course, this would be a
Christian
celebration of the Jewish holiday. Would it be mostly like church? Or like going to synagogue?

Only one way to find out.

I printed out Ruth's invitation and went hunting for Denny. Found his legs sticking out from underneath the minivan. “Something wrong?” I asked.

“Nope,” came a muffled voice. “Just changing the oil.” He pulled himself out from under the car, oblivious to the little black smudges dotting his face. “What's up?” He stood up and leaned under the hood to change the oil filter.

“Um, wanna do something different tomorrow—you and me?”

“Sure. As long as it's cheap.”

Can't get any cheaper,
I thought,
unless they take an offering.
“Well, it's Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and Ruth invited—”

“Ah. I get it. Another date sponsored by Yada Yada.”

I couldn't see Denny's face under the hood. Was he having a problem with this?

“We don't have to go; it was just an idea. Or I could go alone.” I knew that sounded whiny, but I
did
want to go, and I wanted Denny to go with me. “Unless you have a better idea.”

“Not really.” He appeared from under the hood and started wiping his hands on a rag. “Just feels like a lot. We visited Delores's church two weeks ago—which I enjoyed, don't get me wrong. Then Yada Yada meets at our house last week and turns into a three-ring circus.
Next
week it'll be Yada Yada again, and aren't your folks coming the weekend after that for your birthday?”

I didn't answer, just watched as he scrunched back under the car to cap the dripping oil. He was right; it did feel like a lot. On the other hand, if we didn't plan our Saturday, he'd end up in front of the TV watching a string of games—baseball, football—it didn't seem to matter who or where, as long as there were two teams fighting over a ball.

He reappeared, dragging out the container of old oil. “On the other hand—”

“Denny!” I shrieked. “That's the plastic pitcher I use to make iced tea!” I whacked him on the head with the rolled-up paper in my hand. “I can't believe you used that!”

“Oh.” He grimaced. “Sorry. Couldn't find the old milk jug I usually use, and this was sitting on the back porch . . .”

I rolled my eyes. He looked really funny holding that iced-tea pitcher full of cruddy old oil, probably considering whether he could wash it out. I started to laugh.

He grinned—relieved, I'm sure. “Okay, let's go celebrate the Jewish New Year with dear ol' Ruth Garfield. On one condition: we go to the Bagel Bakery afterward and get some more of that lip-smacking lox and cream cheese. Just tell me what I'm supposed to wear. Unless”—he dipped a finger into the old oil and advanced toward me—“you'd like to go ‘Goth': a black smudge here and there . . .”

“Don't you dare!” I flew out the door toward the house. Maybe Denny agreed to go because he felt guilty using the good plastic pitcher. Whatever. I gave him a chance to come up with a better idea, didn't I?

I'd better call Ruth. I had no idea where to go, what to wear, or what to expect.

17

A
ssured by Ruth Garfield that anything we wore would be fine (“Just not jeans or shorts—or halter tops,
oy
vey!”),
Denny and I left a note the next morning for Josh and Amanda, who hadn't yet appeared in the land of the living, and set out in the Dodge Caravan for Beth Yehudah, Ruth's congregation.

“We're looking for what?” Denny said when I read him the directions. “Lincolnwood Presbyterian? I thought this was a Messianic congregation.”

“It is. Beth Yehudah meets in a Presbyterian church on Saturday, so there's no conflict.”

As we drove west from Rogers Park into Lincolnwood— indistinguishable from Chicago proper, as were all the other towns rimming the Windy City's borders—we saw numerous Jewish families walking to their local synagogue. Most of the men and boys wore yarmulkes; a few Orthodox could be identified by their traditional black-brimmed hats, prayer-shawl fringes dangling beneath their suit coats, and corkscrew curls in front of their ears. Children held their parents' hands or skipped ahead. Definitely a holiday feel.

I felt nervous, like I was intruding on their Sabbath. What did I know about Rosh Hashanah? These were Jewish holy days. Yet we'd been invited, I reminded myself as Denny pulled into the parking lot of Lincolnwood Presbyterian—a modern A-frame structure with lots of colored-glass windows in odd shapes. And these were fellow Christians, albeit Jewish ones. Maybe it wouldn't be so different.

We didn't see Ruth when we first came in, but a friendly greeter pointed us to the large “Fellowship Room,” where most of the people coming in seemed to be headed. Folding chairs were set in rows facing a small oak table at the front, on which stood a tall wooden something—like a polished oak chest, up on end—with doors. Both table and chest had the same Hebrew inscription.

Another greeter handed us a booklet—the order of service, I supposed—and I nudged Denny into a row of chairs just shy of the middle, so we could watch what other people did but be close enough to see what happened up front.

I looked around, trying to spy Ruth. It all looked very ordinary— just a typical church building, a typical multipurpose room in the basement, and even the requisite keyboard, drums, and guitars off to one side at the front. As I scanned the people who were already sitting in the folding chairs, I noticed a familiar blonde head a couple of rows ahead of us.
Sheesh.
Stu had twice as far to drive as we did, and she still got here early.