2-in-1 Yada Yada (65 page)

My dad seemed to hit it off with Pastor Clark—they were about the same age—and my mom kept making a fuss over Florida's kids. Too much fuss, if you asked me. Like she was trying too hard. “I just love how they do little black girls' hair, don't you, Jodi?” she'd said while I mentally willed the ground to open and swallow me. Or her. Momentarily, anyway.

But lots of Uptown people greeted them after the service, giving me a chance to grab Florida for half a minute. “Flo! How's Carla doing?”

Florida shrugged. “We hangin'. She visited her foster parents yesterday—part of the deal set up by DCFS. When they brought her back—oh, Lord. What a scene! Was afraid the neighbors would think we were beatin' the life outta her, she screamed so.” She pressed her lips into a tight line. “Just keep prayin' for us. We gonna make it, though.”

Now I sank down on the front porch steps, remembering my own crying jag in my dad's car outside the police station yesterday. To my surprise, he had pretty much just listened as I dumped everything into his lap. “Guess you can tell Mom too,” I'd snuffled, finally blowing my nose, knowing my face was probably red and blotchy. I knew I couldn't do it again. As it was, I felt like I'd just turned my insides out inside that car.

I'd expected my dad to give me some fatherly advice or tell me we'd bitten off more than we could chew by moving into Chicago, but to my surprise he said no more about our “talk” till they were ready to leave. Mom was already in the car when he pulled me aside.
Uh-oh,
I thought.
Here it comes.

“Jodi, your mom and I worry about you—and what you told me yesterday tells me we have good reason to worry! But this morning I was reading in Philippians.” He pulled out his little pocket New Testament, which had print so tiny I was surprised he could still read it. “Chapter four, verse six. ‘Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God . . .' ”

My father stopped midsentence, and he got a funny look on his face. I was familiar with these verses and could probably have finished quoting them myself, but I waited. And when he started reading again, his voice was husky. “. . . and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.' ” He stuck the Testament back in his pocket and pulled on his driving cap. The funny look had settled into a rueful grin. “Hmm. I was reading that for your benefit, but maybe that verse is supposed to be for your mother and me.”

And then they were gone.

I got up from the front steps and made my way back into the house. Josh was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, and Denny was in the process of shaving off the little lock of orange hair with the hair clippers.

“Josh!” I couldn't believe this. “Why didn't you cut it off while your grandparents were still here? They'd have been delighted!”

My son just gave me a knowing smile beneath the purr of the clippers.

Kids. Honestly!

JOSH, NOW LOOKING LIKE A HIP-HOP Mr. Clean instead of a light bulb, drove Amanda to youth group—hallelujah! The caged animal was out of the house, so Denny and I took a walk to the Heartland Café, where I finally got a chance to tell him what happened when we ran into Adele at the police station. Denny shook his head. “Didn't she even say thank you for helping her out?”

“No. I think she was too upset about getting the runaround until we ‘white folks' showed up.”

“Man.” He threw up his hands. “Can't win with Adele.

Damned if we do; damned if we don't.”

“Maybe.” I shrugged. After getting all the frustration off my chest with that good cry in my dad's car, it was easier to see what happened from Adele's point of view. If I'd been in her shoes, it would've been embarrassing for me too. Like getting treated like a child. Not worth the bother for them to go check.

And as I headed for Bethune Elementary the next day, I determined not to let all the unfinished business with Adele get me down. After all, we'd survived one week of Amanda's grounding; only one week to go. (Frankly, I wasn't sure who got punished more by a grounding—the kid or the parents who had to put up with her! Still, I was pretty sure Amanda would think twice before lying to us again.) After Hakim's unexpected participation last week, I felt hopeful as I walked into my third-grade classroom. Maybe we had turned a corner with one kid, at least.

My high hopes were short-lived. I gave the same math problems we'd done with the balance scale on a quiz, and Hakim missed every one. What was
that
about? And twice that week I had to break up schoolyard fights between Hakim and D'Angelo. Neither boy would tell me what the first fight was about, but when it happened again, Britny tattled that D'Angelo had been bragging, saying
his
big brother could lick anybody else's brother.

That's a twist,
I thought wryly.
Didn't it used to be, “My dad can
lick your dad”?

Yet we had to nip this little rivalry in the bud. I told both boys that if it happened again—and I didn't care who started it—they'd both get sent to the principal's office and face suspension. Fighting would not be tolerated in this school. We had parent open house coming up on Friday evening. It would be good to meet Hakim's parents, maybe get some clues how best to get through to him.

Josh's birthday snuck up on me again—ours were just a week apart. Eighteen! “Be nice to me,” he said at breakfast that Thursday, reaching for the milk to pour on his heaping bowl of corn flakes. “I'm old enough to drop out of school and join the military.”

I snatched the milk out of his reach. “Josh! That's not funny.” Since 9-11, more and more U.S. soldiers were getting deployed to the Middle East, and now it looked like we were headed for another war with Iraq. This was no time to drop out of high school.
“Promise
me.”

“Okay.”

I handed him the milk.

“How about dropping my curfew instead?”

“Nice try,” Denny said. “When you've got a diploma.”

Josh
was
pleased by the extra set of car keys Denny gave him when he opened his gifts after supper. “Hey, could I drive the car to Great America on Saturday, take a couple of friends? Maybe Yo-Yo's brother would like to go too.”

It happened every fall. Chicagoland's huge amusement park beckoned on weekends, one last day of thrills before shutting down for the winter. I checked the calendar.
“Jodi PT 10 a.m.”
it said. “I've got physical therapy at ten, but I oughta be back by eleven or so. My last appointment. Yea!”

“So you wanna come with us, do a few roller coasters?” Josh knew he was safe with
that
invitation.

“Oh, right. I'd have to start physical therapy all over again. You go. Have fun. Happy birthday.”

“Everybody's having fun except
meee!”
Amanda wailed.

Josh knuckled the top of Amanda's head. “Wasn't going to take you even if you
weren't
grounded, shrimp.”

THE PARENT OPEN HOUSE on Friday evening was a bit nerve-wracking— like getting inspected by the Big Brass at army basic training. We left the Welcome Bulletin Board up so that parents could enjoy the meaning of their kids' names and gave a demonstration of the balance-scale activity. That's when I realized neither Hakim nor his parents had shown up. Disappointment mingled with my irritation.

Figured.

When I got back from my doctor's appointment on Saturday, clutching a list of exercises I was supposed to do and one bag of groceries I'd picked up at the fruit market, Josh was waiting impatiently for me. I started to hand him my keys, but with a gleeful grin he dangled his own set in my face and took off in the Dodge Caravan to pick up Pete Spencer and two other friends. I vaguely wondered how Pete could afford the pricey one-day pass but figured Josh—or Denny—was handling it.

I brought in the mail, sat down with a sandwich, and rifled through today's offerings: vitamin catalog, two pizza ads, coupon booklet, gas bill, and a long envelope addressed in unfamiliar handwriting. Pencil. I squinted at the return address—and nearly dropped the envelope.

Becky Wallace, LCC, Lincoln, Illinois.

I hardly knew what to think. Avis had encouraged us to “test the waters” by going ahead with the letter, and we'd know what God wanted us to do if Bandana Woman wrote back. Now that her letter was staring at us in the face . . . well, Yada Yada was meeting at Avis's apartment Sunday night, and we could decide what to do then.

JOSH DROPPED ME OFF at Avis's apartment on Pratt Avenue— good thing; it didn't look like there were any empty parking spaces in the whole block—then he and Amanda went on to youth group at Uptown. I was supposed to hitch a ride home with somebody.

By the time five-thirty rolled around,Avis had a full apartment. Everybody had shown up, puffing and complaining about the climb to the third floor, then
oohing
and
ahhing
over the polished hardwood floors, shelves of books and pictures, and plants hanging in the windows. Everybody except . . .

“Where's Adele at?” Florida asked. “She ain't been to Yada Yada since the robbery. What's goin' on?”

“Longer than that,” Stu said. “She came the night of the robbery, but she hasn't come to anything else since MaDear went off on Denny back in August. Taking it a bit too far, if you ask me.”

“Whaddya mean, MaDear went off on Denny?” Yo-Yo looked around the group. “Did I miss somethin'?”

Avis came to the rescue. “Let's get started, have some prayer, and then we can fill you in on why Adele isn't here. We've got some major prayer concerns this week—and decisions too. Oh, Father!” Avis moved right into her prayer. “We need Your presence now more than ever in our lives . . .”

We spent the next five minutes, not praying for any requests, just praising God and remembering promises. Finally Avis said, “Amen.”

All eyes fixed on Avis.
Oh God, I'm so glad she agreed to do this!
I was feeling pretty tongue-tied even
thinking
about talking about Adele.

Avis gave a brief rundown of what had happened at Adele's Hair and Nails back in August when Denny had brought me for an anniversary makeover. “Since then,” Avis continued, “MaDear has been going through a difficult time with painful memories, and Adele is stressed. At my urging she tried coming to Yada Yada on Labor Day weekend, but . . . well, we all know what happened at
that
meeting. Right or wrong, it was ‘the last straw' for Adele. She's trying to simplify what she's dealing with, and unfortunately, that means pulling back from Yada Yada.”

“Just for now, right?” Delores's eyebrows rose hopefully.

Avis shook her head. “Honestly? I don't know. She needs space, which we need to respect. But maybe down the road . . .”

Chanda pulled a pout, looking for all the world like a ten-year-old. “You mean ta say that Jodi, Avis, Florida, and Stu all knew 'bout dis ting what happened a whole month ago, but you jus' now tellin' us?”

Well, I would have liked to tell Yada Yada weeks ago—
but I didn't say it.

Edesa spoke. “Jodi. How's Denny?”

Bless you, Edesa! Somebody around here realizes it's been tough
being the target of MaDear's misplaced anger.
I opened my mouth, but just then Stu snickered. “MaDear didn't throw the hairbrush
that
hard, Edesa! He's fine—right, Jodi?”

I stifled an urge to smack her. “No, he's not fine. Physically, sure, but emotionally, it's been really hard knowing MaDear thinks he's some kind of racist murderer.” I blinked rapidly, hoping I wouldn't start blubbering. “Especially since Adele won't talk to us about it.”

There. It was out.

“Well, stuff like that sure did happen back then,” Florida muttered. “Don't really blame Adele. Hard to deal with if it happened in
your
family.”

Avis cut in. “The point is, we need to be praying for Adele and MaDear—
and
Jodi and Denny. Sometimes we need to learn how to wait. And this seems to be one of those times.”

The group prayed then, and the prayers were comforting. Once again,Avis had reminded us that we need to stand with each sister in Yada Yada, even when it seemed that our life experiences put us on opposite sides of the problem.

At the end of that prayer, Avis said, “Nony? You have something to share.”

I tried to catch Avis's eye, pulling a corner of the letter from Lincoln Correctional Center out of my tote bag. She glanced my way and nodded, but she turned her attention to Nony.

Nony sighed. “You know my mother had a stroke last week. I want to take the boys to see their grandmother before it is too late, but Mark . . .” Tears puddled in Nony's large eyes. “He doesn't want the boys to go. Not till Christmas, when school is out. Then, he says, we can all go to South Africa together.”

“But your Mama is sick now!” Florida pointed out.

“Humph.” Chanda fanned a paper in front of her face. “No mon be tellin'
me
I canna go see my mama if she sick, even if it be on da'
moon.”

Nony waved her hand. “No, no, don't misunderstand. Mark says of course
I
can go now to see my mother, but about the boys . . . we do not see eye to eye.”

Avis looked thoughtful. “How do you want us to pray, Nony?”

The large eyes flashed. “To change Mark's mind! I
must
take the boys.”

Several heads nodded around the circle. “Keep your own bank account, I always say,” Ruth muttered.

Avis gently pressed. “I think we should ask God to show you
and
Mark what is best for all of you and to give you one mind and heart. And for you, Nony, to trust God for the outcome.”