2-in-1 Yada Yada (70 page)

“So glad Carla could come,” I whispered to Florida. “This isn't the weekend she visits . . .?”

A shake of her head. No coppery ringlets or beaded braids today. Just pinned back with a few bobby pins. “Uh-uh. Just first and third weekends. But I tell you one thing—it ain't gonna be that way for long.” Florida pinched her lips into a determined line.

Cleaning out those big pumpkins of their seeds and stringy matter proved to be a big job. Yet Thomas played the man, rolled up his sleeves, and dug out the gooey mess from two of the pumpkins, and Yo-Yo and I did the other two. The faces that got carved into the orange shells were rather lopsided. “But they'll look great with a candle inside when it's dark,” I promised.

Amanda—will wonders never cease?—brought cutout sugar cookies, still warm from the oven, and a bowl of orange frosting. This was a big hit, as the girls dug in with table knives and blobbed frosting on the cookies. Thomas was content just to eat them, which he did in rather alarming numbers. But Chanda didn't stop him, so I didn't either.

That girl is really good with kids,
I mused, watching Amanda hugging Carla and teasing Chanda's kids. Even Thomas warmed up to her. She made a game of stuffing the dirty newspapers and pumpkin innards into a trash bag, and the only fight the kids had was who was going to take it out to the trash can.

Yo-Yo left her pumpkin at our house and asked me to bring it when I came to Yada Yada tomorrow night at Ruth's house. Yet by the time I dropped off Florida and Carla at the Morse El station and took Chanda and her kids home, I was bushed. Not even sure I wanted to go to Yada Yada the next night.

Did I dare tell Yada Yada what happened today with that man? Made me look like a dork, for sure. Or revealed my prejudices beneath my smug exterior. Part of me wanted to tell them—or tell Avis, or somebody. Somebody African-American, who would affirm my motives.
“Of course you should've locked your doors! I
would've! The man's just got a problem.”

On one level it didn't matter what my real motives were. The
man
obviously experienced it as just one more white woman protecting herself from a black man. And there was no way I could go back and fix it.

33

D
enny let us out in front of Uptown's storefront the next morning as usual then drove off to find a parking place. A stiff, cold wind chased bits of trash down Morse Avenue. Yesterday must have been summer's last gasp.

Funny,
I thought.
No lights on.
I pulled on the door handle. Locked.

“Hurry up,Mom!” Amanda whined. “I'm cold.”

I shrugged. “It's not open.” I checked my watch—almost nine-thirty. Should be open. Unless the Rapture had taken all the Christians during the night and the entire Baxter family had been “left behind.” Or maybe Pastor Clark changed the time of service and we weren't paying attention. Or—

“Uh-oh.” Realization dawned. “It's the last weekend of October. Daylight Savings Time ended last night. It's only”—my kids were going to kill me!—“eight-thirty.”

Amanda's jaw dropped like I'd just announced the end of civilization as we know it. “Mo-om! We could've slept in another hour, and you got us up at the old time?” Josh gave me a dark look that said,
“Bad, bad mother”
and hunched his shoulders against the wind.

Denny came trotting up the sidewalk, trying not to be late, but he looked confused when he saw us still standing at the front door. When I told him we'd
all
forgotten to turn the clocks back—no way were they going to pin this on just me—he immediately moved into his okay-let's-fix-it mode. “So we've got an extra fifty minutes? Let's go eat! I'm still hungry.”

We nixed going for the car—it would take too much time to drive anywhere—and opted for a neighborhood grill that advertised, “One egg, grits, bacon or sausage, toast, and coffee” for $2.99. The regulars—an assortment of men who all needed a shave and looked like they lived in a single-room-only hotel—stared at us kinda funny as we walked in and dropped into the chairs by a window table.

“Hey! There's Florida!” Amanda jumped out of her seat, pulled open the door, and waved them in. Florida looked confused, but she came in, followed by Carla, Cedric, and Chris, looking like chilly penguins. Her kids had the same reaction when they found out she'd dragged them out of the house an hour early, but now it was getting funny. At least we weren't the only ones who forgot the time change.

By the time we got to church—ten minutes earlier than our usual mad dash up the stairs to the worship space—Carla was hanging onto Amanda, Cedric was saying, “Hey, Ma. Let's forget to set our clocks next year and have breakfast again!” and Chris and Josh were still arguing about who was the best R&B singer on WCRX radio.

Stu waved at us from the second row. “Thought about calling you guys and reminding you about the time change, but I see you remembered.” She smiled approvingly.

I didn't dare look at Florida, or I'd bust out laughing. I felt her deliberately step on my toes, and I got the message:
“I won't tell if
you won't.”

FLORIDA AND HER KIDS came home with us and spent the afternoon till it was time for Yada Yada. The kids seemed content with tomato soup out of the can and toasted cheese sandwiches, followed by popcorn and a heated game of Monopoly. Carla lost interest in the game, so I set her up on the floor with paper,markers, scissors, and tape. She immediately dumped out the markers and began to draw, saying something I didn't quite catch.

“What's that, Carla?”

Her head remained bent over the paper. “My other mommy gave me stuff like this too.”

“My other mommy . . .”
I looked up quickly to see if Florida had heard, but her spot on the couch, where she'd been watching the Monopoly game, was empty.

I found her out on the front porch “having a cig.” I grabbed my coat from the front hall and joined her outside. She acknowledged me but returned to staring at the trees lining our street. “You okay, Flo?”

She didn't answer for a long minute, dragging on the cigarette and blowing smoke into the nippy air. Finally she stubbed it out and leaned against the porch pillar, hands in her pockets. “Don't know if me and Carl gonna make it, Jodi.”

Oh God, not this.
“What's wrong, Flo? Did something happen?”

She shrugged. “Nothin' in particular ‘happened.' It's just . . . things ain't fallin' together for us.” She was quiet for a few moments, and I just waited. “It's hard on a man when he don't have no job, know what I mean? He gets ugly—takes it out on me and the kids.”

“Not . . .?” I couldn't say it.

“Hit us? Not me or Carla, anyway. But he whup those boys sometimes. Not that I don't think they need a good whack from time to time, but he yells—a lot. Makes the kids cry. Chris—he's just getting mad.”

My heart was sinking. “Oh, Florida. You guys just got Carla back!”
Oh God. What would a bust-up in that family do to that little
girl?

Florida nodded. “I know. And if anything good in Carl's life, it's getting his baby back. She's his angel, but . . .” She didn't finish, just leaned on the post and shook her head.

I couldn't help it. I pulled Florida's hands out of her pockets and started to pray—out loud. Her usual
“Thank ya!”
was absent— just a muted “Oh Jesus” now and then. At the end of the prayer she squeezed my hands and said, “Thanks, Jodi. Just keep prayin'. That's all I know to do right now. Pray.”

WELL, DENNY'S NOT HERE
to rescue Ben Garfield tonight,
I thought as we piled out of Avis's car in front of Ruth's house a couple of hours later. Denny had offered to drive Florida's kids home if we could get a ride with somebody. Yo-Yo showed up with another bag of day-old Jewish pastries from the Bagel Bakery, which we demolished in record time—some of us still had our mouths full when Avis called us to prayer. The prayer-and-praise time was a little muted till everyone had swallowed and got their voices back, then it was “praise as usual”—at least as usual for Yada Yada. Everyone talking to God at once, some clapping, some phrases sung from favorite praise songs, punctuated with “Glory!” and “You're a good God!” And we hadn't even shared our prayer needs yet.

Yet something was missing. Then I realized what it was: I missed Nony's rich voice praying Scripture verses, translating them in midprayer to make them personal. Where was Nony right now? How was her mother? Did she say when she was coming back?

“Did anyone hear from Nony?” I asked when the praise time was over and we had scrunched together on Ruth's small flowered couch, a couple of overstuffed chairs, and a bunch of folding chairs. “How about you, Hoshi?”

Hoshi, her willowy body almost swallowed up in Ruth's fat easy chair with the little lace doilies pinned to the back and arms, shook her head. “Nony has not contacted me. I did speak to Dr. Smith after class on Thursday, but he just said it would be awhile.” She shrugged her shoulders, encased in a soft, baby-blue sweater set that set off her silky black hair. Her dark eyes shone with moisture. “I miss her,” she added.

I could've kicked myself. Had I called Hoshi? Checked up on her since Nony left?
How hard would that be, Jodi?
Nony and the Smiths were the closest thing to family Hoshi had in the States— but she couldn't very well go over to the Smiths' home with Nony and the kids out of the country and Mark home alone.

I made a mental note to call Hoshi at least once a week, maybe twice—but knowing me, a mental note wouldn't do it. I fished in my tote bag for a pen and some paper to make a to-do list, almost missing Hoshi's quiet voice as she continued.

“ . . . have been thinking about what Jodi said about talking to the woman in jail, face to face . . .”

My head jerked up. Said? What had I said?

“ . . . that the fear was gone after talking to the woman as a person— a person with a name.” Hoshi tilted her chin up. “I'm thinking it would be good for me to go to the prison with you next time—if there is a next time.”

“Alabanza Jesús!”
Delores breathed. “Oh, Hoshi, that is . . . is . . .” She seemed to be searching for the right word.
“. . . valiente. Si, muy
valiente.”

“Very brave,” Edesa translated, smiling at Hoshi.

Ruth shook her head. “Brave, maybe. But necessary? Why must she go? Three Yada Yadas already visited that Becky person in prison—like the Bible says we should do. Represent us, they did.
Everybody
doesn't need to go.”

“That's right, Ruth,” Avis said gently. “Everybody
doesn't
need to go, but if the Holy Spirit is prompting Hoshi to go, it may be an important step in the healing God wants to do. As she said, facing her fear. Because fear is not of God. Also”—she began thumbing through her big Bible—“it might prepare the ground for forgiveness.” Avis found what she was looking for. “From the Lord's Prayer, the model Jesus gave us to pray: ‘Forgive us our sins,
as we
forgive those who sin against us.' ”

The living room was quiet, except for the sound of a TV from somewhere in the back of the house.
As we forgive . . .
Yeah. That was one of those sticky little things Jesus said which we piously recited as part of the Lord's Prayer, but when you came right down to it was hard to swallow. Almost sounded like a contract: “God will treat our sins in the same way we treat other people's sins.” Ouch.

The silence was broken by a little laugh from Hoshi. “Do not talk me out of it—I will accept any and all excuses not to go!” But she leaned in my direction. “Jodi, will you write another letter to . . . to the woman, and ask if she will put my name on her visitors' list?”

Well, yeah, but that means you need a ride down there, so either
Denny and I need to go again, or somebody else with a car needs their
name on the list.
I tried the back-door approach. “Sure, I'll write the letter. Anybody else want their name on the visitors' list?” I was hoping someone with a car would speak up, like Stu or Avis, or even Ruth—not likely—but no one volunteered.
Great. Just great.

Avis moved on, collecting other prayer concerns. Florida didn't say much, just, “Pray for the Hickmans. Lot goin' on, not all of it good.” We put Nony on the prayer list, and Avis volunteered to call Mark Smith to find out when she was coming back.

Chanda piped up. “Mi not get even t'ree words out of Adele at church dis mornin', but someone say it be her birthday week from tomorrow—four November. Yada Yada didn't visit nobody's church all month. Why don't ever'body come to Paul and Silas Apostolic next Sunday? Be a
big
surprise for Adele's birthday.”

“Ahh . . . maybe too big a surprise, Chanda,” Stu said diplomatically. “I think it would be very awkward. Avis said to give her space, remember?”

Heads nodded around the room, including Avis.

Yo-Yo spoke up from the floor, squeezed between Ruth's chair and a corner of the flowered couch. “But showing Adele we haven't forgotten her—that'd be good. Maybe we could all send her birthday cards.”

“A good idea, that is!” Ruth beamed. “Kill her with kindness.”

Stu groaned. “We're not trying to kill her, Ruth.”

Humph,
I thought.
It'd take a lot more than kindness to kill Adele
anyway.

34

A
vis dropped me off after Yada Yada, and I let myself in the front door, dumping my tote bag and hanging up my jacket.
Hope Denny has changed all the clocks by now.
I kicked off my shoes and headed toward the light in the dining room.
No way do I want to show up at school tomorrow an hour early.