2-in-1 Yada Yada (78 page)

WOULD WONDERS NEVER CEASE? I was so happy to have Hakim back in my class that the whole day felt like a Christmas gift from God, wrapped in gold ribbon. Hakim seemed happy too. Even asked for me to read with him one on one while Christy led group-reading time.

Couldn't wait to tell Denny, but only Willie Wonka was there to greet me when I got home. “Guess what,Wonka?” I said, taking the dog's face in my hands and kissing his soft brown forehead. “God is gracious! God is soooooo gracious!” Willie Wonka had natural urges on his mind and wiggled free, heading for the back door. I let him out into the backyard but felt like I wanted to dance, so I hunted around till I found the
iWorship
CD we'd been listening to lately and put on the first track by Darrell Evans.

I'm trading my sorrows
I'm trading my shame

I'm laying them down
For the joy of the Lord

I was right in the middle of hopping around the living room to the spunky vamp—“Yes, Lord, yes, Lord, yes, yes, Lord!”—for about the umpteenth time when the Baxter crew all showed up, raiding the kitchen and giving me looks that said,
“Mom's gone off again.”
I just laughed at them, turned down the music, and told them about my miracle.

“That's great, Mom.” Amanda actually gave me a hug. “When's supper?”

Denny wrapped his arms around me and held me for a few moments. “I'm glad, Jodi. Really glad,” he murmured into my hair. Then he pulled back, but I could see he was frowning slightly. “Uh . . . what time did you say Adele's shop closed?”

Good grief. I'd completely forgotten about promising to go with Denny to Adele's Hair and Nails. “Seven,” I said. “Can't we do this another evening? I don't want to spoil this great—”

“I gotta do this today, Jodi. Before I lose my nerve. Please?”

Every nerve in my body wanted to protest, but something told me that if I didn't go, Denny would go by himself. I sighed. “I'll go. As soon as we eat supper, okay?”

He shook his head. “Don't think I can eat. Maybe when we get back.”

So I pulled out Sunday's leftovers for Josh and Amanda, tanked up Denny and myself with some fresh coffee to take along, and headed for Clark Street.

We pulled into a parking space across the street from Adele's shop about six-forty. The white twinkle lights around the shop's window had been replaced with multicolored ones and wound with silver tinsel, giving a festive holiday air to the shop. Through the window, we could see a customer still in the chair getting a comb-out. And so we sat, motor running so the car didn't get too cold.

I had no idea what we were going to say when we got inside. But maybe MaDear wouldn't remember a thing about the previous incident, wouldn't even recognize Denny. After all, sometimes MaDear even forgot who Adele was! That would be the best scenario of all, as far as I was concerned. We could all just start over, clean slate.

The customer left about ten minutes later, calling back cheery good-byes. Denny turned off the engine and we got out, walking across the street hand in hand at a break in the traffic. We both hesitated at the door, then Denny pulled it open.

42

The air was warm with the pungent smell of hair perm— and cinnamon. A wreath of cinnamon pinecones hung on the inside of the door, underneath the bell tinkling our arrival. A gospel version of “O Come,All Ye Faithful” pumped out of the small speakers above the wall of mirrors.

Adele's other hairstylist—Takeisha, if I remembered her name right—looked up from the counter where she was writing in the log book. She looked slightly puzzled. “We're closed in ten minutes, but I'd be glad to give you an appointment.”

“No, that's all right,” Denny said. He cleared his throat. “We actually just came to see Adele Skuggs for a moment.”

The young woman turned to give the familiar yell—
“Adele!
Someone to see you!”—
but at that moment Adele herself appeared. Her short “natural” was no longer red but black tipped with gray, which looked like a mat of tiny silver springs. I tensed, not sure what she would do. Yell at us? Throw us out?

She did neither. Just looked at us, surprised. Finally she spoke. “Jodi and Denny Baxter. What can I do for you?” Her tone was calm but guarded.

“Adele, could I please see MaDear?” Denny spoke quickly, as though afraid he'd lose his nerve. Adele started to shake her head, jingling the big gold loops in her ears, but Denny rushed ahead. “Adele, this is so important. Tell her . . .” His grip on my hand tightened. “Tell her it is the man who killed her brother, come to ask forgiveness.”

I whipped my head around to stare at my husband. I opened my mouth to cry,
“No, Denny!”
but the words stuck in my throat. My brain was scrambling. We should have talked about this! Why feed into the old woman's delusions? How would that help? Didn't MaDear need to see that Denny was
not
the evil man who killed her brother? Wouldn't that lay this whole mess to rest?

Almost as if I'd said my thoughts aloud, Denny said, “That's what MaDear thinks. We have to start there.” He was speaking to Adele, who was staring at him, lips parted, revealing the small space between her front teeth.

To my utter astonishment, Adele suddenly said, “Well, hang up your coats” and motioned for us to follow her. At the doorway to the back room she held up her hand for us to stop. Then she went inside, and we heard her say, “MaDear, the man who killed Uncle Larry is here. He has something he wants to say to you.”

I sucked in my breath, but the salon did not erupt into mayhem. In fact, all I heard was mumbling, something like, “Huh. What he want?” A moment later, Adele motioned us into the back room.

MaDear was sitting in a wheelchair, hunched birdlike over a lapful of curlers and rollers, picking them over, like she was sorting green beans. She looked up sharply as we came in, eyes flashing.

She stared at us angrily for a moment, then her lip began to tremble, and I thought she was going to cry. It may have been only a few seconds, but it was like time slowed to slow-frame . . . and suddenly I saw Jamal and Hakim's mother sitting there, confronting the person who had killed a loved one.
This isn't just about
Denny.
I, Jodi Baxter, was “MaDear's white man” to that other mother. We could talk till we were blue in the face—Denny really wasn't that guy; it really was an accident that killed Jamal—but generations of racial division, injustice, pain, and distrust made subtleties hard to distinguish, facts almost irrelevant.

Suddenly I realized what Denny wanted to do and why.
Jesus
gave us the way to break the legacy of sin . . .

Denny let go of my hand and knelt down beside MaDear's wheelchair. I knelt down with him, kneeling low so that she was looking down on us. “Mrs. . . .” Denny looked up at Adele, searching for MaDear's real name.

“Skuggs,” said Adele. “Sally Skuggs.”

“Mrs. Skuggs,” Denny continued, his voice husky, “what I did was wrong and evil. You have every right to be angry. But I have come to ask if you could forgive me. I . . . I can't bring your brother back, but I ask you to forgive me for how we white folks wronged your people, and your family in particular.”

The room was hushed. No one spoke. Somewhere I could hear the melodic words to “What Child Is This?” softening the electricity in the air. And then MaDear reached out and patted Denny on the head, tears streaming down her face.

My own eyes blurred, and I groped for a tissue in my skirt pocket.

“I knew yo' mama,” MaDear said, stroking Denny's hair. “My mama took care o' you when you was no bigger'n a sucklin' pig, she did. But after Larry was dragged off, found hangin' the nex' day, yo' mama couldn't look my mama or me in th' eye. She done
knew
it was you and yo' daddy and yo' uncle. But ta look us in th' eye an' admit it . . . she couldn't do that. Couldn't do that.” MaDear shook her head sorrowfully. “Went to her grave, she did, not knowing we woulda forgiven her for what her menfolk did if she'd asked us to.”

Denny's shoulders were shaking, and I handed him a wrinkled tissue. MaDear just kept stroking his head. “Now the son comes,” she mused, almost to herself. “Yes, sonny, I forgive you. Big load off my mind.”

Suddenly I felt her thin, bony hand reach for mine. “This yo' woman, sonny?” She took my hand in her own and peered closely at it. “What? These hands like chicken claws! Nails a mess, all dry . . . Adele!” She looked up at Adele, who was standing speechless, leaning against the refrigerator as if she needed something to hold her up. “Adele!” MaDear screeched again. “Take this child and do somethin' with these hands. You be ashamed to let her walk outta here with hands like that.”

She let go of my “claw” and flapped her hands at me. “Go on—shoo! Soak those nails. Get some paint on 'em.” MaDear wagged a maternal finger at Adele. “An' don't you go chargin' this child nothin' either.” She mumbled, “All the years I put food on yo' table an' clothes on yo' back, yo' can do one lil' favor for me. Huh.” And MaDear started picking through the curlers and rollers in her lap.

Denny blew his nose, and we stood up. Adele and Denny and I just stared at each other. None of us knew what to say, but I had a lightness in my spirit I had never felt before and thought I might just float away.

Adele broke the silence. “Well, come on. If MaDear says you need your nails done, Jodi Baxter, we better do 'em. She's the boss—right, MaDear?”

“You got that right!” MaDear yelled then fell back to studying her lap.

Adele started moving things around at one of the nail chairs in the back room. “Adele, it's really all right,” I whispered. “I know you close at seven and weren't expecting us.”

“Sit.” Adele lowered her bulk onto the stool in front of the little table and poured liquid into a bowl. “Soak.”

So I sat, lowering my fingers into the soothing liquid. Denny blew his nose again and took a seat in the corner, resting his elbows on the chair arms and making a tent with his fingers. Watching.

“Takeisha!” Adele yelled toward the front, finally taking my hand from the liquid and starting in on my cuticles. “Turn that music up!—stop jerking, Jodi, or I'm gonna jab you.”

I closed my eyes and smiled as “Go Tell It on the Mountain!” in rich gospel beat suddenly took over any need to talk. In my mind I began composing an e-mail to a bunch of crazy, praying sisters. They were never going to believe what God had done today!

On the other hand . . . sure they would.

Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down
Reading Group Guide

1. The theme of
The Yada Yada Prayer Group
(Yada Yada #1) was
grace
—discovering what it means to be “just a sinner . . . saved by grace.”What do you think is the main theme of
The
Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down?
Why?

2. With whom did you empathize more in the incident at Adele's beauty shop: MaDear or Denny? Why?

3. The Yada Yada prayer group was traumatized by a crime. Have you or someone close to you ever been the victim of a crime? If so, how do you feel toward the perpetrator? If you had a chance for a face-to-face meeting, what do you think would happen? What would you want to happen?

4. How did Yada Yada's decision to visit Becky Wallace in prison affect the different sisters in the prayer group? How did it impact Becky Wallace?

5. If you were the mother of Jamal Wilkins—the boy who Jodi Baxter killed in her car accident in Yada Yada #1—how would you feel to discover her relationship to your other child? How does this discovery affect (1) Jodi? (2) the mother? (3) the child?

6. Jamal's mother can't forgive Jodi, even though Jodi asked for forgiveness at the end of Yada Yada #1. How does this affect Jodi? If the person she has wronged won't forgive, how can she ever be free of the guilt? However, if Jamal's mother does choose to forgive Jodi, what would that forgiveness look like?

7. What prompted Denny's response to MaDear in the final chapter? Why do you think his response was so healing? What questions does his encounter with MaDear raise for you about “repenting for the sins of others”?

8. Examine your own attitudes that may hinder fellowship with other groups of Christians. What is the most difficult or challenging area for you? What would it mean to repent of this attitude?

9. How might we “repent of ” or “take responsibility for” past sins of our nation or people group? No matter what your race or ethnicity, what could
you
do to help bring about racial healing among God's people? How can we help each other?

10. Are there relationships in your own life—of any nature— that need healing through repentance or forgiveness? Whether you have “sinned” or “been sinned against,” do you have the courage to take the first step?