Stand by Me (26 page)

Avis joined him on one of the flat-topped boulders, wishing she'd worn jeans instead of her good slacks to meet with the pastor. But the rock was warm and forgiving. She hugged her knees and watched the seagulls screeching at the water's edge, flapping up into the air, then down onto the sand again, pecking here and there.

She heard Peter groan. “I don't know what to do.” He wasn't looking at her. Just gazing out over the water. Was he talking to her? Or to God?

But she said, “I don't either.”

Another long silence. Then Peter threw up his hands. “I don't understand what God is doing! Why would He put the opportunity in our laps to go on mission for Him, to get out of our ruts and
do
something different, exciting, worthwhile—just to jerk the rug out from under us and ask us to plug holes in the SouledOut dike?”

Avis had no answer. Her questions and train of thought had run along a totally different track than Peter's. Not once had she factored in the “implications” of Pastor Clark's death on the mission trip to South Africa. Though . . . they'd been praying that God would show them what they should do, to make it clear.

Maybe this was His answer.

Jodi Baxter poked her head into Avis's office the next morning before the first bell rang. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.” Avis glanced up from her computer where she'd been scrolling through the e-mails that had piled up over the long weekend. “Ugh. Didn't anybody at the superintendent's office stay home over the holiday weekend? I've got twenty-seven
school-related
e-mails I need to deal with. This morning!”

“Need a hug?” Jodi didn't wait for an answer but came around Avis's desk and wrapped arms around her from behind.

Avis gave a short laugh. “Oh, all right. I know what that means.
You
need a hug.” She swung her chair around and eyed her friend. Denim skirt and sweater to match the thirty-degree drop in temperature since yesterday. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay? Let's see . . . Our pastor just died of a heart attack in the middle of worship. Amanda came home from U of I a week ago, but we've barely seen her because she's already juggling two nanny jobs. And one of my third graders—Sammy Blumenthal, small for his age—is being bullied by one of the bigger boys. Other than that, I'm peachy keen.”

Avis gestured at her visitor chair. “Sit. Tell me about the bullying.”

Jodi sighed as she sank into the chair. “It's Derrick Blue. He's pushing Sammy down on the playground, tripping him in the hallway, stealing food from his tray at lunch, calling him names, making fun of his yarmulke. I think we may need a meeting with the parents. Although . . . they never show up at parent meetings, so I don't know.”

“Names? Like racial slurs?”

Jodi grimaced. “You don't want to know. But I'd rather not let this escalate into a racial issue. At this age they hardly know what those words mean. But I'd also like to nip the bullying in the bud before this kid goes on to middle school.”

Avis sighed, pulled a pad of paper toward her, and wrote down the names. “I'll talk to both boys and see how that goes. If necessary, I'll contact the parents. Thanks, Jodi. We can't let this bullying go on. It can have disastrous consequences if allowed to fester.”

“Oh. One more thing. Pastor Cobbs called last night asking if Denny and I would put together several folks to plan the funeral service for Pastor Clark. He's trying to track down any family who should be notified and make burial arrangements. Uh, we'd really like you and Peter to help us plan. We already asked Estelle and Harry. They're coming over tomorrow night at seven. Are you guys free?—Oops. There goes the bell.” Jodi launched herself out of the chair and headed for the door. “Let me know if you guys can make it, okay?” The door closed behind her.

Avis picked up the phone and dialed Peter's number. She was sure he'd agree. This decision was easy. Plan a service for a beloved pastor. Do it. Then it's done.

It was the other decision that had a thousand loose ends. Stand in for Pastor Clark . . . indefinitely? What did it even mean?

Chapter 24

T
he Red Line rattled out of the Morse Avenue Station, packed with early morning commuters. Kat grabbed a pole and hung on as the elevated train lurched and picked up speed. The train seemed even more crowded than usual after the holiday weekend.

“Uhhh,” groaned Brygitta, squished right behind her. “Adding a forty-five-minute commute to both ends of a school day sucks.”

Kat had to agree. Five stops and then they had to transfer to the Foster Avenue bus. But at least both trains and buses ran about every ten minutes at this time in the morning. They should make their nine o'clock classes all right.

The train was too crowded to talk. She couldn't even see Nick and Olivia. Maybe they'd ended up in another car. But she couldn't help smiling to herself, remembering the campfire at Lighthouse Beach the night before. She was glad they'd gone. The campfire ring had been tucked among the trees on a slight slope above the sandy dunes that led down to the beach. Firelight and shadows had danced on the faces of the fifteen or so teenagers, erasing the differences in their skin tones, though the group was fairly evenly mixed between white, black, and Latino. No Asians, though. Odd.

One of the younger boys, maybe fourteen, a white kid with freckles and reddish curly hair—Paul Somebody—had brought a guitar, and he had played while the group sang gospel songs. She'd been surprised how good he was for his age. Edesa had pointed out another boy, a couple of years older, dark brown hair, drop-dead good looks already, and said they were brothers. Last name Fairbanks. Kat had to take her word for it, because the two didn't look anything alike.

Besides Josh and Edesa, the only other youth leader had been the worship leader guy, Justin. He'd been home with laryngitis when Pastor Clark died, and he still didn't have much of a voice, but he'd told the kids he'd needed to be there tonight, needed to be with “his peeps.”

“The reason I'm a son of God tonight,” he'd croaked, “is because of Pastor Clark. I won't lie to you. I messed up when I was your age, and that wasn't too long ago. Ended up in juvie for five months. Pastor Clark and a couple other guys from SouledOut led a Bible study down there. At first we all made fun of him—this old white dude, skinny as a stick, coulda knocked him over with my little finger. I just hung out at the Bible study for somethin' to do, to break the boredom. But he kept comin' every week, talked to us like regular people. Told me I had lots of potential. Told me God had a purpose for my life, if I was willin' to follow Him.”

Justin had gotten a little emotional at that point, but he'd soon recovered. “Pastor Clark prayed with me, an' I think he kept prayin' for me every day—before
and
after I said yes to God. I'm goin' to college now”—the kids around the circle had clapped—“and I'm real sad at his passin', 'cause I sure did want him to be there when I graduated.”

The young black man's sharing had seemed to turn on a faucet, and several other kids had shared memories of Pastor Clark—his gawky smile, the jokes he told on himself, and the time he came to youth group and talked about becoming young men and women of character. “He told us character was more important than a high IQ, or top grades, or being popular, or makin' lots of money,” said a girl with lots of dark, straight hair and olive skin. “I'll always remember that.”

“Yeah,” another boy had piped up. “He said character is what you do and who you are when nobody's watchin'. Now
that
spooked me. Know what I'm sayin'?” The other kids had laughed.

As she'd listened, Kat had felt a sense of loss, realizing she'd never get to know the man. Her only interaction with him had been pushing on his chest while he lay dying. Had anyone in her life talked to her about character like that? Seemed like it had been mostly, “Don't waste your time on trivial pursuits,” or “Do what you need to do to get ahead,” or “You're a Davies, act like it!”

At least the Jesus she'd met at the Midwest Music Fest had shown her a new way. The last shall be first, and all that kind of stuff. Right there in the Bible!

Bree's poke in her back interrupted her thoughts. “Berwyn. That's our stop.” Together they pushed their way out of the car, following the back of Nick's head and Olivia's blond ponytail down the stairs and out onto the street.

As they walked the few blocks to the bus stop heading west, Brygitta paused at a row of newspaper boxes lining the sidewalk. “All I want is the classifieds,” she said, feeding quarters into one of the boxes and pulling out a
Chicago Tribune
. “I need to start looking for a job. Anybody else want a paper?”

“Classifieds!” Nick scoffed. “Easier to do an Internet search. C'mon, people, this is the twenty-first century.”

Brygitta whacked him with the newspaper. “So? I can start looking right now on the bus, and
you
have to wait till you get to your computer.”

Kat ignored both of them. Newspaper jobs or Internet searches might land her anywhere in the city! No, she was going to concentrate on the neighborhood near the church, even if she had to go door to door.

Both Olivia and Nick had an afternoon class on Tuesday, so Kat and Brygitta headed back to the apartment on an earlier bus. “By the way, looked like you and Edesa were hitting it off at the picnic. What were you talking about?”

Kat shrugged. “Oh, just getting acquainted. But I did find out she's got a master's degree in public health! And
bam
, I got this neat idea. Maybe the two of us could teach a class on nutrition at SouledOut—advertise it around the neighborhood.”

“Really? What did she think about that?”

Good question
. Kat wasn't sure. Edesa had made some comment about nutrition not being very high on the food priority list. “Uh, well, we didn't really get to talk about it. Oh! Here's our stop.”

Swinging off at Foster and Broadway, Kat pulled her friend toward Sheridan Road. “Hey. Let's pick up some groceries before we get the El. We need more eggs and a green pepper. My turn to cook supper and I'm going to make a frittata.”

Brygitta shrugged. “I guess. But maybe we should grocery shop on Sunday when we're at SouledOut. There's a Dominick's right there in the shopping center.”

“Thought Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest,” Kat teased.

“
Huh
. You should talk. You only started going to church a couple years ago.”

Kat draped an arm around Brygitta's shoulders and laughed as they headed toward the big chain store. “Yeah, but you've been going since you were in the womb, so you should know better.”

As they crossed Sheridan, Kat playfully pushed Brygitta toward the front doors on the north corner, stuffing the envelope with their food money into her pocket. “Look, you go on, get some eggs and stuff—oh, some mushrooms too! And maybe a couple cans of tuna and a couple loaves of whole-wheat bread for lunches. I'll come meet you in a few minutes.”

Brygitta stuck both fists on her hips. “Kat! No way. You're not going Dumpster-diving again.”

Kat laughed. “I just want to look. You never know.” She trotted off down the street and around to the back of the store before Brygitta could protest any more. No one seemed to be around. Lifting the lid on one of the Dumpsters, she squinted into the depths. Flattened cardboard, broken glass, old boards, paper trash . . . but no food. Strange. She moved to the next one and lifted the lid. Same thing. Just trash. No food.