The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out (2 page)

As the woman landed, she let out a cry of pain. Mitch and Boomer parted ways as if she were a traffic island they had to go around and kept running after JJ.

“Help!” the woman cried. “My ankle! . . . Somebody, help me!”

Boomer slowed and looked back. Something about that voice . . . “Ohh . . . My ankle . . . I can't . . .”

Boomer turned. Somewhere down the street he heard JJ yelling, “Boomer! Whatchu doin'?
Come on!”

The woman on the ground was crying, trying to get up but falling back. Desperately, Boomer looked up and down the street, hoping someone else would hear her. But no one else was out. No doors opened.

“Boomer, you
idiot!
Get outta there! . . .We're leavin', man!”

Itching to run, Boomer's feet moved like lead back to the fallen woman. She was still moaning with pain. Pulling his knit cap down low and his hood around his face, he bent slightly to get a look.

It couldn't be her. But it
was
! Half his mind screamed,
Run,
idiot!
The other half said,
You can't! What if she's really hurt?

The woman looked up. She flinched. Then she gasped, “Help me . . . please. I'm hurt. I need my cell phone. I . . . lost it when I fell. Do you see it?”

He glanced this way and that among the boxes—they were empty! But there . . . a glint in the snow. He picked it up. A silver cell phone. Without a word, he flipped it open and punched in three numbers:
9-1-1.
Then he hit Send and set it down within her reach.

And fled.

1

T
he last time I'd stood on this sidewalk, firefighters were battling fierce flames leaping from the old church that had housed Manna House, the homeless women's shel-ter. T Flashing red-and-blue lights had sliced through the frigid night air, heavy with smoke and the whimpers of frightened children. The blaze, started by faulty wiring and fed by a dry, brittle Christmas tree, had gutted the old church and consumed the few possessions of several dozen women and children who called the shelter “home.” Bulldozers had finished the job, creating an ugly gap like a pulled tooth along the crowded row of buildings.

But today, almost two years later, crisp November sunshine brightened the narrow street in the Chicago neighborhood known as Wrigleyville. My eyes feasted on the new brick building that had risen on the same spot, its facade similar to the noble lines of the old church. A few broad steps led to a set of double oak doors, flanked by stained-glass windows on either side. At the peak of the new building, the wooden beams of a cross stretched top to bottom and side to side inside a circular stained-glass window.

“It's beautiful,” I said. “Wonder what the inside is like?”

“Only one way to find out.” My husband, Denny, took my arm and hustled me up the steps. A small brass plate nailed to the door said, simply, Manna House.

Instead of the dark sanctuary of the old church, a brightly lit foyer welcomed us. On the right side, a large main office with wide glass windows overlooked the foyer and room beyond; the oppo-site side of the foyer accommodated restrooms and an office door marked Director. Straight ahead, double doors led into a large multipurpose room in which a decent crowd filled rows of folding chairs, sat on plump couches or overstuffed chairs with bright-colored covers, or clustered around a long table with a coffee urn, a punch bowl, and plates of cookies.

“Mom! Dad! You made it!” Josh bounded over and gave us a hug. “We're just about ready to start . . . Edesa! Did you save seats for my folks?”

Josh's fiancée, Edesa Reyes, scurried over. Her thick, dark hair—longer now and caught back from her rich mahogany face into a fat ponytail at the nape of her neck—seemed to pull her broad smile from ear to ear. “Jodi! Denny!
Si,
we saved seats for you, see? Next to Avis and Peter—oh. Others are coming in.” She gave each of us a warm hug. “Can't wait to give you a tour! Just don't look at
my
room. I haven't had a chance to get settled yet.”

So. She'd actually given up her apartment to live on-site. I watched as Josh slipped an arm around Edesa's slim waist, turning to greet the newcomers. When did my lanky son muscle up and start looking like a grown man? He'd turned twenty-one this fall but was only in his second year at the University of Illinois, Circle Campus. Edesa, in the U.S. on a student visa from Honduras and three years his senior, had just started her master's program in public health at UIC. They'd been engaged for a year and a half—a fact that still boggled my eyeballs. But as far as we knew, no wed-ding plans yet.

Thank goodness. Let them get through school first—

“Sista Jodee!” A Jamaican accent hailed us from the coffee table, and Chanda George made a beeline for Denny and me, grip-ping a cup of hot coffee and a small plate of cookies. “Dis is so exciting! Mi can hardly believe it's happening.”

Chanda had reason to be excited. After winning the Illinois Lottery Jackpot and going from single-mom-who-cleaned-houses to a multimillion-dollar bank account overnight, Chanda had gone nuts, taking her kids on exotic vacations, buying her dream house and a luxury car with leather seats—in cash—and lavishing expensive gifts on her friends. But when the women's shelter burned down, her greedy lifestyle had gotten a wake-up call: she, Chanda George, had the financial means to do major good with her unearned blessing.

“Are those cookies for me?” Denny's dimples gave him away as he helped himself to a cookie from Chanda's paper plate. “Thanks, Chanda—hey!” Denny barely caught himself from being bowled over as Chanda's two girls threw themselves at him.

“Uncle Denny!” they cried. “Where's Amanda? Ain't she home from college yet?” Cheree was leggy for ten, but eight-year-old Dia was still a Sugar Plum Fairy in my eyes: tiny, sweet, flighty, dipped in chocolate.

“Next week. She'll be home for Thanksgiving.” Denny waggled his eyebrows at the girls. “Say, think you could get me some of that punch and cookies?”

The girls ran off. All three of Chanda's children, including thir-teen- year-old Tom, had different fathers, none of whom had mar-ried their mother, a fact Chanda grumbled about regularly. “Dia's daddy” had come waltzing back briefly when Chanda won the lot-tery, and she had been sure wedding bells were in the air. But with a dozen Yada Yada Prayer Group “sisters” telling her the bum was just after her money, Chanda wised up and gave him the boot. As for Oscar Frost, the “fine” young sax player at SouledOut Community Church who Chanda had had her eye on . . . well, let's just say he treated Chanda respectfully, like an older sister. Not exactly what she'd had in mind.

Yada Yada.
I glanced around the room to see how many of our prayer group had made it to the dedication of Manna House. I saw Florida Hickman serving punch at the table and even halfway across the room I could hear her chirp to the next guest in line, “How ya feel? . . . That's good, that's good.”

In another corner of the room, Leslie “Stu” Stuart, who lived on the second floor of our two-flat, perched on the arm of a couch, red beret tilted to one side of her blonde head as she laughed and talked to several other Yada Yada sisters: Yo-Yo Spencer, Becky Wallace, and Estelle Williams, Stu's current housemate.

I didn't see Adele Skuggs, but the owner of Adele's Hair and Nails usually had her busiest day on Saturdays. Didn't see Delores Enriquez, either, probably for the same reason. She often had to work weekend shifts as a pediatric nurse at Cook County Hospital.

And then there were our missing sisters. Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith had been in South Africa the past year and a half, and Hoshi Takahashi had returned to Japan last summer, hoping to reunite with her estranged parents. We'd been able to keep in touch by e-mail, and the last one from Nony had Yada Yada buzzing . . .

“Avis!” I plonked into the chair beside Avis Douglass, the principal at Bethune Elementary, where I taught third grade, and the leader of our Yada Yada Prayer Group. “Did you hear any more from Nony? All she said was that they might be home before the end of the year, ‘details to follow.'What does
that
mean?”

Avis shook her head. “You know as much as I do.”

“Is this on?” Rev. Liz Handley, the director of Manna House, tapped on a microphone. “Good. Welcome, everyone!” The short white woman with the wire-rim glasses and cropped, salt-and-pepper hair waited a few moments as those still standing found seats. “We are delighted to see so many friends here to celebrate with us today as we dedicate Manna House II . . .” A commotion at the back of the room distracted her attention. “Come on in, folks. We're just getting started.”

I turned my head. Ruth Garfield bustled in, flushed and frowsy, followed by her husband, Ben, each carrying one of their two-year- old twins. I tried to keep a straight face as Yada Yada's own Jewish
yenta
whispered, “Sorry we're late,” and Yo-Yo snickered back, “So what else is new?”

Rev. Handley resumed her introduction. “I'd like to ask Peter Douglass, president of the Manna House Foundation, to say a prayer of thanksgiving as we begin.”

Avis's husband rose, ever the businessman in gray slacks, navy blue blazer, and red-and-blue-striped tie. But he gave a nervous glance at his wife as he took the microphone. Avis was usually the one with the mic as one of the worship leaders at SouledOut Community Church. But Peter shut his eyes and offered heartfelt thanks to God that Manna House had “risen from the ashes, like the phoenix bird in the old tales, a symbol of renewal, resurrection, and hope to this community and its people!”

“Thank ya,
Je
sus!” Florida, who'd taken a seat behind us, leaned forward and hissed, “Now that man is not only good lookin', but that was some serious prayin'.”

Avis hid a smile as Peter sat down, and Rev. Handley continued. “Before we give you the grand tour of our new facility, I'd like to introduce you to the folks who have kept the Manna House vision alive.”

She called up Mabel, the office manager, a middle-aged African-American woman who got an enthusiastic round of applause. Then she introduced the board: two city pastors I didn't know, one African-American and one Latino; a social worker with reading glasses perched on her nose; and the newest board member, Peter Douglass. “Special thanks to Mr. Douglass,” Rev. Handley said, “who established the Manna House Foundation after last year's fire to rebuild the shelter and—” The rest of her words were drowned out as people stood to their feet and filled the room with applause and shouts of hallelujah. Even with Chanda's major contribution, it was God's miracle that the foundation had raised enough money to rebuild.

When the noise died down, Rev. Handley read off the names of the newly formed advisory board. “Josh Baxter and Edesa Reyes, two of our volunteers. Edesa, by the way, has also taken up residence as live-in staff—”

Denny poked me and grinned.
Our kids.

“—Estelle Williams, Precious McGill, and Rochelle Johnson, former shelter residents who have chosen to give back in this way.” The director held up her hand to forestall applause as the five made their way forward. “Because of the input of this advisory board, we have a major announcement. Victims of domestic violence who come to Manna House will now be housed off-site in private homes, a major step to provide more protection and anonymity for abused women.”

The applause erupted. Beside me, Avis mopped her eyes and blew her nose. Her daughter Rochelle had run away from an abusive husband and ended up at Manna House. After the fire, Chanda had invited Rochelle
and her son, Conny, to share the big house on the North Shore she'd bought with her “winnin's,” and they'd stayed for nearly nine months while getting an order of protection and finalizing a divorce.

I poked Denny. “Bet that off-site idea was Rochelle's,” I whispered.

“Thanks to all of you,” Rev. Handley finished, “for making this day possible. And not a moment too soon. The mayor of this fine city has asked Manna House to take a busload of evacuees from Hurricane Katrina, who will be arriving from Houston tomorrow. Which means we'll have a full house for Thanksgiving dinner next week. We have a sign-up sheet on the snack table for any volunteers who'd be willing to come and serve dinner next Thursday.”

The director took a breath. “Speaking of volunteers . . . ”Was she looking right at me? “If you have volunteered before, or know anyone you think might be interested, please speak to me after the dedication today. And now, Pastor Rafael Kingsbury, our board chair, will say a prayer of dedication . . . ”

After the brief program, I pushed my way over to Precious, who had stayed in our home for a week after the fire. “Did I hear right? Did Rev. Handley say you were a
former
shelter resident?”

“She did!” Precious beamed. “Got me a good waitress job and my own address. Sabrina doin' real well in high school too.”