The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out (4 page)

Avis waited until the fuss spun itself out and then simply opened with a prayer. “Lord God, we thank You that we can gather once more in Your name, to praise You for all Your mercies to us from day to day, week to week—”

“Yes,
Je
sus!” “Mm-mm.” “Oh, thank You, Father . . . ”

Avis left her prayer open ended, and others added their praise. “Oh,
Señor,
thank You for Manna House and that we had beds for the busload of Hurricane Katrina survivors who arrived today” . . . “Yes, yes! You're an on-time God!” . . . “Thank You for protecting our children, Lord, as they go to and from school each day” . . . “Yes,
Je
sus!” . . . “An' I wanna thank You, God, for giving Little Andy back to me an' lettin' me be his mama again. Help me to stay clean, an' help me find a bigger apartment close to my friends here—”

I opened my eyes a slit and peeked at Florida. Did she know about that? For the past two years, Becky Wallace had been sub-letting the two-room “apartment” on the second floor of the Hickmans' rented house. Now that Becky had regained custody of Little Andy, I could imagine the tiny space had gotten even smaller. Couldn't read Florida's face, though. Her eyes were screwed tight and she just kept nodding and murmuring, “Mm-hm.”

Yo-Yo's voice broke in. “ 'Long as we're prayin' for the kids, God, I'm really scared they're gonna send Pete to Iraq, an' .
. . an' I really don't want him to go, even though I'm glad the army's straightened him up an' he looks cool in that uniform an' every-thing . . . but he and Jerry are all the family I got . . .” Yo-Yo, who wasn't a crier, seemed to choke on the last word.

“Mm! Lord, have mercy!” Adele murmured.

We all stirred and looked up. The prayers had moved from praise to prayer requests. Avis, sensing the need to shift, went with the flow. “It sounds like Becky and Yo-Yo—and maybe others—need some time to share, and then we can pray with them. Becky? Do you want to start?”

Becky shrugged. “Well, y'all know I got me a full-time job now at UPS, an' Little Andy's in preschool. I'm grateful the way y'all have supported me while I got on my feet after prison—'specially you, Stu, for takin' me in those first six months, and the Hickmans lettin' me sublet they upstairs on the cheap. But Little Andy an' me, we on top of each other every minute, an' I'm thinkin' it'd be a good thing if we got us a bigger place.”

“You sure about that, Becky?” Stu said. “Who's taking care of Little Andy right now? He's downstairs at the Hickmans', right? Times like this, you've got built-in babysitters.”

Becky nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, know what you sayin'. Still, I'm thinkin' Little Andy needs his own bedroom, a place to play, stuff like that. I've been lookin' around an' hopin' I can get somethin' in the neighborhood, so we can still be close to the Hickmans an' Baxters an' Stu.”

“Come live wit' mi, Becky,” Chanda said. “De kids an' me rat-tlin' round in dat big house since Rochelle an' Conny got dey own place. Tom still got a bunk bed in his room an' nobody usin' de guest room. Give you all de space you ever need!”

Becky grinned. “Thanks, Chanda. I 'preciate it. But I think it's time I quit lettin' you all take care of me an' Little Andy an' do what I need to do to make a home for me an' my kid.”

Heads nodded in understanding. Even Florida. “But you can throw us into that prayer pot,” she added. “'Cause we need to find someone else to rent Becky's place to help us make our own rent.”

“Ain't never seen the righteous forsaken yet,” Adele murmured. “Don't you worry, Flo. God's gonna provide for you too.”

Whew. Not exactly the poetic flow of Nonyameko's “Scripture prayers,” but I knew Adele's encouragement came right from Psalm 37.

“Yo-Yo?” Avis asked. “Tell us about Pete.”

Yo-Yo blew her nose and stuffed the tissue back into the bib pocket of her faded denim overalls. “Ain't much to tell. He's finishing basic training at Fort Benning, then he'll be deployed some-where. He ain't sayin' where, which makes me think . . . ” Her features drew together in angry lines. “The army got that Saddam Hussein! An' the Iraqis are gonna have elections soon, ain't they? Why are we still sendin' troops over there, is what I want ta know!” She fished for her tissue again, but Ruth handed her a fresh one. “Pete drove me nuts sometimes, but he's still just a kid.”

Which was true. Yo-Yo's half brothers had been her responsibility ever since I'd known her, and for several years before that. Jerry was still in high school, but Pete had joined the army the day after he graduated last spring. Yo-Yo had been relieved at first. The army seemed just the thing for a kid who had never known a father. Not even a mother, for that matter, other than “big sis” Yo-Yo, since their mother spent most of the time strung out on drugs. But the news from Iraq these days seemed to be getting worse rather than better. Suicide bombings, Shiite versus Sunni, American troops still coming home in body bags . . .

“Best thing we can do for Pete is—” Avis started to say.

But Edesa held up her hand. “Before we pray, I want to ask prayer for Carmelita. Jodi and Denny ran into her out on the street after the dedication yesterday and brought her into the shelter. She's nineteen, single, and has a little baby, Gracie, only three months old. But Carmelita is an addict, and she has basically run out of options. We can get her into a detox program, if she'll let us. But she's afraid they'll take the baby away from her and . . . well, we don't want to scare her away. But she needs a lot of prayer.”

Gracie
. . . My heart tugged. I could see the squalling infant in the girl's arms, the way she quieted when Edesa held her. Why did that young woman—Carmelita—name her baby
Gracie
? Was it a family name?

Or a cry for mercy?

3

T
hanks for the ride, Stu.” I unlocked our back door and stepped into the kitchen as Stu and Estelle climbed the outside stairs to their T second-floor apartment. Even though Willie Wonka had been gone the last year and a half, I still half expected to hear the click of the old dog's nails on the tile and feel his cold nose nuzzling my hand when I came in the house. But the kitchen was dark, silent, and empty. Even the TV blathering away in the living room seemed to come from another dimension.

Empty nest.
Did it have to happen so suddenly? First Wonka died after growing up with the kids, like a “blankie” that finally lost the last of its comforting, silky binding. Then Josh got an apartment with a couple of roommates near UIC's Chicago campus. And now Amanda was three hours away at the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana.

Denny and I simply didn't make enough hubbub to fill the empty spaces. I sighed and flipped on the kitchen light—

“SURPRISE!”

My keys flew out of my hand, bounced off a cupboard, and landed in the sink. Two heads poked into sight from either side of the doorway leading into the dining room, grinning like puppets.

“Amanda!” I screeched. “When did . . . why didn't you
tell
me you were coming home tonight!”
And who is this total stranger in
our house?
I wanted to add.
Male.

Amanda bopped into the kitchen and gave me a big hug. Her thick, butterscotch-colored hair was caught at the back of her head with an oversize clip, tendrils dangling carelessly front and sides. “Had to catch a ride when I could get one, Mom. And this is Neil. You said I could bring a friend home from school for Thanks-giving, remember?”

Well, yes. But I'd imagined her roommate, or a darling international student from Norway or Kenya. Not this overgrown football player with a neck as thick as Denny's thigh. “Hey there,” he said, flipping his finger off his forehead as if he were tipping a hat.

Denny showed up in the kitchen doorway, grinning so wide you could probably lose a quarter inside his dimples. “She called after you left for Yada Yada. She wanted to surprise you.”

Amanda giggled. “Yeah. We scared her so bad, she won't get hiccups for the next ten years.”

Neil, we learned over popcorn and soft drinks, was at U of I on a football scholarship from Tallahassee and didn't have the bucks to go home for Thanksgiving. When he found out that Amanda's dad was a high school athletic director, he'd practically invited himself home with her, probably imagining nonstop TV football over Thanksgiving. Amanda, who was a pushover for strays of all species, had agreed to let him tag along.

At least Josh's bed was available. “But I didn't realize she had
all
week
for Thanksgiving vacation,” I hissed to Denny behind our bedroom door when we'd said goodnight to Amanda and her guest. “
We've
still got three more days of school . . . which leaves them alone at the house all day.”

“Hm.” Denny crawled into bed and turned on his reading light. “What about our rule
about not being alone in the house with the opposite sex?”

Denny sighed. “Yeah. But we can't exactly kick them out from eight to five, can we? She's eighteen now, Jodi. We have to trust our daughter.”

“
Humph
.” I crawled into bed. “I trust Amanda. Can't say the same for Mr. Tallahassee.”

BOTH COLLEGE STUDENTS were still hibernating in their respective dens when Denny and I left the house the next morning. “I know!” I told Denny, who'd offered to drop me off at Bethune Elementary on his way to West Rogers High. “If Amanda has the whole week for Thanksgiving, Josh probably does too. They're both U of I campuses. Where's the cell? I'll call and see if he can drop in today to see his sister.”

Denny surrendered the cell phone without rolling his eyes, but I could tell he wanted to. I got Josh on the third ring. “Hi, hon. Hope I didn't wake you . . . . Oh. Okay . . . No, just wanted to tell you Amanda's home. Talk to you later.” I handed the phone back to Denny.

“What?” He was grinning at me.

“Said he was on his way to his eight o'clock class.” I shrugged. “Guess UIC isn't on break yet. Oh, well.” I'd just have to leave the whole thing to God. But I
was
going to talk to Amanda about the awkward situation.

I scurried past the school office without stopping, wanting to slip into my classroom and enjoy the next thirty minutes of peace before I had to go out on the playground and round up my third graders. I dumped the bag of items I'd brought from home for our unit on renewable/nonrenewable sources of energy and shed my coat. With an eye on the clock, I started my Monday routine—praying for each of the kids in my class by name as I walked up and down the rows of desks.

“Lord, show me how to keep loving on Portia. She always comes back to school after a weekend looking like a scared rabbit . . . Thank You, God, that Bernie has settled down and is showing some interest in science . . . Hm, bless the twins, Lord, Selena and Saleem. Give me more understanding of the culture they're coming from . . . But it's patience I need for Randy, Lord. What
is
it with his constant chatter? . . . Bless sweet Sophia, Lord. She's got such a kind heart. Protect her heart, Lord; don't let it get calloused . . . ”

The bell rang just as I finished the prayers for my students, sending the day into its usual nonstop orbit—taking attendance, collecting take-home folders, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance led by a fifth grader over the school intercom, squashing skirmishes before they escalated into actual fights, trying to supervise the language arts worksheet on synonyms while bringing different read-ing groups to the Story Rug . . .

Lunch break for third and fourth grade arrived too soon in terms of work
not
accomplished that morning, and not soon enough in terms of my energy level. At least I wasn't on lunchroom supervision. I took the opportunity to stop by the school office and peek in on Avis. “You got a minute?”

Trim and professional in a black pantsuit with a red, silky blouse, Avis looked up from the stack of papers she was signing and waved me in. “What's up?”

I closed the door. “Nothing school related. What are you mak-ing for Thanksgiving dinner at Manna House? I saw your name on the list.”

She made a face. “Macaroni and cheese, what else? I
know
they'll have turkey. But I don't trust anyone else to make mac 'n cheese the way my family likes it. Besides . . . ” She let slip an impish grin. “It's the only thing I know how to make without a recipe. You?”

“Pies, I guess. Hope I'm not the only one. Four's my limit before going crazy.”

“Great. Is that it?” She indicated the stack of papers she'd been working on.

“Sorry. I'm going.” I opened the door. “Oh, just wanted to tell you Amanda's home, brought a friend from U of I. He's from Tallahassee. I don't like him, and for the life of me I can't give you a good reason.”