2-in-1 Yada Yada (60 page)

Denny gave me a hard look. “Did anybody ever get arrested for shooting José that day in the park?”

I shook my head. “Don't think so—not that I've heard. José didn't see who did the shooting, though I suppose he could identify the Spanish Cobras he talked to just before it happened.”

“José had asked them to leave so the little kids could play, right?”

“That's the story.”

Denny blew out a sharp breath. “Does sound dangerous. Guess it's a good thing we found out. But Jodi,
not
because of José. He's not to blame here. It wasn't a wise situation, and Amanda was wrong to deceive us.
That's
what's wrong here. We agreed on that?”

My eyes felt hot, like I wanted to cry, and it was hard to swallow past the lump in my throat.
Oh God, I don't want to have to deal
with this. It's too big, too complicated. I just want to raise my kids
someplace safe . . . and normal . . . and . . .

I finally nodded. “Agreed.”

AMANDA gave us a deer-in-the-headlights look when we appeared in her bedroom doorway. I could practically see her thoughts:
“Busted!”
She had to know we'd find out, since I'd just spent the last couple of hours with Edesa and Delores. Amanda protested that she
had
gone to church at Iglesia and thought maybe everybody— Edesa and the whole Enriques family—would go to the parade afterward, and she'd just go along with them.

“Amanda,
stop.”
Denny nipped that bit of nonsense in the bud. “You let us think you called Edesa and that it was ‘All set,' when in reality you called José and planned all along to go with him. That's deception. That's a lie.”

Amanda hung her head and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“And
did
you go to the parade with ‘everybody'? Or just José?”

She started to cry. “Just José,” she whimpered. “We didn't do anything wrong, Dad, honest! I just . . . “ She wiped her nose on her sleeve again. “José was telling me about the parade and it sounded like fun, but I
knew
you guys wouldn't let me go if I said José asked me.”

“And why is that?” Denny put it right back in her lap.

Amanda pulled a pout. “ 'Cause you guys get all weird if a boy asks me to do
anything.
And”—she lifted her chin defiantly— “ 'cause the parade was in Little Village. Not exactly your comfort zone,Mom.”

A few choice words would have put Miss Sassy in her place, but I pinched my lips together. I didn't like it, but what she said was true.

“Don't forget,” Denny said, “we
did
let you go when we thought you'd be with Edesa, an adult we trust—or even if the rest of the Enriques family had been with you too. But big crowds can be dangerous for a young girl in an unfamiliar place, even with José.”

Humph.
Especially
with José, I wanted to say, if some Spanish Cobras out there wanted to silence him for good, but again I held my tongue. Maybe Denny didn't go there for a reason.

Amanda was grounded to the house for the rest of September —a little over two weeks—no phone, no TV, no new baby-sitting jobs, no outside activities except school and church. Frankly, I wished we could've come up with some other consequence, like doing the dishes for the rest of her natural life or something. I hated grounding, because we ended up with a glum teenager kicking around the house 24-7. But what else can you do when they're fifteen?

I said as much to Delores when I called later to let her know the story from our end.
“Si,
I know what you mean,” she said. “Too big to spank; too young to kick out of the house.”

Denny got on the phone to make it clear that as far as we knew, the fault was Amanda's alone. José might have asked Amanda to go to the parade, but it was Amanda who chose to deceive us. “Please make it clear we are not angry with him, Delores—only that Amanda lied to us.”

We heard Delores sigh on the other end of the phone.
“Si.
Gracias.
But I don't know . . . you think they are sweet on each other?”

DELORES'S QUESTION was still dogging my heels when I walked into my third-grade classroom on Monday morning. Was it
that
obvious that Amanda and José were “sweet” on each other? What was going on that I hadn't noticed? Lots of phone calls, obviously. But why did Delores sound so concerned? I thought she liked Amanda! Did
she
worry about the cultural and racial differences?

That gave me pause. It never occurred to me that anybody would have concerns if their child wanted to date one of
my
kids. I mean, Delores should feel darn lucky if José was sweet on Amanda—
Just listen to yourself, Jodi Baxter! You're about as two-faced as a
smiling thief.

Ouch.
Okay, God, You really gotta help me out. I admit it—I'm
uncomfortable with this cross-racial dating, especially when it's my kid.
. . . Aren't there some real concerns here?

I had to shelve my thoughts and get on with the day before my students realized I wasn't paying attention. While I was taking attendance, I noticed Hakim turning around in his seat and snatching things off the desk behind him. Something inside me cautioned,
Don't single him out; don't give him attention for misbehavior.
So as I asked for volunteers to go to the board and solve the math problems I had written there, I casually walked around that side of the room and laid a firm hand on his shoulder for one full second without even looking down, then walked on. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Hakim glare at me. Then he turned back to his own desk and put his head down on his arms.

I sighed. Didn't know which was worse: Hakim acting up or Hakim slumped inside his shell.
Darn. Forgot to ask Yada Yada to
put Hakim on their prayer list.
Well, I'd send it around by e-mail tonight. Hakim and I needed prayer
now
—we couldn't wait two weeks.

When I got home from school, the house was empty except for Willie Wonka, who needed to go outside. Amanda was supposed to come “straight home” from school—but what did that mean when she had to catch a city bus from Lane Tech? Traffic . . . a missed bus . . . a full bus went by the stop—there were plenty of realities she could use as excuses for being late. We better pin that one down.

I sat down at the computer to send out the prayer request about Hakim—then remembered that I promised to let the group know how we could get our stolen jewelry back. So I reached for the phone book, looked up the number for the Twenty-Fourth District Police Station, and dialed.

Sergeant Curry wasn't in, so I asked if someone else could help me retrieve my stolen property. I gave our case number to the officer who came on the phone then had to wait for several minutes while he looked up the file. I walked around the kitchen with the cordless cradled in the crook of my neck, pulled some chicken pieces out of the freezer, popped them into the microwave to thaw, then started loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher— “Mrs. Baxter?” The man's gravelly voice came back on so suddenly I nearly dropped a glass. “That property will be released later this week. Call back Wednesday or Thursday. You can probably pick it up this weekend.”

“Where? At the police station?”

“Normally, all recovered stolen property is sent to Twenty-Sixth and California for trial.” My heart started to sink. Twenty-sixth and California was the address for the Cook County Courthouse, way on the south side. But the officer continued. “However, in this case the perp pled guilty before we had time to send it down there. So you can pick up your property here. Do you know where we are? Clark and Schreiber.”

“That's great. Thank you! But, sir? . . . Sir?” I thought he was going to hang up. “I have another question. Can I pick up
all
the stolen property? It was all taken from my house, but it doesn't all belong to me. We were robbed while I had guests at my—”

“Sorry, ma'am. Can't do that.” The officer's voice sounded extremely impatient, like I'd gone over my limit of questions. “The statements taken the night of the incident described what was stolen from each victim, so each of those individuals will have to come down to the station and claim their own property.”

“Oh. All right. Thanks.” I hung up.
Bummer.
Seemed like a lot of unnecessary trips. But at least we could all get our jewelry back. I tried to think who'd had stuff stolen: Nony's ring and necklace . . . Avis's pin, though not her wedding ring—that was
so weird
that Bandana Woman didn't take it . . . my wedding ring set . . . Stu's earrings. Nothing from Florida 'cause she didn't have anything, and not even Mrs. Takahashi's money. I had to smile, remembering the grip Hoshi's mom had kept on her purse. Anybody else?

Adele.
Bandana Woman had made me take off Adele's big ring myself.

I stood in the middle of the dining room, looking back and forth between the computer and the telephone. Adele needed to know that the thief had been sentenced already, and we could get our jewelry back. Should I just send out that information to everybody in an e-mail, including Adele . . . or should I tell her myself by phone?

It made a darn good excuse to speak to Adele person to person, and I was tired of this little game we were playing.

I picked up the phone.

23

A
s the phone rang, I chastised myself. This was dumb, calling the shop. Adele was certain to be busy, and a message from me would just make her wary. I was about to do a quick hang-up when someone answered the phone. “Adele's Hair and Nails.”

Adele's voice.

“Oh. Hi, Adele. It's Jodi. Sorry to bother you at work. If this isn't—”

“It's all right. What's up?”

What's up?! Like we haven't left a zillion messages in the last four
weeks.
“I wanted to let you know about your stolen ring.”
That'll
keep her on the line.

“What about it?”

“Well, Sergeant Curry, the officer who took our statements that night—”

“I
know
who Sergeant Curry is.”

Easy, Jodi, that's just Adele's way. Don't get jelly-knees over it.
“Well, Sergeant Curry told us that . . . that . . .”
Becky Wallace?
Bandana Woman?
“. . . uh, the woman who robbed us pled guilty, and she's already been sentenced to ten years at Lincoln Correctional Center.”

“What about my ring?”

“That's just it. Since there isn't going to be a trial, they're releasing our stolen jewelry. No evidence needed. You can pick it up at the Twenty-Fourth District Police Station on Clark—not too far from your shop.”

“So I gotta go pick it up?”

“That's what they said.”

“All right. Thanks, Jodi—”

“Wait. Adele, do you have another minute? I really need to talk to you about what happened the day you gave me the makeover for my anniversary.”

For a moment only silence answered me from the other end.

“Adele?”

I heard a sigh. I could well imagine Adele's large chest heaving in exasperation, and I was glad we weren't actually face to face. “Just a minute” was all she said, then her voice moved away from the phone yelling, “Corey! Can you keep an eye on the desk? An' answer the phone if it rings—line two. My four-thirty's late. If she comes in, tell her to wait.”

I couldn't hear what Corey said in reply, but it must have been in the affirmative, because I could hear Adele walking—a soft
shush, shush, shush
—then a door closed.

“All right. You wanna talk.”

Ohmigosh.
My mind was suddenly blank. Where should I start? “Yes. Uh . . . first of all, how is MaDear?”

Another big Adele sigh. “She's hangin'. Has some good days an' some bad days. Nights are worst. Nightmares, screaming . . .”

“Oh, Adele.” My heart sank. “I'm so sorry.” I paused, but Adele didn't offer any more. “Avis told us why MaDear screamed at Denny that day—I mean, who she thought he was . . . and what happened when she was a girl.”

Silence.

“Adele, Denny and I had no idea she had suffered such a terrible tragedy. I wish there was a way we could communicate to her how sorry we are.”

“Wouldn't help. Would just set her off. Just . . . leave it be.”

I tried to gather my courage. “That's hard,Adele. It really hurts Denny to think your mother thinks
he's
the guy who . . . who murdered her brother. That's like . . . like a false accusation!”

“Look.” I heard Adele suck in her breath, and her tone got hard. “Don't go telling
me
MaDear's making a ‘false accusation.' She's got dementia or Alzheimer's—whatever. Don't take it personal, but as long as she thinks that way, do me a favor and just stay out of her life, okay?”

I winced. Adele's words were hard, unsympathetic. But I pushed on. “Okay, but why are you staying out of our life?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“You know. Not returning our phone calls, staying away from Yada Yada. I feel like you're blaming us for something we didn't do.” There. It was out. I held my breath.

The silence was long and heavy on the other end. Finally Adele spoke, her words measured and tight. “Look. Right now, I can't really be worried about how you and Denny are feeling. What happened that day . . .
get over it.
It's not a big deal for you; just a misunderstanding by a senile old lady. But it is a big deal for me. It is a big deal for my mother, who wakes up at night terrified, and it's two, sometimes three hours before I can get her back to sleep.”

I heard the front door slam. Usually Amanda called out,
“I'm
home!”
but all I heard was something being dumped on the floor— backpack, probably—and footsteps stalking down the hall. I caught a glimpse of my daughter as she stomped past the dining room doorway and into the bathroom. Another slammed door.