2-in-1 Yada Yada (62 page)

Somebody named Becky Wallace stared back at us from the screen, a front and side view. All her vitals were listed—weight, height, race . . . I squinted at the tiny print: “Race:White.”
Huh.
Guess I was wrong about
that.
Under sentencing information, it read: “Armed robbery. Sentence: ten years. Projected parole date: 2006.”

Amanda let out a breath. “Wow. That's her? She looks different.”

She did look different without the wraparound sunglasses and bandana. An actual face looked back at me—short dark hair, dark eyes—but it was the same woman, all right. Her mouth was hard, and I could almost hear the obscenities she'd spewed around our house that night, like a sewer that had backed up and overflowed.

I grabbed a notepad and wrote down her ID number and the address to send inmate mail. “Thanks, Amanda.” I glanced at the clock. Denny and Josh would be home soon—better get supper going. It was Bible study night at Uptown, but I was going to make a case for staying home, since we had to get the house ready for my parents' arrival the next day. I'd write the letter later.

DENNY DISAPPEARED AFTER SUPPER, saying he had to run an errand. I washed towels and sheets so I'd be sure to have clean linens for my parents, hid the two bottles of wine—one half-empty— that we had sitting on top of the refrigerator, and gave Amanda and Josh a choice: run the vacuum, sweep the hallway and dining room, or clean the bathroom.

They chose vacuuming and sweeping, so I ended up scrubbing the tub. Rats.

Lathering hand cream on my water-wrinkled fingers after finishing the bathroom, I sat down at the computer and started drafting a letter to the woman who had robbed us—and immediately ran into problems. How did I address her? “Dear Ms. Wallace? Dear Becky?” One sounded too respectful for the likes of B. W., and the other sounded too friendly. So I finally settled on “Dear Becky Wallace.”

No sooner had I stated the purpose of my letter and wrote the names of the two women who wanted to visit her than I realized we had another big problem. Neither Florida nor Yo-Yo had a car. How in the world were they supposed to get to Lincoln, which was at least two to three hours away by car?

The back screen door banged, and in a second or two I smelled Denny's aftershave and felt his lips on the back of my neck. “Whatcha doing?” He leaned over my shoulder. “What's this? A letter to
Becky Wallace?”
He pulled over a dining-room chair.

I told him what Yada Yada had talked about at Ruth's house— a little detail that had gotten lost in the revelation that Amanda had lied to us and gone to the Mexican parade with José—and how Avis suggested testing the waters to see if she would respond. “But if—big
if
—she says okay, how in the world would they get down there?”

Denny was quiet a long time. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his clasped hands—like he did after the Rosh Hashanah service. Finally he leaned back. “I'll drive them.”

“Really?” His offer surprised me. I had to be careful about Yada Yada making decisions that implicated him. He was already borderline resentful of our twice-monthly meetings, the extra phone calls, the church visits. “You don't have to make this your problem, Denny.”

He snorted. “Becky Wallace robbed
my
house, frightened
my
family, terrorized
our
guests, and pointed her butcher knife at
me.
I'd say it's already my problem.”

I swatted him on the shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

The smile vanished. “If anybody's going to go, maybe it should be you and me, Jodi. After all, she did barge into our house, and I was the one who wrestled her to the floor. We've got a lot of feelings too. Maybe it would be good to face her. Maybe it would be good for her to face
us.”

I rolled my eyes. “She's
not
going to put us on her visitors' list.”

But in the end, I typed all four names into the letter: Florida Hickman . . . Yolanda Spencer . . . Denny and Jodi Baxter.

25

E
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
! I bolted upright in the bed. What was that? . . . The fire alarm! Throwing off the quilt, I vaulted out of bed as quickly as my morning-stiff leg would allow and grabbed for my robe in the dark. Just as I stuck my arm in the sleeve, the obnoxious racket stopped as abruptly as it had started, and two seconds later Denny poked his head into the bedroom door.

“Sorry. It backfired on me.”

By this time I was totally awake and robed. “What backfired on you?” I followed him out into the hall, where a bleary-eyed, bald-headed Josh was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, looking totally confused. A plaintive wail rose from Amanda's bedroom: “Da-ad! Is there a fire? Or can I go back to sleep?”

“Sleep!” Denny called. “For fifteen more minutes!”

Josh sighed and disappeared behind his own door.

I stopped at the archway to the dining room where shadows and glowing lights danced all over the walls. Whichever way I looked, candles in all shapes and sizes flickered warmly in the dining room . . . kitchen . . . living room . . . even the bathroom.

Denny stood in the middle of the dining room in his T-shirt and sweat shorts, holding the dismantled fire alarm. A sheep couldn't have looked more sheepish. “Uh, sorry, babe. I wanted to start off your birthday special—didn't know all these candles would set off the alarm.”

I started to laugh. “Oh, this is
special,
all right. I'll never forget it—and I'm never going to let
you
forget it either!” I headed for the candlelit living room. “You can make it up to me by bringing me a
big
mug of coffee, because I am going to sit in the recliner and reign like a queen for at least fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, well,” he called after me, “if you're going to be queen, you better check your royal robe—you've got it on inside out!”

BIRTHDAY OR NO BIRTHDAY, we all had to be at school at our regular time. With just minutes to catch the city bus to Lane Tech, Amanda was fishing in the desk drawer in the dining room.“Mom! Don't we have any more stamps? I need a stamp!”

I couldn't remember the last time Amanda actually wrote a letter. “I think so—somewhere in there. Do you need it now?”

“Yes, I need it
now!
. . . Never mind. I found one.” Her tone by now was decidedly cranky, and she slammed the front door behind her.

Who was Amanda writing to? We'd said no phone calls; we didn't think about letters. Couldn't be any of her friends at school—she saw them during the day.

I sighed.
Probably José.

I tried not to let Amanda's surly mood and my parents' impending arrival distract me from my lesson plans for that day, but I wished I felt better prepared emotionally. How would Dad react to Josh's light-bulb head? Mom would silently disapprove, but Dad would definitely say something.
I should have warned
them,
I scolded myself, as I set up a balance scale for today's lesson on “Find the missing addend.”
Given them some time to get used to
the idea.
After all, it had taken me awhile to get used to it—no, take that back. I
wasn't
used to it, didn't like it, and would be very glad when he let it grow back in again. Or at least shaved off that orange topknot!

My students had fun with the balance scale. I wrote “2 + ? = 5” on the chalkboard and let “helpers” place two counters on one side of the scale and five on the other. I explained that they had to place the correct number of missing counters on the “addend” side of the scale in order to make it balance with the “sum.”

Kaya carefully added one at a time to the two already on the scale—one . . . two . . . three—and beamed happily as the scale balanced with the sum of five. I wrote a second problem on the board: “5 + ? = 7.” Cornell dumped a whole handful of counters on the addend side and took some off one by one till it balanced with the other side—but then he didn't know how many he had “added.”Well, try again. “Who'd like to be next?”

Hakim's hand shot up. “Me! Let me do it, Miz B.”

I was so surprised, I ignored his calling me ‘Miz B.' Hakim's math papers so far had been pathetic. Trying to act matter-of-fact, I wrote another problem on the board: “3 + ? = 10,” and put the known number of counters on both sides of the scale. Frowning, Hakim studied the scales a moment, then picked up seven counters and piled them next to the three already on the scale. When the scale balanced with the ten, a wide smile broke his face.

“Hakim, how did you know how many counters to put on the scale?”

He looked at me scornfully. “See those three there? An' ten there? Just counted backwards three times—ten, nine, eight.

Seven to go. Didn't you know that?”

Christy and I both rewarded him with big grins. “I did indeed, Hakim. But you are smart to figure out that you have to
subtract
to find the missing addend. Why don't you show the rest of the class how it's done?” I put two more problems on the board then wrote them again as subtraction problems to get the same answer after Hakim figured out the missing addends in his head and balanced the scale both times. Now more hands shot up wanting to find the missing addend “in my head.”

I was so elated by Hakim's participation and success that I was still grinning inside when the dismissal bell rang. Gathering up my stuff quickly, I determined to get home before my parents arrived who-knew-when. But as I made a beeline for the front doors of the school, the school secretary stepped into the hall and waved me down. “Ms. Baxter? Ms. Johnson wants to see you for a minute.”

For a second I felt like a kid being called to the principal's office. What had I done now?
Don't be stupid, Jodi. This is Avis,
remember?

As I peeked into her inner office, Avis Johnson was on the phone, but she waved me in, motioning for me to shut the door.

Shut the door? Maybe it was something serious.

Avis hung up the phone and smiled. “Hi, Jodi. How was your day?”

I relaxed. Couldn't be too serious if we were doing first names. “Good. Real good.”
Should I tell her about Hakim's little breakthrough?
I decided not—at least until I found out what this meeting was about.

“Wonderful.” Avis opened one of her desk drawers, pulled out a glittery gold gift bag with tissue paper and an envelope sticking out of the top, and handed it to me with a smile. “Happy birthday.” “Oh, Avis!” I was so startled I just stood there like a carved duck. “You didn't need to—”

“Jodi.” Avis leveled her eyes at me. “Just take it. And enjoy!”

I dropped my tote bags on the floor. “Thanks,Avis. Can I open it now?” This was too much—a birthday gift from my principal! I opened the card first. A Mahogany card about “A friend who is like a sister to me . . .” I could hardly speak. I took out a small square box from the bag and opened it: a scented candle. Green apple.

That made me laugh. “Oh, Avis, if you only knew! I gotta tell you how my day started this morning!”

BEFORE I LEFT THE SCHOOL OFFICE, I remembered to ask Avis if she got the copy of the “Becky Wallace letter” I'd sent to her by e-mail attachment last night. I'd also sent copies to Ruth (for Yo-Yo) and Florida. “Any feedback?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I noticed you added yours and Denny's names to the visitors' list. That's good. I stand in agreement with you. Now . . . we pray.”

Well, yes,
I thought a few minutes later, walking fast to make up for lost time.
But am I praying that B. W.
will
or
won't
put us on her
visitors' list?
After one block at a good clip, I realized I better slow down to a steady pace so I'd make it still in one piece. Didn't want to have a relapse the minute my parents walked in.

A familiar light-blue Buick sedan was double-parked in front of our house, the trunk lid up.
Help! How long had they been waiting?
“Mom! Dad! Here I am!” I hustled the last half-block as my father, still wearing the old tweedy English driving cap he'd had for years, threaded his way between two parked cars and set suitcases on the sidewalk.

Sidney Jennings was not a large man—maybe five-ten, thin, almost wiry, a testament to his farm heritage. He straightened, a wide smile creasing his face as I dropped my tote bags on the walk by the suitcases.

“Here's the birthday girl!” My father held his arms wide and enveloped me in a bear hug. Old Spice aftershave tickled my nose. “How's that for timing?” he said, letting me go. “We just drove up. Couldn't find a parking place, though. Clara? Clara! Come on, get out of the car. Jodi's here now.”

I hustled up the porch steps to unlock the front door as my dad helped my mother out of the car. My left leg and abdomen were aching from my effort to get home quickly, but their backs were turned so they probably didn't notice as I pulled myself up the steps by the railing. By the time I got the door open and had dumped my bags on the floor of the entryway, my mom—hair graying, no makeup, but cheeks pink and eyes twinkling—was coming in the door.
Oh Jesus, I am glad to see her,
I thought, giving her a big squeeze. I looked over her shoulder and yelled, “Dad! Drive around to the alley. I'll open the garage so you can park there!”

By the time I got my parents and their bags settled in our bedroom— no way would it work to put them on the foldout in the living room since they usually went to bed at nine—Amanda had come in from school, forgetting her poor-me pout long enough to give her grandparents a big squeal of welcome. Both kids had had to downsize to small bedrooms and single beds when we moved from Downers Grove, but at least they didn't have to give up their rooms now when the grandparents came. That fell to Denny and me—a fact that Denny grumbled about last night, but he finally agreed it was the only thing we could do under the circumstances.