2-in-1 Yada Yada (63 page)

Amanda gave my parents a quick tour of our first-floor apartment in the two-flat, including a peek at our postage-stamp backyard and a trip to the basement, while I filled the teakettle and hunted for cookies. I could hear their voices in Amanda's room. “Painted it myself,” Amanda bragged.

Oh, right. With a little help.
I finally found the package of lemon crèmes, my dad's favorites.

“That yellow paint sure brightens up this small room.” My mom's voice had that find-something-nice-to-comment-on quality that irritated me, because it barely masked a veiled comment.
Small room.

The tour over, they came back to the dining room. “Now don't go fixing your own birthday supper,” my dad chided as I poured hot tea and passed the plate of cookies. “We're taking you out.” He chucked Amanda under the chin. “Oh, all right; I guess we'll take you, too, princess.”

My father may be the only person alive who could treat Amanda like a little girl and get away with it. But going out was fine with me. I'd be thrilled not to cook my own birthday supper.

I knew Josh had a soccer game and wouldn't drag in till close to seven. As we chatted over our tea at the dining-room table, my mother suddenly peered at me closely as if she had x-ray vision. “Are you all right, Jodi? After the accident, I mean.”

“Of course she's all right!” My dad waved a lemon crème in my direction. “She looks great!”

Thanks, Dad. I really can talk for myself.

He leaned toward me and talked behind his hand, pretending my mom couldn't hear. “Your mother simply can't forgive herself for not being here for you, Jodi. I told her you'd mend better without us.”

What did he mean? Because Mom had been sick herself? Or did he suspect I hadn't wanted them around? “Oh, Mom. I know you wanted to come, but you just couldn't.”
Much to my relief at the
time,
but I didn't say it. “Please don't worry about it. In fact, I could ask you the same thing: how are
you
doing since that terrible bronchitis?”

My dad butted in with a rundown of my mother's illness that had kept them in Des Moines last June. I only half-listened, annoyed at his habit of answering for others. I was concerned about my mom. She looked . . . older. More frail than I remembered. What was she: seventy-one? seventy-two? Not very old. It occurred to me that my parents would not be around forever.

I suddenly felt incredibly selfish. We needed to make sure we saw them more regularly. Des Moines wasn't
that
far. Maybe we could go visit them for Thanksgiving or during the Christmas break.

I glanced at the clock: 6:45. Denny and Josh ought to straggle in any minute. Amanda was in the middle of telling her grandparents about the Uptown youth group's mission trip to Mexico, when I saw my mom glance at something behind me, eyes widening; her hand went to her mouth. I turned to see Josh in the kitchen doorway, school backpack slung over one shoulder, his sport bag over the other.

Rats. I totally forgot to warn my parents about Josh's bald head.

26

F
rankly, I told Denny later, it went better than I expected. “Hi, Gramps!” Josh had said with a wave. “Hi, Gram.” He went to his grandmother and gave her an awkward hug from his six-feet-on-the-hoof down to her five-four perched on one of the dining-room chairs.

“Your . . . head!” my mother said, blinking rapidly. Couldn't blame her; I'd had exactly the same reaction.

“Oh, that.” Josh casually ran his hand over his smooth dome. “Just trying to imitate Gramps here.” He leaned over and patted my dad's rapidly receding hairline.

My dad frowned, eyeing the orange tuft on the back of Josh's head. “At least the hair I've got is a natural color,” he growled.

“Hey. Had to be sure people could tell us apart.” Josh grinned.

Oh, Josh, you're good,
I thought.

My son looked around at the tea things and lack of supper activity in the kitchen. “Isn't it Mom's birthday tonight? What's happening?”

At least he remembered. I told him Gramps was taking us out and we better get ready so we could leave when Dad got home with the minivan. With only one bathroom, it took a bit of shuffling for everybody to “use the facilities,” as my mother insisted on calling it, but we were more or less ready when Denny came in the front door. “There's a monster in the garage with Iowa plates!” he said in mock horror. “Flee! Flee!”

“Oh, Daddy.” Amanda rolled her eyes. My father guffawed. He liked Denny's sense of humor, even if he was slightly suspicious of his son-in-law's New York, mainline-church upbringing. I caught my husband's eye as he hugged my parents, hoping he could read my mind:
Garage okay?
We hadn't talked about it, but I didn't want to risk parking my parents' car out on the street, even if it had been bought several years ago—“in the last century,” Josh liked to point out.

Denny went back out to retrieve the Dodge Caravan, which he'd had to park in the next block, and we all piled in for the short trip to Bakers Square, Rogers Park's best bet for decent Americana food, really good pie, and a tab that would be easy on my dad's wallet. Over thick burgers dripping with avocado, bacon, and sprouts ( Josh, Amanda, and me), honey-mustard chicken with rice pilaf (Denny and Dad), and a grilled chicken salad (Mom), our conversation bounced from the Chicago Bears' poor start—
again
—to Hakim popping out of his shell long enough to show the third-grade class how to “subtract in your head,” to Josh's soccer game tomorrow night. “Wanna come, Gramps?”

My dad seemed pleased. He turned to Amanda. “What about you, princess? You want to keep Gramps company at your brother's game?”

Uh-oh.
We hadn't talked about how to handle Amanda's grounding while her grandparents were visiting. “Sure!” Amanda smiled sweetly at her grandfather, ignoring the warning look I sent her. I kicked Denny under the corner booth that accommodated the six of us, but he just gave a short nod that meant,
“Later.”

We were all too full to eat dessert right away, so we bought a triple-berry pie to take home. As we climbed into the minivan, I noticed that my dad had cornered Josh out of earshot in the parking lot.
Hmm. What's that about?

Back home, Denny made decaf coffee and warmed up the pie while I opened presents: large wind chimes from my parents that looked like organ pipes, a pair of silver drop earrings from Josh and Amanda, and a slinky black dress from Denny.

“Try it on,Mom,” Josh urged. Denny just grinned.

I hustled into the bedroom and slid on the dress.
Mmm,
yummy.
I gave a quick brush through my hair, which was back to its old basic style, stuck my bare feet into a pair of low heels— I could stand it for a minute—and sashayed out into the dining room.

Denny whistled. My dad clapped. Mom smiled sweetly. Who knew what she
really
thought? But I didn't care. Even the kids nodded approval. “Next time we go somewhere fancy,” Denny said, “you won't have to borrow a dress.”

“So there's going to be a next time?” I fluttered my eyelashes shamelessly.

“Well, yeah. Our fiftieth anniversary is coming up in another thirty years.”

My father thought that was knee-slapping funny. Then he stood up abruptly. “Well, it's off to bed for us. Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He gave me a peck on the cheek. “Come along, Clara.”

My mother obediently got up and trailed Dad toward our bedroom. I dashed ahead of them to grab the clothes I'd just taken off and a few other necessities we'd forgotten. The door shut behind me.

Well, one day down; three to go.

I made up the foldout in the living room while Denny cleaned the dessert dishes. On my way to the bathroom, I knocked quietly on Josh's bedroom door. “Yeah?” came the muffled reply. I poked my head in. Josh was sprawled on his bed doing homework, earphones to his CD player cradling his ears.

I shut the door behind me. “Just curious. What were you and Grandpa talking about in the parking lot at Bakers Square—or dare I ask?”

Josh slid off the earphones. “He wanted to know why I left the little tuft of hair when I shaved my head. Said it made me look like somebody into Eastern religion.”

Humph. I'd wanted to say that very thing to Josh myself.

“Told him I
wasn't
into Eastern religion, and Jesus said people shouldn't judge other people based on how they look, and that oughta include hair.”

Okay. Josh had a good point. Brave of him to challenge my dad. “What'd he say to that?”

“He agreed, sorta, but he said how people dress is often a statement of who they identify with. Asked me to think about it.”

“What'd you say?”

Josh shrugged again. “Said I'd think about it.” He put the earphones on again. Conversation over.

ON FRIDAY, my parents decided to visit the Museum of Science and Industry since the rest of us would be at school all day. If they got back by three o'clock, I hinted, they could stop at Bethune Elementary to see my classroom. “You'll miss rush-hour traffic that way,” I added.

Sure enough, I saw my dad peeking in the window of my classroom door just as the dismissal bell rang. Hoping they wouldn't get run down by the herd of eight-year-olds stampeding for their hard-earned weekend, I called them in, introduced them to my student teacher, and showed them around the now-empty classroom.

My dad stopped by the stove-size, foil-covered box I used as a lost-and-found. “What's a ‘Darn Lucky Box'?” I explained that if kids left their things lying around, into the box they went, and the kids were “darn lucky” to get them back—
if
they paid a twenty-five-cents fine.

My mother frowned. “But did you have to say ‘darn'?”

I decided to let that one go and hustled them out of the classroom. “Someone I want you to meet.” I hoped Avis was still in her office.

She was. I ushered my parents in and closed the door. “Ms. Johnson, these are my parents, Sid and Clara Jennings. Mom and Dad, this is the principal of our school—Avis Johnson.”

Avis, as usual, made a good first impression: professional and attractive. She shook my parents' hands warmly. “Jodi is a great addition to our staff,” she said graciously. My parents beamed.

“Avis is also the worship leader at our church, and we're in the same prayer group.”

My parents hardly knew what to say to that. I'm sure it wasn't what they expected of a public-school principal. Or maybe they were surprised that an African-American was the worship leader at their daughter's church. Or was it that she was a
woman
leading worship? I couldn't tell.

My dad recovered first. “Well. I am so glad to see that God is still allowed in the public school. Praise the Lord!”

Yikes.
Had my dad's voice carried to the outer office?

A smile tickled the corners of Avis's mouth. “Praise the Lord, indeed,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Though we aren't supposed to shout about it in a public school.”

“Nice lady,” my dad commented as we walked toward their Buick in the school parking lot. At least I got a ride home.

Amanda was grumpy that she had to come all the way home from school if we were just going back to watch the Lane Tech soccer team play Wheaton North at five o'clock. Pulling her out of earshot of my parents, I told her she was welcome to stay home with her grandmother, who was tired out from walking around the museum and electing to stay home and rest. Or she could quit grumbling and count her blessings that we were letting her out of the house to go to Josh's game. She heaved a persecuted sigh and followed my father and me to the garage.

Once at the game, however, she forgot she was sulking and yelled, screamed, jumped up and down, and otherwise cheered the Lane Tech Indians, even though they trailed behind all the way and lost to Wheaton North's Falcons. She also managed to talk to a lot of school friends who came by, I noticed.
Oh well.
At least she stayed in our general vicinity.

After the game, Josh clomped over to us in his soccer cleats and muddy green-and-gold uniform. “You
don't
want to hug me!” he warned, but he seemed pleased that the three of us had come to the game in spite of the loss. By the time we waited around for Josh to change, I knew supper was going to be very late. At least I'd remembered to bring the cell.

I got Denny on the third ring. “Just got home myself,” he said. “Don't worry about it, Jodi. I'll order a couple of pizzas.”

After polishing off two medium pan pizzas from Gulliver's, we played table games—well, not Josh. He excused himself to go play pool at a friend's house. Amanda went head to head with her grandmother for the highest Scrabble score. My mom won by two points—a feat that put pink splotches of pleasure into her cheeks.

Later, after my parents had gone to bed, Denny and I lay on the foldout watching the news. “Kinda nice that Amanda's grounded,” I murmured during a commercial. “She's hanging around her grandparents more than she would normally.”

“Shh. I wanna hear this.” Denny turned up the volume as the news came back on.

I pulled the blanket over my head. Two days down; two to go.

Even though it was Saturday morning and I could sleep a little longer, I woke up at the usual time.
Ah, a few moments to myself.
I let Willie Wonka out into the backyard, started a pot of coffee, and booted up the computer. Hadn't checked e-mail for a couple of days. Hadn't thought much about the Becky Wallace letter either. Still time to chicken out.

But there were e-mails from both Florida and Ruth with “Re: Letter to Becky Wallace” in the subject lines.

“You write a good letter, girl!” wrote Florida. “See? I knew you were the one. Glad you and Denny deciding to come too.”