Stand by Me (4 page)

“How sweet. She remembered our anniversary!” The front of the card was a pen-and-ink drawing representing an African man and woman in traditional dress dancing in each other's arms as a circle of angels surrounded them. The clothes of the man, woman, and angels were overlaid with a bright wash of red, yellow, and green. “
Mm
, it's beautiful.”

“Let me see it.” Peter reached for the card. A folded note fell out as he opened the card and read the inside aloud. “ ‘Angels celebrate your everlasting love . . . Happy Anniversary.' And it's signed Nonyameko and Mark.”

He handed the folded note to Avis. “It's probably for you—Oh, look at this.” He turned the card to the back and showed it to her. In tiny script it said, “An original watercolor by the Women's AIDS Initiative.” “Isn't the Women's AIDS Initiative the program that Nony started?”

“
Mm-hm
. She's trying to help single and widowed women start small businesses so they don't have to turn to sex to support themselves. Also to help women with AIDS, since many times the man abandons them, not wanting to take responsibility.” Avis looked at the card again. “These cards must be one of their enterprises.”

Nonyameko
. . . A wave of homesickness for her South African friend washed over Avis. Married to Mark Smith, an African-American professor of history at Northwestern University, Nony had been one of her Yada Yada Prayer Group sisters for several years. But the prayer group all knew Nony's heart burned with a desire to help her South African sisters who were suffering from AIDS in devastating numbers.

Nony was the one who took it personally when Rochelle was diagnosed with HIV, as if she were her own daughter. That, maybe more than anything, had fanned Nony's passion to
do
something
for women like Rochelle back in her home country. Except . . . Mark had been on track for tenure at the university and balked at moving the family halfway across the world.

Avis shuddered as memories flooded into her mind. The senseless attack on Mark by a white supremacist group he'd routed from the campus . . . months of rehabilitation for the brain injury that took the sight from one eye and left his speech and day-to-day functioning impaired, even though slowly improving . . . the need to take an indefinite sabbatical from teaching—

“More coffee, ma'am?”

Avis's eyes flew open to see their server poised over her cup with a fresh pot of coffee. She nodded, even as her thoughts tumbled backward. “Only God could take that tragedy and turn it into something good,” she murmured as the server left.

“Tragedy?”

She smiled at her husband's puzzled look. “Just thinking about Nony and Mark. How Mark's injury finally opened the door for Nony to follow her dream.” She waved the hand-painted card. “And now look.”

Peter grimaced. “Yeah, well, I hope we don't have to suffer a tragedy like that to shake
us
out of our ruts . . . Hey, what's her letter say? If it's not private, read it to me.”

Avis unfolded the note. “It's to both of us. ‘Dear Avis and Peter . . . Many blessings on your anniversary. I wish Mark and I could be with you to celebrate. But maybe we can take a rain check—' ” Avis glanced up. “Maybe they're planning to come back for a visit!”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe so. Go on, read.”

She searched for her place. “All right . . . ‘Mark and I would like to talk to the two of you about something. As you can see from the card, we have been able to start a few small businesses with some talented girls—greeting cards, rug and basket weaving—but to be honest, we need advice and practical help from someone more experienced in business than we are. We are wondering if the two of you would consider coming to South Africa for an extended visit. Whatever time you could spend would be a gift—three months? Six months? A year would be even better—' ”

Avis heard a gasp and looked up. Peter's eyes had widened, and they seemed to dance in his face. “I can't believe this!” he said. “That's it, honey! We were just talking about doing something new, something different. And here's Nony, out of the blue, dropping an opportunity into our laps.”

“No,
you've
been talking about doing something new and different, not me.”

But his eyes had strayed to the expansive view out the large windows, as if he hadn't heard, fingers absently drumming on the tablecloth. “I'd love to do something like that—a trip with a purpose. I could help Nony and Mark draw up some basic business plans that could apply to a number of small businesses. Marketing—that's the key . . .”

Avis felt her head whirling. Peter was jumping on this too fast. Yes, she'd just teased about taking a trip to South Africa—but for three months? Or six? No, no . . . maybe a two-week visit in the summer.

She skimmed the rest of the letter.
We could also use your
teaching skills, Avis. Many of our girls need help with basic education—
math, language, typing, even health and hygiene. We'd love to arrange
for some classes but need a teacher. You—

“So what else did she say?” Peter's attention had turned back to her.

Avis kept her eyes on the sheet of paper, not wanting to look at her husband. She licked her lips and read the last paragraph. “ ‘The boys are growing like weeds and doing well in school. Marcus is trying to decide where to go to university next term. Praise God Michael won't leave home for a few years yet! Both boys love playing soccer—' ”

For some reason Avis's eyes teared up. She didn't resist when Peter gently took the letter to read the rest for himself. “
Hm
. See you skipped over the part where you fit into this proposal,” he said. She could feel his eyes on her as she fished in her purse for a tissue and blew her nose. Silence hung between them as she picked up her coffee—now lukewarm—and sipped it.

“Tell me what you're thinking, honey. To me, this practically feels like a word from the Lord. We were just talking about planning ahead, doing something new—and now this!” Avis could still hear the excitement bubbling in his voice.

She had to slow this train down fast. “Peter, I know. But it's not that easy to just pick up and go to South Africa for . . . what did she say? An
extended
visit? It's . . . it's not just our jobs, though in this economy you don't just throw out a good job and think you can get another”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that.”

He said nothing. She played with the cloth napkin in her lap. “It's . . . it's also other responsibilities. Family, and . . . and—”

“Family? We've got an empty nest, girl!”

Now her eyes did lock on his. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Just because
you
don't have any children, Peter Douglass, doesn't mean we don't have family responsibilities. I'm . . . worried about Rochelle. And Conny. We haven't heard from her in over two months.
Almost three months!
She—”

“Rochelle.” He practically spit out the name. “I knew it. She's got you just where she wants you, Avis, worried sick. Don't you get it? She's just mad because we didn't bail her out the last time she mismanaged her money, and she's making us pay. It's nothing but a tantrum, I guarantee it.”

Avis shook her head. “Maybe. Maybe not. But . . . I can't just leave the country for months, not knowing if my grandbaby is all right. Or Rochelle either.”

“So.” Peter's voice was tight. “Just how long are we going to let Rochelle dictate what we do with our lives? Tell me, Avis. How long?”

Chapter 3

T
he 92 Foster Avenue bus pulled to the curb as the automated female voice chirped to life. “Magnolia. This is Magnolia. Next stop, Broadway. Transfer at Broadway for the Red Line.”

“That'll be us, guys.” Kat Davies slipped her backpack over one shoulder and stood up, grabbing for the nearest pole as the bus lurched forward once more. Her companions—two other young women and one guy—also vacated their seats and made their way to the back door of the bus as it headed toward the next intersection.

“Twenty-two stops,” muttered one of the girls, bumping up behind Kat. “Can't believe this bus stopped
twenty-two times
before we got to our stop. Isn't there a faster way to get to this church you like so well?”

Kat laughed. “Can't believe you bothered to count every single stop. It'll be worth it, I promise.” Pixie-haired Brygitta Walczak was her roommate at Crista University. Both were graduate students, Kat completing her master's degree in education, Brygitta in Christian ed.

At the next stop the doors wheezed open and Kat and Brygitta hustled down the steps. Behind her Kat heard the other girl ask one of the passengers, “How do we transfer to the El from here?”

“Livie! I
know
how to get to the El! Come on!” Kat wagged her head as the other two CCU students—Olivia Lindberg, a sociology major, and Nick Taylor, a seminary student—joined her and Brygitta on the sidewalk. It was
so
tempting to stick Livie into a “dumb blonde” pigeonhole sometimes, the way she kept asking obvious questions. Livie was an undergrad, three years younger than the graduate students, but the four had ended up in CCU's Urban Experience program and developed a Four Musketeers mentality on their assigned excursions into Chicago. “All for one and one for all!” they joked, though Kat suspected it covered up some mutual insecurity as they navigated unfamiliar “urban experiences,” such as the Manna House Women's Shelter in Uptown and what was left of the notorious Cabrini Green public housing site. Manna House had been pretty cool—but Cabrini Green . . . Kat shuddered every time she thought about it. She couldn't imagine living there, ever. Yet at one time fifteen thousand of Chicago's poor had been crammed into the string of crime-ridden high-rises.

But the Urban Experience advisor had also given participants a list of urban churches to visit, at least three by the end of the school year. Definitely more inspiring. Stuck at the university during spring break, Kat and Nick had visited SouledOut Community Church in Rogers Park, Chicago's northernmost neighborhood along Lake Michigan, and they'd insisted that Brygitta and Olivia come with them for a second visit. “It's definitely cool! Like no church you've ever attended before,” Kat enthused.

Her roommate had been dubious. “But are they, like, you know, evangelical?”

“They're
Christian
, Brygitta. Doesn't the name ‘SouledOut' say anything to you? Just . . . come and see for yourself.”

“Will we be the only white people?” Olivia had wanted to know.

“I told you, Livie. It's multicultural. Black
and
white, and a few other somethings too. You'll be fine.”

At least Kat hoped Livie would be fine. The sociology major was trying hard to adjust to the big city, but it was obvious she hadn't strayed far from her small-town Minnesota roots before. Kat had to give the girl credit for signing up for the Urban Experience program at CCU. But there were times she wanted to smack her.

Like now. They were halfway across the intersection when Kat realized Olivia was still standing back on the curb. “Livie, come on! We gotta cross here!”

“But the Wait light is blinking!”

Arrgh
. Kat ran back, grabbed Olivia's hand, and pulled her across Foster Avenue just before traffic got the green light, then flounced ahead to walk with Nick.

“Livie's just nervous in the city,” Nick murmured in Kat's ear. “Go easy on her . . . Hey, your hair smells nice. What is that—coconut?”

Kat gave him the eye. Nick was a tease—okay, a borderline flirt—but it was just play between friends. She hoped. Nick wanted to be a
pastor
, of all things. No way did she want to end up a pastor's wife. But . . . his compliment tipped the corners of her mouth. Her dark curly hair, thick and long, was her best feature. That, and her ice-blue eyes. It was nice of His Maleness to notice.

“Hey, guys, wait a sec!” Brygitta's voice turned them around. She and Olivia were looking up and down the street they'd just crossed. “Isn't there a grocery store somewhere near here? I didn't get any breakfast and I'm going to be famished if I have to wait clear till church is over.”

Kat glanced impatiently at her watch. She'd
told
her roomie to eat something before they left. They had a whole stash of energy bars in their room. But . . . it was only eight thirty. SouledOut's service didn't start until nine thirty. She looked at Nick and he shrugged. “Okay. Guess we have time. I think there's a Dominick's a few streets over. Saw it from the El last time. It's only a few blocks out of our way.”

The foursome changed course and walked east on Foster Avenue. Sure enough, the big chain grocery took up an entire block along Sheridan Road. As they wandered through the produce section, Kat noticed a couple of the employees loading up boxes on a cart with lettuce, broccoli, and other vegetables—taking them out of the cases where they'd been displayed and wheeling them through a pair of swinging doors into the back rooms. Curious, Kat followed, peeking through the plastic windows in the doors and watching as the carts were wheeled through another set of doors leading outside.