The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (11 page)

She leaned her elbows on the desk and massaged her forehead with her fingers. “I don't know . . . Some things are just private.”

I thought about her last words as I trudged home through the snow, which was sticking to the sidewalks, trees, and rooftops like a thin layer of vanilla frosting.
Private?
What did she mean by that? True, Avis didn't talk about her personal business very easily. Yet she'd told us about the death of her husband from prostate cancer . . . and even the hilarious story about the scar from her lumpectomy looking like an old man with no teeth and a protruding red nose.We'd all howled till we couldn't laugh anymore. It was
so
unlike Avis to be telling jokes about breasts, but she'd been laughing too.

So what was so private about her cousin being in prison, even on death row? Yo-Yo had been in prison—for forgery, admittedly, nothing violent. Still . . .

And then it hit me like a snowball in the face.What was private wasn't the fact that her cousin was in prison.

Avis had doubts about God.

10

W
e didn't get that much snow after all, but at least it stuck to the ground, looking like a group of cosmic third graders had smeared the sidewalks, cars, and rooftops with a thin coat of white paste.
Knowing Chicago, we'll probably have the Big
Blizzard in March,
I thought, waiting for Willie Wonka to finish watering the snow in the backyard after I got home from school. Glancing up the outside stairs to the second-floor apartment, I saw several stacks of empty boxes on the landing.

The Bennetts are moving . . . Stu needs an apartment . . .

I sighed. I probably should run upstairs right now and ask if they'd found someone to sublet yet, but it wasn't like they'd asked
me
to look for a renter. In fact, it wasn't really my business to make sure they found some-one to sublet—not even my business to find Stu an apartment, was it?

You're stalling, Jodi Baxter. Just ask.

By that time,Willie Wonka was done with his business and waiting eagerly with his nose to the back door, begging to be let in. I shivered inside my thin sweater.
Better get my coat before I run upstairs.

No sooner had I dried off Willie's cold toes and grabbed my jacket, however, than the phone rang. I picked it up.

“Jodi? Delores. Got your message yesterday, but I had to work. Can you talk now?”

“Sure, Delores.” I tossed my jacket onto a dining room chair and wandered into the living room to sit in the recliner near the front windows. “Nobody's home from school yet—Amanda joined the Spanish club, and Josh has discovered the debate team. Don't really like them get-ting home after dark, but guess it'll work out as long as Josh can walk her home from the bus.”

“Spanish club?” I could hear the pleasure in Delores's voice. “
Muy bueno!
She'll be bilingual before you know it, Jodi. A lot of service jobs want someone who can also speak
español.
After all, Hispanics are the fastest growing minority in the—”

“Yes, I know.” I tried to focus on the reason I'd wanted Delores to call—and on my resolve to talk honestly about our concerns. “Delores, could we talk about José wanting to give Amanda a
quinceañera?
Denny and I have been thinking about it . . .”

“Oh,
sí! Sí!
He is so excited about it and has so many plans.”

I stifled a groan. This was not going to be easy.

“That's what I'm afraid of, Delores. He really needs to
not
make any plans until Denny and I can make a decision. That's why I need to talk to you.”

“Ah. Of course. I understand.Tell me what you need to know.”

I took a deep breath. “Well, I did read some stuff on the Internet about the background of the Mexican
quinceañera,
and all the traditional ways to celebrate a girl becoming a woman—but of course you know all that.”

Her laugh tinkled in my ear. “Oh,
sí.
My
quinceañera
. . .
so special!” And for the next few minutes, Delores chatted on and on about the fiesta her parents gave for her fifteenth birthday in Colima, Mexico. “Except my parents were Pentecostal, not Catholic, so we modified the religious service.”

“Really? I mean, you can do that?”

“Sure.” Delores chuckled. “Of course, the
abuelas y
tías
—grandmothers and aunties—rolled their eyes and beat their bosoms. ‘What? No mass? No veil?' For the old ones, it has to be ‘just so'—meaning just like their own
quinceañera.
They are . . . well, never mind.”

“What?”

“Nada, nada.
I mean, it's a long story. The tension between traditional Catholics and the ‘new Protestants' in Mexico has broken apart many families. I . . . my
abuela
hasn't spoken to me since I married Ricardo in a Protestant wedding.”

“But Ricardo . . . is he . . . I mean, he doesn't attend church with you at Iglesia.”

“He used to . . . but you know how it is. He had to drive the trucks on Sunday. Then José got shot, and Ricardo's angry at God. Then he lost his job . . .”

I'd only met Delores's husband one time; he was sit-ting like a bump on a log in José's hospital room last May, barely speaking. “Oh, Delores. I'm sorry.”

“Just keep praying for Ricardo, Jodi. Now, where were we—oh,
sí! La quinceañera
for Amanda. For you it should be easy! She is the first one in your family, so there are no traditions, no expectations you have to live up to.”

“Except José's,” I grumbled.

Delores laughed. “Oh, don't worry about José. He just wants to get a band together and play Latino music and dance with Amanda.”

“That's it? Play music and dance? What about—”

At the other end of the house, I heard the back door slam. “Mom! We're home! What're all the boxes doing on the back porch?”

“Aack! Delores, I can't talk now,” I hissed into the phone. “The kids just got home. I'll call you when the coast is clear, okay? I've got some more questions.”

I pressed the
off
button and hustled toward the back of the house. Maybe—just maybe—this
quinceañera
thing would be doable after all.

TO MY CREDIT, i did try a couple of times in the next few days to catch my upstairs neighbors at home to ask if they'd found a renter, but it was Friday evening before we actually connected. It was one of those nights the Baxter family galloped off in all directions: Denny had to coach back-to-back basketball games at West Rogers High; Josh picked up Yo-Yo's brothers and took them to the game on Denny's pass; and Amanda was babysitting for one of the Uptown families. That left Willie Wonka and me to fend for ourselves with a big bowl of popcorn and a video of
The African Queen.

Just as well.Whew! What a week. Avis and I barely saw each other at school except for a brief stop in the hall, when she told me she'd talked to the school social worker about some sessions with Hakim. “But we do need to get parental permission,” she'd warned. “So keep praying, Jodi.” So . . . I'd been praying. Praying for Avis too. About the pain she carried for her cousin in prison, for her private struggle with God. I wanted to tell other Yada Yada sisters to pray too—but I put a lid on it. Avis's struggle was hers to share . . . or not.

I'd eaten to the bottom of the popcorn bowl when I heard enormous thumping, like rugs had been rolled up and furniture was being moved across bare floors.
Yikes!
The Bennetts were moving out, and I hadn't asked if they'd found someone to sublet! “I really would like to know who's moving in,” I muttered to Willie as I put the video on
pause
, stuck my feet in a pair of scuffs, and grabbed my jacket from the coatrack. The dog followed me to the kitchen, his tail drooping like a limp noodle as I unlocked the back door. “Don't worry!” I said, bending down and giving him a smackeroo between his wrinkled brows. “Be back in less time than it takes for you to chew up a newspaper.”

I scuttled up the outside steps leading to the upstairs apartment and almost fell on my face on a treacherous icy patch. “Should have taken the front stairs,” I grumbled, pulling myself up gingerly by the handrail.When I got to the top, the kitchen curtains had been taken down and bright light spilled out onto the small porch. I rapped tentatively on the window in the door. Nothing. I rapped again, louder. Someone peered into the kitchen, dis-appeared, then what seemed like a full minute later, Rose Bennett appeared wearing old sweats and a bandana around her hair and unlocked the door. “Yes?”

I was sweating inside my jacket. Guess she wasn't going to invite me in. “Uh, hi, Rose. I heard you packing and, uh, wondered when you guys were actually leaving for Atlanta.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, no! Just didn't want you to leave without saying good-bye.” Well, that was kinda true. Even if we hadn't been cozy neighbors, we could at least have a decent farewell. “Did you find someone to sublet your apartment?”

“Huh! Unfortunately not. And the movers will be here Tuesday, and we're going to end up in Atlanta paying double rent till our lease runs out if we don't find
somebody
—Jesus
Christ!”

I cringed . . . but decided this wasn't the time to ask her not to vent on God's name.
At least she's not mad at me.

“I'm sorry, Rose. I was hoping that would work out for you.” Should I say,
“I know someone who needs an
apartment”
? But what if Stu had already found some-thing this week? Then Rose
would
be mad at me for get-ting her hopes up.

“Yeah, well, if you know anybody needing an apartment . . .” She closed the door.

Yeah, well . . .

I gingerly made my way back down the icy stairs and locked our back door behind me. Willie Wonka stood right where I'd left him, his tail waving big-time now. He followed close to my heels as I made myself a cup of mint tea and returned to my movie in the living room.

Somehow, Katharine Hepburn wading through the swamps pulling
The African Queen
while Humphrey Bogart smirked at her had lost some of its mesmerizing power.

Just call Stu and ask if she's found an apartment yet.

Sheesh! Pinocchio had nothing on
my
Jiminy Cricket.

So what if she hasn't?
I argued in my head.
Then I'll
have to tell her about the one upstairs! And, okay, I don't
want Leslie Stuart living next to me. Is that so bad? She'll
find something—this can't be the only sublet in Rogers Park!
And then we'll both be happy.

Willie Wonka nosed my hand. Why did the dog always sense when my hackles were up? “What do you think, Wonka? Why should I deliberately invite Stu to move in one short staircase from me? Look how she shot me down at Yada Yada last Sunday. And whenever I toss out an idea, Stu's always got a better one. Maybe she doesn't do it on purpose, but I end up feeling like two cents anyway. If she moves in here, she'll probably rearrange my kitchen, tell me how to teach third graders, and become ‘Cool Aunt Stu' to my kids, in whose eyes I'm slipping anyway. Grrr!” I threw a small pillow across the room, startling the chocolate Lab, who scrabbled after it and brought it back to me.

“Huh. Thanks.” I took the pillow and hugged it a long time.

I WOKE UP EARLY THE NEXT MORNING—early for Saturday—and let Willie Wonka outside while I started coffee. All was quiet upstairs, though the thumping had gone on till almost midnight. All was quiet downstairs, too, which was fine by me. Amanda got in at eleven thirty, and Denny and Josh came in around midnight after taking Pete and Jerry home.
Let 'em sleep.
Saturday was about the only day I got any morning time to read the Bible and pray. Even then, I had to fight with my mental to-do list.

Settling down in the recliner with a mug of coffee, I opened my study Bible to the purple ribbon, which marked where I'd been reading in the book of Isaiah. I was determined to become more familiar with the Old Testament books Avis and Nony quoted from so often. At least I'd made it to Isaiah 43, which was fairly familiar.

As I started to read, I felt as if I'd been slapped upside the head. “Fear not!” the very first verse said. “For I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are Mine!”

Fear not . . .
Inside my head, a little voice seemed to say,
“What are you so afraid of, Jodi?”

Afraid? I'm not afraid.

“Yes, you are. You're afraid to let Stu into your life.”

Oh, that. I'm not afraid, just—

“Yes, that's fear. Fear she's going to melt you down to size.”

So? Why should I put myself in a position where—

“Position? I have redeemed you! That's your position! I
have called you by name! You are Mine!”