The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (12 page)

Even though I hadn't moved a muscle, I felt like I'd fallen flat on the ground and gotten the wind knocked out of me.
Called me by name . . .
With stark clarity I remembered what I'd discovered about the meaning of my name: “Jodi: ‘God is gracious.' ”

“That's right. I am gracious—toward you! And Stu . . .
And the Bennetts . . . But you need to get out of the way. Stop
protecting yourself. Let Me be gracious.”

I did not like the way this conversation in my head was going. Doggedly I read on, determined to finish the chapter. But words kept leaping off the page: “Since you are precious in my sight . . . Do not fear, for I am with you . . . Behold, I will do something new . . .”

I shut the Bible with a
thump.
All these verses were prophecies for Israel—not Jodi Baxter, Lunt Avenue, Chicago, Illinois, in 2003. Besides, didn't good fences make good neighbors? Wasn't that in Proverbs or some-thing? Keeping your boundaries clear was just common sense, not fear.

Brrriiing!
The ringing telephone at my elbow made me knock over my coffee cup, balanced precariously on the arm of the padded chair. I punched the
on
button before the phone could ring again and wake everybody up. “What?” I snapped, trying to mop up the spill with a wad of tissue before it soaked into the rug.

“Jodi?” The voice on the other end sounded confused. “Am I callin' too early?”

I winced. “Florida! Can't believe I answered the phone like that. Sorry. It just startled me.”

“Oh. Okay. Listen . . . you comin' to Carla's birthday party today?”

Carla's birthday! I smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand, still holding the soggy tissue. I'd completely forgotten. “You bet.What's the time again?”

“Two o'clock. Do you have some small paper plates and plastic forks I could borrow?”

I giggled. “Borrow? Sure. Just be sure to wash the plates before you return them. Anything else?”

“Smart aleck. Oh, yeah, do you have some crepe paper streamers I can
have
? And can Amanda come? She's so good with the kids—she'd be a big help. But I'll only
borrow
her—you can have her back.”

By this time both of us were laughing.

“Not sure. I'll have to ask when she wakes up. Sorry—we didn't talk about it.”

“Okay. See you around two, then.”

“Wait! Florida?” I had no idea why I was doing this, but I blurted, “The apartment upstairs is being vacated. Do you . . . do you think I should tell Stu about it?”

“Do I think . . . ? What's the question, Jodi! Of course you should tell her about it! Thank ya, Jesus! What an answer to prayer!”

I sighed. “That's what I thought. See you at two.”

I hung up and stared at the phone in my hand for a full minute. Then I dialed Stu.

11

S
tu answered on the fourth ring, just as the answering machine kicked in.
“Hi! Sorry I missed your—”
“Jodi? Wait a minute . . . how do I turn this darn thing off? . . . There. Okay. Kinda early for you, isn't it? Anything wrong?”

I rolled my eyes.
Mental note: never get one of those
videophones.
“Hi, Stu. Hope I didn't get
you
up. I thought you might be interested to know that our upstairs neighbors are moving on Tuesday. They need someone to sublet—”

The shriek on the other end made me hold the phone at arm's length.When I brought it back, Stu was babbling. “For real? When? How soon could I move in? Is it like your apartment? What kind of shape is it in? Is it too early to call? I don't want to miss them . . .”

I glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. Still kinda early for Saturday. But I gave Stu the number—let her figure it out.

Denny poked his head into the living room. “Done with the phone? Carl Hickman said he might come to the men's breakfast at Uptown if I picked him up.”

Men's breakfast? Oh yeah. They were doing it every third Saturday of the month now. But if Denny took the car . . . I shook my head. How was I supposed to get Carla a birthday present with no car?

As it turned out, I got the car after all. Carl had begged off because of “gettin' ready for Carla's birthday,” so Denny decided to go for a run and end up at the church in time for the breakfast. I could tell he was teed off. “Always some excuse,” he muttered as he went out the door.

What was
he
so huffy about? Carla's birthday seemed like a good excuse to me.

To my surprise, Amanda said she'd love to go to Carla's birthday party—she even wanted to go shopping with me to pick out a birthday present.

“Yeah,” I ribbed. “Anything to get out of cleaning your room.” I hugged her just the same.

SINCE DENNY LET ME have the car in the morning, Amanda and I took the el down to the Hickmans' that afternoon, lugging a shopping bag with snack-size paper plates, plastic forks and spoons, rolls of yellow and green crepe paper, and two gifts for Carla. I'd wanted to get a “chapter book” for her to read but got discouraged wandering around the Barnes and Noble bookstore. All the books for children of color seemed to be biographies of great African-Americans or historical fiction about slavery or recounting the Civil Rights struggle. Important stuff—but heavy.Where were the books young girls liked to read about school friends and annoying brothers and mysterious disappearing cats and begging to get their ears pierced—ordinary books with children of color as the main characters?

I wavered between a couple of Coretta Scott King Award books:
Almost to Freedom,
a clever story of the Underground Railroad from a rag doll's point of view, and a rollicking tall tale about
Thunder Rose.
Which would Florida want Carla to read? One was historical, hopeful, and sad at the same time; the other just for fun with a dynamo young black heroine. “Mo-om!” said Amanda, pulling me toward the cashiers. “Just get both.”

I'd thought we were done, but Amanda insisted we also had to get something fun and girlish. So we ended up at Target for bubble bath, nail polish with glitter in it, and some colorful barrettes. Sheesh. It all added up. But then . . . this
was
Carla's first birthday party since she'd come home to her biological family.

Every time the el made a stop and opened its doors, the heat seemed to sneak out among the disgorging passengers, leaving plenty of room to trap the blast of arc-tic air blowing off Lake Michigan as the doors closed. “It's really getting cold, Mom,” Amanda grumbled, put-ting up the hood of her ski jacket until only her nose showed. Fine by me. I didn't like the looks of that young man with all the tattoos and a ring piercing his lip who kept leering at her.
Lord, give me strength!

We got off at the Bryn Mawr stop and hustled the few blocks to the Hickmans' apartment building. It
was
getting colder. Amanda pushed the buzzer labeled HICKMAN, and a few moments later a voice cackled on the intercom. “That you, Jodi? Get up here. I need some help!” Amanda grabbed for the door handle as a loud
blaaaat
filled the foyer.

Florida had her door open by the time we climbed the stairs to the second floor, a cigarette in one hand, urgently waving us in with the other. “Crepe paper! Did you bring some? Gotta get it up quick!” She waved smoke away from the air space between us. “Sorry about the cig. I'm so nervous I can't even spit. Hey, baby! How ya doin'?” Florida gave Amanda a big squeeze.

The apartment was silent except for our footsteps as we walked down the long, dim hallway to the square room that served as eating, study, and play space. “Where are the kids? Where's Carla?” I dumped the contents of the shopping bag on the round table in the middle of the small room.

“Carl took Carla out, and I tol' him not to bring her back till two thirty—give folks time to get here. But that man—he could show up any minute. Hey! Yellow and green! That's real nice.”

“Well, it's great he could get her out for a while.” Amanda and I taped yellow and green streamers to the light fixture in the center of the ceiling, then twisted and strung them to various corners of the room. “Denny called him this morning, wanted him to go to the men's breakfast at Uptown, but he said he had to help with Carla's party.”

“He said that?” Florida muttered something short and
not
sweet under her breath as she brought out a pretty grocery-store cake with
Happy Birthday, Carla
in pink icing script. “Huh. Had to drag that man out of the bed at noon and practically dress him myself so he could take Carla out for a while. So help me, Jodi, that man gonna land on his butt outside this door one day.” She arranged the small party plates and plasticware around the cake.

“Sorry about the blue flowered plates, Flo,” I grunted, trying to reach the corner of the room above the computer desk. “Didn't have any to match the crepe paper.” With a last stretch, I smashed the piece of tape on the end of the streamer to the wall.

“Oh, that don't matter. They're pretty—yikes!” The door buzzer made us all jump. “Hope that ain't Carl yet.”

Chanda and her three kids trooped up the stairs . . . followed in short order by Edesa with twelve-year-old Emerald in tow. “Mama had to work today,” Emerald explained, immediately attaching herself to Amanda, who was filling paper cups with jellybeans and cellophane-wrapped suckers for party favors.

“Amanda.” Florida stood over the two girls, scratching her head, which was covered in springy corkscrew curls. “Do you know any party games? We ain't got much room up in here, but it's too cold to go outside.”

“Um . . .” Amanda flashed me a
Help!
look but said, “Uh, sure. Emerald and I'll think of something. Hey! Can we use these suckers for a candy hunt?” Suddenly all business, she pointed at Cheree,Tia, and Thomas. “Mom! Keep Chanda's kids in the kitchen for a few minutes till we get these hidden.”

Florida grinned as Amanda and Emerald headed for the front room with handfuls of suckers. “Knew that girl would pull it together.”

Two kids who lived in the building—a boy and a girl—arrived at two ten with a gift wrapped in used Christmas paper. At two twenty, Cedric—Florida's twelve-year-old—came barging in the back door, jacket unzipped, shoelaces untied, a basketball tucked under one arm. “Where's Chris?” Florida demanded, glancing at the clock.

Cedric shrugged. “I dunno. He went off with some guys.” Rolling her eyes, Florida marched him to the bathroom to wash up.

Carl and Carla finally walked in the back door at two forty-five. “Surprise!” we all yelled, clustering around the Hickmans' table. “Happy birthday, Carla!”

A brief smile flickered over Carla's face as she took in the motley crew of kids and adults all grinning at her. Her hair was done like her mother's—short, bouncy corkscrews all over her head. Her eyes swept up to the crepe paper streamers, and her face clouded in a pout. “That's ugly. I want
pink
streamers!” Crossing her arms across her flat chest, Carla glared at her mother accusingly. “I
always
had pink streamers at my
other
mommy's house.”

“Ah, I'm sure ya did, honey.” Florida tossed an apologetic glance in my direction. “But we have pink roses and words on your birthday cake, see?” She raised her voice. “Okay, all the kids in the front room! Amanda and Emerald have some games for you.”

I gave Florida a quick hug in passing as she shooed the younger set down the long hallway. She made a face at me as though to say,
“I'm hangin'.”
Then she slipped into the bathroom and stayed there for five minutes before re-appearing. Her eyes looked red.

Squeals from the front room, then kids darting into the bedrooms and back to the dining room, hunting high and low, was evidence that the candy hunt, at least, was a huge success. Amanda insisted on giving each child just one sucker from the stash, then she handed me the rest to divide out between the paper cups of jellybeans. By the time I was done with that, she had all the kids lined up behind a broomstick in the front room, trying one by one to toss a bag of pinto beans from Florida's cupboard into a plastic bucket. Even the big boys—Cedric and Chanda's Thomas—wanted a turn, so Amanda pushed the broomstick starting line way back.

“Look at that,” Florida murmured, as the two of us peeked into the front room. The kids were jostling each other for another turn. “Don't know what I woulda done without Amanda and those games. Saved my butt.”

Carl holed up in the bedroom while Chanda, Edesa, Florida, and I chatted in the dining room, accompanied by rhythmic clapping at the other end of the apartment as the kids hollered, “Who stole the cookie from the (
clap
) cookie jar?” The door buzzer went off during an alphabet game, and Florida yelled, “Carl! Get that, will ya?” while she refilled our coffee cups. But he came back alone and disappeared into the bedroom again. “Musta been a wrong buzzer,” Florida cracked, then excused herself to the back porch for another cigarette.