The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (2 page)

“Hey,Wallace!” A tall girl the color of light caramel came in the door. “You got a package.” She held out a brown box, neatly taped.

Becky stared at it. “Ain't no mail call today. It's a holiday.”

The girl shrugged. “Musta got lost in the mailroom. Somebody asked me to drop it off.” She grinned. “Maybe it's food.”

Not likely.
“Thanks.” The tall girl was all right—kept her nose clean. Athletic. Maybe they could form a volley-ball team when the weather loosened up. But the girl was too nice. She'd have to make sure she covered the girl's back if anybody ever messed with her.

Becky took the package and headed for her bunk in the dorm room. A quick glance told her that five women were already sitting or lying on their bunks, ready to be done with Christmas Day. Kneeling beside her lockbox, she twirled the combination lock and dropped the pack-age inside.
Later.

THE LIGHTS-OUT ORDER had been given; the front and back doors to the cottage locked. Muffled snores slowly coursed through various parts of the room like belly rumbles after a meal of chili beans. Still Becky Wallace waited. Finally, she slid a hand under her pillow and drew out the package. She sat up, slowly, quietly, so as not to wake her bunkmate above.

Light filtered in through the barred windows of the dorm room from the floodlights in the prison yard, and she peered at the sending company:
Estée Lauder.
What kinda business was that?

The tough packing tape had been slit open for inspection and retaped with ordinary office tape, which easily gave way under her sharp thumbnail. A whiff of some-thing fruity—melon?—spilled out of the box as she lifted the lid. In the dim light, she felt inside the box.Nestled in a bed of shredded, crinkled paper lay long plastic tubes of various sizes . . . a small round jar . . . a spritzer with liquid inside. Carefully she lifted out one of the plastic tubes, unscrewed the lid, and squeezed. A delicious squirt of creamy silk fell cool and soft into her hand.

Hand cream. Rich, velvety hand cream. Slowly she spread it over her hard, cracked knuckles and worked it into the chapped skin on the backs of her hands. Then she silently began to weep.

1

CHICAGO—NEW YEAR'S DAY 2003

T
he call of nature—Willie Wonka's, not mine—got me out of bed at the bleary hour of seven thirty, even though the New Year's Eve party upstairs had kept me awake till after three.
Three a.m.!
But Willie Wonka's bladder was on dog-time—
old
dog-time at that—making sleeping in on holidays a moot point. Stuffing my feet into my scuffs and pulling Denny's big terry robe around me, I stumbled out of our bedroom, mumbling thinly disguised threats at our chocolate Lab as he led me to the back door.

Coming into the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of pale blue sky and the rising sun bouncing off a row of windows at the top of a nearby apartment building like golden dragon eyes . . . and for a nanosecond I entertained the illusion of a blissful day in Key West. But when I opened the back door to let Willie Wonka out, a wall of icy air killed
that
pipe dream. I slammed the door after Willie's tail and peered at the little red needle on the back porch thermometer.

Brrr.
Ten degrees.

Then I smiled. Add the windchill factor, which was sure to kick up by noon, and surely the Uptown Community Church youth group would cancel the so-called Polar Bear Plunge they had scheduled for today.

But by the time Denny and the kids wandered out of their bedrooms around eleven o'clock, the thermo-meter had inched up to almost twenty degrees, and every-one looked at me stupidly when I asked if they were going to cancel. “Mom,” said Josh patiently, pouring himself a heaping bowl of oat flakes and raisins, “it's a Chicago tradition.” As if that explained anything.

“Happy New Year, babe,” Denny murmured, wrap-ping his arms around me from behind—and the next thing I knew he had untied the belt, snatched his robe off me, and disappeared with it into the bathroom.

“I was just warming it up for you!” I yelled after him, scurrying back into our bedroom in my pajamas. Time to get dressed anyway.

“Mo-om!” whined Amanda, wandering into the kitchen ten minutes later while I was making another pot of coffee. “I
really
need a new bathing suit. This one is so . . . so
babyish
.”

I turned and eyed my fifteen-year-old. Apart from the fact that it was absurd to be talking about bathing suits in the middle of a Chicago winter, there was nothing “babyish” about this busty teenager, who was indeed filling out her one-piece bathing suit in all the right—or wrong—places. I declined to comment. “Go get some clothes on before you catch cold,” I ordered. But I grinned at her back. I'd make some hot cocoa and take it along—that'd be a big hit after “the plunge.”

The phone rang at 11:25. “Jodi!” said a familiar voice. “Are these
niñitos
still going to do this craziness?”

I allowed myself a small grin as I cradled the phone on my shoulder and stirred the pot of hot chocolate. “I'm afraid so, Delores. And not just ‘bambinos,' either. Denny's got his bathing suit on under his sweats, in case he gets brave. Is José coming?” Like I couldn't guess. Delores Enriquez's fifteen-year-old son had been showing up rather frequently, trailing Amanda like Peter Pan's shadow. Or was it the other way around?

“Sí.
Emerald, too, but just to watch. Edesa and I are coming up on the el with them. This I've got to see for myself.”

Two more phone calls followed in quick succession from Yada Yada Prayer Group members. Florida Hickman wanted to know what elevated train stop was closest to the beach where the Polar Bear Plunge would take place; Ruth Garfield grumbled that only love for Yo-Yo Spencer and her brothers would get her and Ben out on New Year's Day for such craziness. “But what can we do? A car they don't have.We'll be there at twelve. Then straight to the doctor so they don't die of pneumonia.
Oy
vey.”
A
click
told me the conversation was over, and all I'd said was, “Hello?”

THE SMALL CROWD GATHERED at Loyola Beach along the bleak lakeshore of Chicago's north side, wearing ski jackets, knit hats, and fat mittens, looked oddly out of place tromping over the sand. Even more so because a mild December had delayed the usual buildup of ice and frozen spray sculptures that usually marked Lake Michigan's winter shoreline. The lapping water looked deceptively harmless.

“Going in, Jodi?”

I squinted up into the face of Uptown's lanky pas-tor, who could easily have played Ichabod Crane in community theater. Widowed and childless, Pastor Clark
was
Uptown Community—a mission church that stubbornly hung out its shingle in Rogers Park, Chicago's most diverse neighborhood. Today he was bundled in an outdated navy parka with a snorkel hood, a long hand-knit scarf wound around his neck, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

“Me? Not for love
or
money!” I held up the armload of beach towels and blankets I was carrying. “I'm here on life support.”

He chuckled and trudged on to greet others gathering to witness the Polar Bear Plunge. The crowd was growing, and I saw Leslie Stuart's silver Celica pull into the beach parking lot. “Stu” had been attending Uptown Community for several months, ever since we'd met at the Chicago Women's Conference last May, even though she lived in Oak Park, on the west side of the city.

“Hey, Jodi. You going to take the plunge?” Stu's long blonde hair and multiple earrings were hidden by a felt cap with earflaps. She was grinning, flap to flap.

“Don't think so. Calendar says January.”

“Ah, c'mon. You know what Oliver Wendell Holmes said: ‘You don't quit playing because you get old; you get old because you quit playing.' Hey—there's Delores and Edesa!” She waved both arms in their direction.

I bit my tongue. Stu was probably in her midthirties—not
that
much younger than I was. But she didn't have to make me feel like an “old fogy” just because I was smart enough
not
to jump in the lake.

“Ack! I left something in the car.” Stu ran for the parking lot, passing Delores Enriquez and Edesa Reyes as they headed my way, bundled against the stiff wind adding whitecaps to the choppy gray water. I dumped my load of blankets and towels so I could give them each a hug.

Delores and Edesa were members of a Spanish-speaking Pentecostal church and had attended the same conference that had brought women together from various churches around the city. None of us imagined that the prayer group we'd been assigned to for the weekend would take on a life of its own. But when Delores got an emergency phone call that weekend saying her son José had been caught in gang crossfire in a local park—well, no way we could stop praying after that, just because the conference was over.

“Where are Emerald and José?” I asked.

Delores jutted her chin in the direction of the knot of excited teenagers gathering at the water's edge, still bundled in their winter coats. “Such antics!” The forty-something mother wagged her head.
“Mi familia en México?
They will think we have all gone
loco.”
She rolled her eyes. “But whatever Amanda and Josh do, Emerald and José want to do it too.”

“Don't mind Delores, Jodi,” Edesa said cheerfully. “Underneath all that fussing, she's happy José is
alive
and can
do
something fun and crazy!” Edesa's dark eyes danced in her warm mahogany face. Edesa—college student, babysitter, and “big sister” to the Enriquez children—wore her African-Honduran heritage as brightly as the neon-orange wrap that held back her mop of loose, nappy curls. And she'd rescued Amanda's grades last spring, tutoring her in freshman Spanish.

“Hey, Ben! Over here!” I heard Denny's voice hail Ruth and Ben Garfield, trudging over the hard-packed sand like two refugees trekking out of Siberia, following Yo-Yo Spencer and her half brothers, Pete and Jerry. The boys ditched the adults and joined the teasing, shoving group of teenagers at the water's edge, as Ruth and Ben stopped to talk to Denny.

“Hey.”Yo-Yo nodded at Delores and me, then arched an eyebrow at Edesa. “You gonna take the plunge, 'Desa? Jodi? Anybody?”

“Are you serious?” Edesa shook her curls and laughed.

Yo-Yo grinned, reached inside her overalls and bulky sweatshirt, and pulled out a swimsuit strap. “I dunno. Thought I might if some other adults did.” She tipped her spiky blonde head toward Ruth and Ben, who were still talking to Denny. “Didn't tell Ruth, though, or she woulda given me a nonstop lecture all the way here. Didn't tell Pete or Jerry, neither. Ya know them two—they think you're dead meat if you're over twenty.”

I hooted. Yo-Yo “dead meat” at the ripe old age of twenty-three? Ha!

A flurry of activity near the shoreline caught our attention as the teenagers and even a handful of brave—or merely foolish—Uptown adults started shedding coats, sweatshirts, sweatpants, shoes, and socks and dumping them in piles on the beach. “Oh, good grief,” I sputtered. “Denny is really gonna do it. Stu too.”

The Polar Bear Plungers formed a ragged line, backs to the water, facing the huddled onlookers. Bundled up as I was, I still felt the bite of the wind nipping off the lake, making my eyes water. Denny was jogging in place, trying to keep his blood going, while the younger set hopped up and down from one bare foot to the next. Josh—the old-est Uptown youth at eighteen—held up both hands like a prizefighter, dressed only in his swim trunks, complete with shaved head. “We who are about to freeze,” he yelled, grinning defiantly, “salute thee!”

The Polar Bear line went crazy, cheering and yelling like gladiators about to enter the arena.

“Hey, wait for us!” somebody yelled. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Chris and Cedric Hickman—Florida's boys—running toward the line of half-naked daredevils, leaving a trail of their clothes and shoes on the sand as they stripped to their swim trunks. Behind them, Florida was hustling in our direction, picking up clothes as she went, trailed by a tall black man carrying a young girl piggyback.

“Bless You,
Jesús!”
Delores breathed. “It's Carl Hickman! And Carla. The whole family!” She winked at me. “Now maybe that's worth coming out today to see.”

I felt torn between wanting to greet Florida and her husband—it
was
a first, Carl showing up at an Uptown event with his family—and not wanting to miss The Plunge. Just then the ragged line broke ranks and ran into the water, yelling at the top of their lungs. Beside me, Yo-Yo kicked off her shoes, dropped her denim overalls and sweatshirt, and ran toward the water.

“What? Yo-Yo's going in? That girl, she is crazy, yes?” Without turning my head, I knew Ruth and Ben had joined our little cluster. “And Denny! A heart attack he is going to have.”