The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (22 page)

When I tried to cross Ridge Avenue, though, police barricades prevented any cars from continuing on Devon, and all traffic was being diverted.
What in the
world?
Beyond the barricades I could see hundreds of people, bundled up against the cold, many with placards and banners, moving west, away from the barricades. I craned my neck, trying to see what was going on, but a police officer blew her whistle at me and shoveled me into the northbound lane.

Oh, great.
I slapped the steering wheel.
Now what?

I didn't want to waste time driving around looking for another dry cleaner, so I drove home, paged through the yellow pages till I found one on Sheridan Road, and dumped off our clothes, making sure they'd have them done by Thursday.

By the time I stopped at Dominick's for milk and dog food, it was time to get Amanda to Uptown for her practice. Josh wasn't at the house, so we had to leave without him. I was a nervous wreck the first half-hour of the
quinceañera
practice, because he still hadn't shown up by the time Delores called everybody together and began giving instructions. Yet when it was time for the
chambelanes
to escort the
damas
down the aisle, suddenly there he was, cheeks and nose ruddy from the cold, staving off a teary tantrum by the
Quinceañera
herself. I started to give him a piece of my mind, but he hissed, “Chill, Mom. I said I'd be here; I'm here. This isn't the only thing happening in the world, you know.” Then he hustled into his place.

Take a deep breath, Jodi.He's here, isn't he?
But I wasn't sure I liked this new, cheeky Josh.

Delores walked everybody through the abbreviated service, which I had to admit was going to be really sweet—but I did wonder how much we'd corrupted the traditional
quinceañera
from the formal Catholic mass to a more informal Protestant service. At least most of the guests wouldn't have a clue. At one point Delores turned to Denny and said, “Okay, Papa, this is when you and Amanda do your little ceremony, okay?” and then she moved right on.

“Hey.What's this mysterious ceremony?” I whispered to Denny.

“If I told you, it wouldn't be a mystery, now, would it?” he whispered back.

Arrgh.
It'd better not be some practical joke.

Pastor Clark seemed to be getting a huge kick out of the whole thing; he even helped stack the chairs out of the way for the dance practice. José had brought music on a CD to teach the traditional waltz, which involved a lot of clasped hands overhead, spinning of partners, and bowing and curtsies.
“La banda de mariachi
will be here next week, I promise!” he grinned. Everybody was laughing and trying out the steps—even Pete Spencer and Chris Hickman, who threw in a few hip-hop steps just for fun. It
was
funny to see them dancing a waltz in their baggy pants and big athletic shoes with the laces untied—and it occurred to me they might show up in the same attire for the real thing.
Well, so what? It's just a birthday
party, not a wedding—thank You, Jesus!

Josh volunteered to ferry people back home in the minivan so Denny and I could go home and get ready for our belated Valentine's date. Amanda went with him, so I guess she'd forgiven his tardiness. They still weren't back with the car when the front doorbell rang and Stu popped in, darting her eyes this way and that and holding some-thing behind her back. “Is Amanda gone? I want to show you the piñata I found—oh. You guys going out?”

Denny had put on a knit shirt and sport coat, and I was wearing dress slacks, a silky blouse, and makeup, no less. “Nah. Thought we'd clean the basement tonight,” I said with a straight face.

She laughed. “Okay, okay, dumb question.What do you think?” She brought out a classic piñata, shaped like a burro, decorated with bright lime and yellow and blue paper crinkles.

“Hey!” Denny's eyes lit up. “What a great idea.”

“Adorable! Thanks so much, Stu.”

“Okay. Shh—don't tell Amanda.”

I thought she might leave so we could finish getting ready, but Stu hesitated a moment, then blurted, “You know, if we're going to testify to the parole board on Becky Wallace's behalf, we ought to write a letter right away.We can't wait two weeks between every Yada Yada meeting to make decisions—it's too long!”

Denny frowned. “Uh, did I miss something?” . . . which Stu took for permission to lay out the whole idea of Becky's victims testifying on her behalf, to give her a chance at parole while the powers-that-be were trying to ease prison overcrowding.

Denny shook his head. “I don't know. Her chances are probably slim to none. She pled guilty to a violent crime—and it hasn't even been a year!”

“What could it hurt to write the letter? We'll never know unless we try.”

Which was true. I just felt like Stu was pushing. We couldn't run ahead of the whole prayer group—we were
all
victims. Everyone needed to agree to it. And I said so.

Stu threw up her hands. “Fine. But we're not the one sitting in prison separated from our two-year-old child.” And she took the piñata and closed the front door behind her with more-than-necessary vigor.

Denny arched an eyebrow at me. “Hmm.Honeymoon over?”

WE DIDN'T STAY OUT late since Amanda was home alone—Josh had gone out
again
to some gig that Head Noise was doing—but we did try one of the ethnic restaurants along Devon Avenue. The barricades were gone, and all that was left of the crowds was litter and leaflets skittering down the sidewalks ahead of the wind that bit at our ears and noses. I picked up a crumpled leaflet on the sidewalk in front of Gandhi India, a small corner restaurant on West Devon.
“International Day of Protest Against
the War on Iraq,”
the leaflet said. The fine print also mentioned protesting the “scapegoating” of immigrants and the upcoming deadline requiring Pakistanis in the United States to register with the government.

I stuffed the leaflet in the pocket of my winter coat, feeling uneasy. Maybe this stretch of Devon Avenue wasn't the smartest place to eat after a huge “solidarity” march. “Thought these big antiwar marches usually happened downtown,” I murmured to Denny as a waiter seated us at a small table covered with a burgundy cloth, topped with a square of white paper that fit the table corner to corner and burgundy cloth napkins folded to stand up like butterflies at rest. Gandhi India was busy this Saturday night, filling up most of its eighteen small tables with couples, friends, and families. Only an elderly grandmother wore a traditional sari.

Curious—or anxious, I'm not sure which—I looked up at our waiter, a slightly rounded middle-aged man in a white shirt and slicked black hair, as he put a basket of fried bread on our table, crisp and light, with two dips: a sweet-and-sour made with yogurt and a tangy tamarind sauce. “Were there many protesters on the street today?” I asked, too late seeing the cautionary eye Denny sent me. “I, uh, hope it was peaceful.”

The man hesitated, probably wondering if it was wise to answer. Then politeness took over. He tipped his head in a slight bow. “Yes, madam. Many thousands of protestors. But peaceful, I believe. We are grateful for this show of support from our fellow Americans. It has been . . . difficult since 9/11.”

Now I
was
curious and wanted to ask more questions, but he slipped away, returning ten minutes later with the chicken tandoori and chicken tikki we'd ordered. “Let's not talk politics,” Denny hissed at me as the spicy food tantalized our noses. “Not
here.
In fact, let's not talk Yada Yada, not Becky the Bandana Woman, not Amanda teetering between hormones and womanhood. It's Valentine's Day. This is supposed to be romantic—even if I didn't get you a card. Or candy.” His dimples deepened with his sheepish confession.

“Day
after
Valentine's,” I giggled. “Okay. I didn't get you a card or candy either.” But as Denny took my hand and said a brief prayer of thanksgiving for our food “. . . and for the twenty Valentine's Days You've given to Jodi and me,” I added, “And, Father, please give wisdom to world leaders and to all of us during these difficult days. We don't want war, Jesus, and we don't want terror either.”

Wasn't it just this morning I'd been convicted to “pray the headlines”?

I SAT UP IN bed suddenly, wet with sweat, my heart thumping loudly in my ears. The bedroom was dark—had I heard a noise? I strained to listen. All was still . . . just Denny's soft snoring beside me and the wail of a siren in the distance.

What was it? Why did I feel so frightened, afraid to close my eyes again?

Then I knew what had wakened me. The dream—the same terrible dream that had haunted me since last June.
The torrential summer rain washing over the wind-shield
. . . a sudden face in my headlights . . . that young face,
eyes dark and round, mouth wide in a silent scream . . . jerking
the wheel, a sickening thump, a pair of headlights from
oncoming traffic swerving right toward me . . .

I squeezed my eyes shut, taking several deep breaths to slow the racing of my heart. Jamal Wilkins—Hakim's brother, Geraldine's son—dead.

Son . . .
suddenly my eyes flew open. I hadn't heard Josh come in—had I? What time was it? The red numbers of the digital alarm said 2:13 a.m.
Two thirteen!

Fear gripping my throat, I slid out of bed and pulled on my robe. Willie Wonka sensed my movements and with a groan got up from his dog basket at the foot of our bed. People up, dog up—that was dog duty, even in the middle of the night.

Quietly I crossed the hall to Josh's bedroom. The door was closed. I turned the handle slowly and pushed the door open past the
squeeeak
till the faint glow from the hall nightlight fell into the room.

A lump in the bed. I crossed the room and laid my hand lightly on the quilt just to make certain. The lump rose and fell slightly beneath my fingers. Josh was home. Josh was safe.

Fear gave way to irritation.Why hadn't he knocked on our door like he was supposed to when he came in? Or had I fallen into such a deep sleep that I hadn't heard him?
Arrgh.
Either way, we had to find something that worked.

I turned to go—
ouch!
My bare toe caught on a corner of something stiff sticking out from under his bed. I bent down and felt around for the offender. Just poster board. I was just about to push it back under the bed when I saw words drawn on it in big, dark letters. Curious, I slid the poster board out from under the bed and carried it into the hall. Even in the dim glow of the nightlight I could read: BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS.

If I wasn't fully awake before, I was now. I turned the poster over. NO WAR WITH IRAQ.

I caught my breath. Josh had been at that antiwar protest on Devon Avenue this afternoon! Without telling us.

22

M
y first urge was to barge into Josh's bed-room, flip on the lights like interrogation spots, and confront him with the poster. Mentally I was already yelling,
“Why didn't you tell us
where you were going? Who put you up to this? Do you even
know what groups sponsored this protest? What time did you
get in tonight?”

A speck of wisdom in my brain woke up long enough to stifle my cannon fodder.
Whoa. Back up.
Okay. At the very least, I needed to wait till morning, tell Denny, and have a sit-down with Josh.
Then
we could ground him for the rest of his natural life.

By this time I was wide awake, so I padded silently into the kitchen, warmed a mug of milk and honey in the microwave, and took it into the living room, lit only by the dim streetlight from outside. I pulled an afghan around my shoulders and curled up on the couch, sipping the warm, sweet milk.Willie Wonka stood in front of me, tail drooping, muzzle in my lap, as if to say,
“Okay. I'm
here. Dog on duty—but can't we go back to bed now?”

“In a few minutes,Wonka,” I murmured, stroking his silky ears . . . but my mind was already spinning off in half a dozen directions.Why hadn't Josh told us what he was going to do? What was it with my kids and parades? First, it was Amanda, telling us she was going to the Mexican Independence Day parade with Edesa—then sneaking off with José. Now it was Josh, carrying a sign in a huge antiwar protest.
Except,
wisdom prompted,
Josh
is eighteen—old enough to vote, old enough to go to war, and
old enough to protest against it.

I swallowed the last of the milk.
But not too old to let
his parents know where he is and what he's doing. We still
have rules in this house as long as he's under our roof.

In the dark stillness of our front room, the Voice inside my head said,
This isn't about rules, Jodi. It's about
Josh. The main question isn't why didn't he tell you, but why
did he go? Ask him. Have a conversation. These are tough
times. Kids are trying to figure out what's happening to their
world—and if they have any say-so.