The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (24 page)

Florida was busy in the church kitchen, sticking fried chicken into an oven to keep hot and taking covered dishes as people arrived. The entire Hickman family was there, including Carl—would wonders never cease?— who immediately gravitated to Peter Douglass when he arrived with Avis, even though the two men had never met before. In fact,
all
the Yada Yada husbands or “significant others” ended up clumping together like a football huddle: Ben Garfield, short and silver haired; Peter Douglass and Mark Smith, both dressed smartly in expensive suits; Carl Hickman, looking pretty fine him-self in a sport coat and tie; and Denny, turned out in his best black suit, which brought out the gray in his eyes and flecks in his hair. He looked almost distinguished until he smiled—and then his cheek dimples gave him away.

José's mariachi band was tuning up when we arrived. One of the musicians—a middle-aged man wearing a short, black, embroidered jacket and matching pants—looked familiar. But I was startled when José said, grinning proudly, “My papa, lead guitarist of our
banda!”
Ricardo Enriquez? The only time I'd ever seen Delores's husband was in the hospital room when José got shot—a worried, angry, bump on a log. But tuning his large guitar (a
guitarrón,
I was informed later), he seemed a different man: eyes closed, listening to the notes, coaxing them into harmony.

José continued with introductions of the mariachi band, which seemed to be made up mostly of Enriquez cousins and uncles on violin, trumpet, and smaller guitars. “Thank you for coming, for playing,” I said, shaking Mr. Enriquez's hand, hoping I wasn't going to cry. “It means so much.” He simply nodded, but for the first time, I saw a smile tip the corners of his mouth before he leaned over the guitar once more.

The room filled up with Uptown youth and their curious parents, youth leaders, a few of Amanda's friends from Lane Tech, Patti Sanders and her family from Downers Grove, and every single member of Yada Yada—including Adele, who must have gotten someone to cover the shop and take care of MaDear. I shot her a grateful smile just as Chanda George charged up the stairs at the last minute with Dia, Cheree, and Thomas—and a
man
in tow.

I tried to keep my mouth from dropping open, but I noticed that Florida, leaning out the pass-through window in the kitchen, made no such effort. The man, some-where in his early thirties, had braided twists that stuck out all over his head, gold chains beneath an open-necked shirt that plunged halfway down his chest, black leather vest, and leather pants. His eyes took in the room with a quick glance before he hunkered down in the last row.

Florida's eyes met mine.
“Who is that?”
she mouthed at me. I shook my head.

But the real showstopper was Chanda herself. Shrugging off a long wool coat with a fur collar—real or faux, it was stunning—out popped Chanda in a bright red suit, lips red, fingertips red, grinning nonstop beneath a gorgeous black pageboy. It had to be a wig; Chanda's hair had never been that long or straight.

Every Yada Yada sister in the room probably had the same thought:
Chanda must've finally gotten her “winnings.”

“I wanna sit up front with Carla and Cheree!” wailed five-year-old Dia, refusing to sit in the back row.

Chanda rolled her eyes. “Don' you make no trouble,” she hissed, but kept her own seat anchored next to the mystery man. I tried to catch Denny's eye, hoping he'd go over and meet Mr. Leather Vest. Just then the door to the ladies' room opened and Amanda stepped out. A collective gasp rippled around the room.

Amanda, cheeks flushed, shimmered from head to toe under the fluorescent lights. The filmy off-white dress was breathtaking—simple scoop neckline, little cap sleeves, but the skirt floated in layers to just below her knees, picking up pale blue highlights as it moved. Spontaneously everyone broke out in applause, sending Amanda's face color into the beet-red zone.

“I think,” Delores spoke up authoritatively, “it is time to begin.” She lined us up, Amanda and parents, followed by José, her
chambelán de honor,
then pairs of
chambelanes
and
damas:
Josh Baxter and Edesa Reyes, Pete Spencer and Patti Sanders, Chris Hickman and Emerald Enriquez. The teen escorts sported white dress shirts, black bow ties, and black pants; the young women each wore a pastel party dress, Amanda's choice. They were simple but lovely—nothing like the fancy tuxedoes and off-the-shoulder floor-length dresses I'd seen in pictures.

Denny and I stood on either side of Amanda, waiting for the recorded music we'd practiced with the previous Saturday. Denny caught my eye behind Amanda's head. “Nice dress,” he murmured.

“I know. It's lovely,” I whispered back.

“Not hers. Yours,” he deadpanned.

I simpered at him. It was the first time I'd had a chance to wear the slinky black number he'd given me for my birthday last fall. But I promptly forgot his compliment when the music started. Instead of the recording, the deep notes of a solo guitar began picking out the familiar hymn Amanda had chosen: “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring.”

Was that Ricardo? Downsized from his trucking job, still unemployed after six months, drinking too much, uncommunicative (according to Delores) . . . making sweet music at my daughter's
quinceañera
? I didn't dare look anywhere but straight ahead at Pastor Clark, now sure I would never make it to the front with-out bursting into tears.

But I did.We did. Somehow.

The music ended, and Denny and I sat down on the front row along with the young attendants—young men on one side, young ladies on the other. As Amanda stood alone before Pastor Clark, he personalized a verse from First Timothy: “Amanda, don't let anyone think less of you because you are young. Be an example to all believers in what you teach, in the way you live, in your love, your faith, and your purity.” Our pastor then gave a mini-sermon on each part of the verse: “Amanda, guard the words you speak . . . the life choices you make also affect those around you . . . grow in Christlike love . . . keep a childlike faith in God . . . treasure purity of mind and body.”

I was mesmerized. What a wonderful thing for all these young people to hear.

At the end of the sermonette, Pastor Clark glanced our way. “Denny?” And our tall, gangly pastor sat down.

Denny stood up and walked to Amanda's side. She turned and gave her daddy a brilliant smile as he took her left hand.
This must be what they've been plotting the last
couple of weeks.
For a few moments, Denny couldn't speak. He kept swallowing, and the corners of his mouth twitched. Finally he said, “Amanda, I look forward to walking you down the aisle someday and giving up this hand I'm holding to a very lucky man who wants you to be his wife. But that day's not today—”

Laughter tittered around the room, and I heard Florida's voice, “Hallelujah! Ya got that right!” which sparked more laughter. I wished I had the guts to shout,
“Amen to that!”
but I'm sure Amanda was glad I didn't.

Amanda was giggling yet trying to regain a serious look. Denny cleared his throat. “Though today, Amanda,
is
an important day. You are on the verge of womanhood. And I have to admit, you are”—he swallowed again and blinked rapidly—“lovely.”

“Say it, Denny!” a masculine voice cried—was that Peter Douglass?—and suddenly everyone was clapping and grinning, even Amanda's
Corte de honor.
My eyes blurred, but I couldn't steal Denny's handkerchief as I usually did when I cried in public.
Why in the world didn't
I bring some tissues?
Suddenly Stu's hand reached over my shoulder and dropped a pack into my lap.

The clapping gave Denny a moment to recover. Now he was smiling big. “Because I want all God's best for you, Amanda, I am giving you a promise ring to wear.” He dug into his suit coat pocket and drew out a silver ring with a stone in it. He glanced sheepishly at the crowded room that now seemed to be holding its breath. “Don't worry—I'm not putting Amanda on the spot. This is something she wants to do.” More laughter.

Denny slid the ring onto Amanda's ring finger of her left hand. “This is a
peridot,
the ‘evening emerald,' your birthstone. One day you will wear a diamond on this hand. But today, do you accept this promise ring, a symbol of your promise to God to keep yourself pure—okay, let's say it, a
virgin
—as a gift to God and to your future husband?”

For a long second, no one breathed. “I do,” Amanda said clearly—then threw her arms around her father's neck.

The entire room erupted around me. I gave up all pretense of holding back tears and dabbed frantically at my now-running nose. Cheers and clapping went on for what seemed like a long, long time. I glanced at Amanda's young male escorts and saw both Josh and José grinning and clapping madly. My heart seemed to flop like a bass on a hook and landed in my throat.
Oh thank You,
Lord Jesus, thank You, thank You,
I cried inside, even though I knew good and well it wasn't time to stop praying about the temptations that faced my children—all these children.

After Denny sat down, Edesa read from Psalm 121: “I lift up my eyes to the hills; where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord”—after which Josh went up to pray a blessing over his sister. Suddenly I had an awful thought.
Their grandparents ought to be
here! Did I even send them an invitation?
But I knew the problem was my own resistance: I'd had no idea how meaningful this
quinceañera
would be.

After the prayer, Pastor Clark put a padded chair in the center of the six-inch-high platform at the front of the room and motioned for Amanda to sit there. He arched his eyebrows at Denny and me expectantly.

What?
My mind scrambled.
What comes next?
I'd completely forgotten.

Amanda mouthed the word
“Shoes!”
at us. Oh, right! The shoes!

I dug under my chair for the shoebox I'd put there earlier, and Denny and I approached Amanda in the chair. Kneeling down like a subject before the queen, Denny took off the flats Amanda had been wearing, while I opened the box and lifted out the sling-back high heels Amanda had chosen—the traditional symbol, we'd been told, of taking off childhood and putting on young womanhood.

High heels securely in place,Amanda stood with only the slightest wobble and gave Denny and me each a hug before we turned to face the rows of our friends beaming back at us. Avis and Peter, standing side by side, looking for all the world like a couple straight out of
Ebony
. . . Hoshi, all smiles, holding Marcus and Michael Sisulu-Smith by the hand . . . the Hickman family still all in one piece, at least today . . . Adele nodding her approval . . .

Good thing the mariachi band struck up a rousing recessional, because I couldn't say a word.

THE PLATTERS OF CHICKEN, coleslaw,
carnitas
wrapped in corn tortillas, rice and beans, chopped salad, and Adele's greens with smoky ham hocks disappeared in alarming amounts at the table seating Amanda's
Corte de
honor,
but there seemed to be enough for everybody. The cake was cut to cheers and sticky fingers, then the tables were pushed aside so the dancing could begin.

The
chambelanes
and
damas
lined up facing each other for the traditional waltz as Amanda and José took a turn down the middle. All over the room, younger children watched their big brothers and sisters throw arms up, clasp hands, turn, and swirl to the guitars and trumpet music. Edesa was such a good sport to join Amanda's “court” of teenagers.
Hmm.
Had she had a
quinceañera
when she'd turned fifteen in Honduras?

The traditional waltz was followed by Denny dancing with his daughter, and I thought my face might crack open if I smiled any bigger. José picked up a small Mexican drum and added some smart percussion as the mariachi music got more raucous. Josh came and pulled me to my feet, but I lasted about five minutes before the rod in my leg started aching, so I fell into a chair, laughing.

Carla appeared at my side and tugged on my skirt. “Ms. Jodi?” She crooked her finger as if wanting to tell me a secret. I bent down till my ear was even with her lips. “I want to be queen when I'm fifteen—like Amanda.”

I grinned and gave her a hug. “You're already a princess, Carla.”

The music stopped long enough for the younger set to be blindfolded and take turns swinging at the piñata with a broomstick amid screams of encouragement. Cedric Hickman whacked it good, and the rain of can-dies from the broken piñata caused a near riot, but eventually each child had a fist and cheek full of candy.

As the music resumed, I sat off to the side, giving my aching leg a rest, trying to take it all in. Ricardo Enriquez played his huge guitar with a big smile and dancing eyes. The man was a musician, not a trucker! . . . Peter Douglass, Mark Smith, and Denny seemed to be in a serious discussion with Carl Hickman in one corner.
Hmm. Wonder what that's all about? . . .
Amanda was dancing—again—with José . . .

I massaged my leg, wishing the pain would go away, but Geraldine Wilkins-Porter's face intruded into my thoughts, as if she had just come up the stairs, taking in our party. The noise around me dimmed, and I imagined standing in her place, watching the party through her eyes. My own heart was full of joy; what was in her heart?

Pain. A hundred times greater than my stupid leg.
Her Jamal would never dress up and dance with abandon like these teenage boys, never flirt with his sweetheart. She would never watch him get his high school diploma or start his first job . . . never lecture him about drugs . . . never give away her heart at his wedding or kiss his babies . . .

I sat very still, as if time had stopped in the space around my chair. I expected to feel the familiar fear tighten inside of me whenever I thought of Jamal and Hakim's mother, but it didn't come. Why was I afraid of her? Because she was angry—angry at me because I had killed her oldest son. My fear kept me at a distance, protected me from being consumed by her anger. But wouldn't I be angry too? As a mother I should know! Anger masked our private fears, our sorrows. Beneath her anger, Geraldine Wilkins-Porter was grieving her loss, a loss no parent should have to bear. More than that, I suddenly understood that the armor of her anger made her sorrow somehow bearable, enabled her to get through each day.