The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (30 page)

“Praise Jesus!” Chanda threw up her hands. “De parents be readin' dem!”

Hoshi shook her head, the blue-black of her shoulder-straight hair catching highlights from Ruth's table lamp. “I do not think so. Because I got a letter from my aunt this week. She says my mother gives her the letters unopened. But my aunt is reading them and, I think”—a small smile tilted Hoshi's red lips—“telling
mama-san
what I say.”

Ruth nodded smugly. “A
yenta,
this aunt is. Good, good!”

Yo-Yo, perched on the arm of the overstuffed sofa, stuck both hands behind the bib of her overalls and grinned. “Now that's bad.”

“It is bad? I thought good!” Hoshi looked flustered. “English is so confusing.”

Avis smiled. “God is at work, Hoshi. By His stripes we are healed—and that includes our family relation-ships too.”

Yo-Yo, next to me, poked me. “By His stripes
what
?” she asked.

I held up a finger and paged through my Bible to look for the verse Avis had referred to, even as she shifted gears. “Other praise reports?”

Stu waved a long envelope. “This! The parole board is giving us a hearing about Becky Wallace!” She read the brief letter stating the time: two weeks from Saturday.

A stunned silence greeted her announcement, finally broken when Yo-Yo said, “Man! Maybe the Cubs will win the World Series too.”

Chanda giggled. “If I live to be t'ree hundred.”

“Well.” For once Ruth was speechless.

“Lord God Almighty.”Adele heaved a sigh and shook her large, gold ear loops. “I never thought . . .”

“But it is what we asked for, correct?” said Hoshi. “You just said God is at work, Avis. For Becky Wallace too.”

“Well, yeah.” Yo-Yo wagged her head. “But getting a hearing don't mean they actually gonna let her out.Them parole boards can be—”

“Yeah, we know, Yo-Yo,” Adele interrupted, squelching Yo-Yo's descriptive language. Chanda snickered again.

I shoved my modern language Bible in Yo-Yo's lap and pointed to the verse in Isaiah about the sufferings of Jesus bringing us peace and healing. She squinted at the passage, then shrugged as if to say,
“Still don't get it.”

“Tell you later,” I whispered. For some reason I felt excited to try to explain a familiar scripture I'd always taken for granted. Yo-Yo's lack of “Bible-speak” made me think. I needed down-to-earth words for these truths too.

“Hoshi is right, sisters. God is at work. This is what happens when sisters agree in the name of Jesus and pray together . . . Mm-hm.” Avis lifted a hand into the air and closed her eyes. “Jesus! You are a mighty God! All authority—even presidents and kings and parole boards—is under Your dominion. Mm-hm!”

I thought Avis would take us off into a praise meeting then and there, but Stu interrupted. “The point is, who's going to go to this hearing?”

Even though Avis was still “off ” praising, the rest of us jumped on Stu's question. Several people bowed out; other names were suggested. The final list included me (it was our house that had been invaded), Hoshi (her mother was the only one wounded by B.W.'s knife), and Stu (because she was spearheading the effort). “What about Yo-Yo and Florida?” I asked. “Maybe all of us who've been to the prison should go.”

Yo-Yo grimaced. “I'm an ex-con. Don't think that's an asset. 'Sides, I wasn't even there that night. Not one of her victims. Florida might wanna go, though.”

“What about Denny?” Stu grimaced. “Hate to say it, but the parole board will probably take us more seriously if a man goes.”

She was probably right. “I dunno. I'll ask him.” How did he feel about this anyway? Poor Denny. His life had been a lot more complicated since he got tangled in Yada Yada's briar patch.
God, thank You for Denny. Thank You
that he showed up unexpectedly that night . . . that Becky
Wallace missed when she lunged with the knife . . .

I shook that thought out of my brain and reached for a brighter one, even though my brain was starting to feel a little foggy. “Uh, speaking of husbands, Delores told me that Ricardo and José and their band have a regular weekend gig at La Fiesta restaurant downtown. Ricardo still needs a day job, though she says he's happier, drinking less.”

Faces lit up around the circle. “Way cool!” said Yo-Yo. “Guess the Big Guy Upstairs likes mariachi music.”

I started to laugh but had to stifle a huge sneeze building up in my head instead.

Avis smiled. “A good reminder to keep praying for the men in our lives. Florida's not here, but I know she wants us to keep praying for Carl. Let's include them when we—”

Even before Adele opened her mouth, I knew Avis had walked into her own trap.

“Speakin' of the
men
in our lives,” Adele drawled, “isn't it about time you told us what's happenin' with you and Mr. Peter Douglass? You been mighty quiet about his intentions, but we all got eyes, girl. If you can't tell
us,
who you gonna tell?” Unanimous hooting and smart mouths greeted Adele's declaration.

Adele was back, bold and sassy. It felt good.

Avis shot me a
Didn't-I-tell-you-not-to-say-any-thing?
look, but I shook my head with angelic innocence. The only person I'd told wasn't even there.

The wisecracks simmered away when Avis nodded in resignation. She did not look happy. “All right. To be honest, Peter and I are . . . well, we're letting things cool off right now.”

We were getting pretty good at stunned silences.

Ruth frowned. “Joking, you must be! Bad for my heart.” Her
yenta
-ness didn't like this at all.

“No. That's it. I'm . . . we're . . . well, still friends. But that's it.”

Adele pursed her lips and studied Avis's face. Avis actually squirmed. “I think, Avis, you need to trust us. What's going on? What happened?”

The room got very quiet. Avis blinked rapidly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ben Garfield peek into the living room with a questioning expression. I shook my head imperceptibly.

We waited. Avis took a deep breath. “I . . . like Peter very much. He has brought a lot of joy into my life, especially since . . . since Conrad died. Yet recently he told me . . .” Another breath. “Recently he told me that he has loved me for many years, even while I was married to Conrad. He was Conrad's college friend, you know.”

Her words slipped away, but no one spoke. Avis twisted her wedding ring. “I loved my husband very much. I still love him. After he died, when the loneliness was unbearable, I often thought about the fact that he is in heaven, waiting for me.” She grimaced, a half smile. “I know, I know. There is no marriage in heaven. And for a while, I did think that maybe God had sent Peter to fill the empty hole in my life. Though now . . . to learn that Peter loved me even while I was married to Conrad makes me feel”—her face muscles tightened—“like I'm committing adultery. Not that there's been any physical intimacy between us—nothing like that. But in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said that ‘anyone who looks at a woman lustfully' has already committed adultery.” Her large, dark eyes flashed. “So I'm supposed to marry a man who's been lusting after me for years, even while I was married to one of his best friends? I don't think so!”

And there it was.We all just stared at her. I blew my nose, trying to clear my fogged-up brain.What she said made sense, in a slice-it-close-to-the-bone way. But inwardly, the part of me that loved Avis, that wanted her to laugh again and be loved again, was screaming,
You
nitwit! Grab that good-looking man who adores you, who
loves God, who's a match for you brain cell for brain cell, and
run to the closest preacher!

It was Adele who broke the silence. “Avis.” She said Avis's name like a kid sister who needed straightening out. “Maybe there's somethin' to what you just said;maybe not. It just doesn't sit well with my spirit. If that man loved you all this time, and you just now finding out about it, I'd say he's more of a man than I even figured him to be—and I'd already put him in the top ten of decent men I've met in my lifetime.” She leaned back in that Buddha pose of hers, arms folded across her chest. “Seems I recall you remindin' us earlier tonight about agreein' together in prayer.Well, for the record, I'm not agreein' with you yet on this. I will do one thing, though: I will pray on it with you.”

Avis nodded, and it was Adele who led us into the prayer time.We poured out all the things on our plate—the meeting with the parole board, Hoshi's parents, Ricardo and Carl needing a job, plus prayers for our sisters who were missing. When I sensed the prayers were winding down—a little sooner than usual, since Avis was pretty muted after her “confession”—I slipped out to Stu's car and got the chocolate cake that had been hiding in the backseat, keeping chilled at least. Chanda was praying when I came back in, giving me time to sneak it into the kitchen, where Ben was waiting. “Didn't know you got a cake for Ruth,” I whispered, “but it's okay, because we have two birthdays! Ruth and Stu.” I beamed, trying to put him at ease. “A cake for each!”

“Ah! Great solution.” He handed me a box of birth-day candles. “Stick a few on there, like I did. They can each blow them out.”

We could hear the final “Thank You, Jesus! Yes! We thank You!” rising from the living room, so Ben and I lit our candles and carefully carried the cakes through the dining room to the archway leading into the Garfield's tiny living room. “Happy birthday to youuuuu,” Ben boomed out—and I nearly dropped my chocolate cake. The man had a deep, velvety voice that could go onstage! But all the Yada Yadas chimed in: “Happy birthday to youuuu!”Ruth's cheeks got pink with embarrassment. “Happy birthday, Ruth and Stuuuu . . .”

At that exact moment, I felt the stubborn old sneeze I'd been stuffing back into its black hole all evening come sneaking out, bigger and badder than the last attempt to erupt. And holding a cake in both hands, there was not one thing I could do about it. As Ben boomed out the last “Happy birthday to youuuuu” . . . I sneezed all over Stu's chocolate cake and snuffed out the candles.

Literally.

30

S
o much for my chocolate cake. I felt mortified—but everyone else thought it was hysterical. Especially Ben Garfield. He laughed so hard he almost dropped his cake.

At least there was still plenty of cake to go around. And at least Stu knew she was included in the birthday celebration, especially since all the Yada Yadas had brought cards for her, too, as well as Ruth. She even seemed pleased at my computer-generated card. “Stuart means ‘caretaker,' huh? I kinda like that.” She struck a dramatic pose, the way we used to play “freeze” when I was a kid. “Stuart . . . the gruff, bewhiskered caretaker, patrolling the grounds of a grand old Scottish castle with his pipe and his dog.”

Oh, please.

“
Her
pipe and
her
dog is correct English, I believe,” Hoshi said sincerely.

While Chanda and Stu cracked up at that, I slipped into the Garfields' bathroom to blow my nose and wash my hands, wishing I could take some cold meds
now
and kick this cold before it took up residence in my head again. I opened the medicine cabinet—and the jammed contents spilled out like Niagara Falls. The clatter seemed deafening in that tiny space.
Oh Lord, I'm dead meat,
I groaned, grabbing Dr. Scholl's bunion pads, ear swabs, an old bottle of iodine, and several ancient containers with who-knows-what in them, hoping the rattling bathroom fan had drowned out my fiasco.

A knock on the bathroom door sealed my doom. “You all right in there, Jodi?” Ben Garfield's voice.

I cracked the door. “Sorry. I was looking for some cold medicine. Should've asked.”

Ben's grin pushed his cheeks up, nearly closing his twinkling eyes. “I
never
open that cabinet. Everything in it is at least twenty years old—maybe forty! But Ruth won't get rid of anything—‘just in case,' you know.Wait here. I'll get you something.” His shoulders shook with laughter as he vanished, reappearing moments later with two decongestants, two Tylenol, and a glass of water. I wanted to kiss his big ol' face.

People were shrugging on coats and jackets at the front door when I came out. “Don't you be givin' 'way dat mon,Avis Johnson,” Chanda scolded good-naturedly, pulling on a Lord & Taylor leather hat and leather gloves. “Mi hangin' on to my mon dis time.”

“Speaking of whom”—Stu slid in on the tail end of Chanda's comment like a sneaky budget amendment in Congress—“when is Dia's daddy going to make an hon-est woman of you?”

In the split second after Stu opened her mouth, all other mouths closed and a toxic vacuum followed. Chanda's eyes, green with glittery eye shadow, narrowed. “What you meanin' by dat, Leslie Stuart?”