The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (31 page)

Whoa. Full names.
It was as if a bell had rung in a boxing ring.

Stu shrugged. “Well, you said Dia's daddy is back—meaning, I presume, that he's moved in. But is he going to marry you?”

The green eye shadow narrowed into slits. “What business is dat of yours? Dese t'ings take time.”

“Maybe we ought to leave this for another—” Avis started.

“No, we into it now.” Chanda jutted out her chin. “I know what you all t'inkin' since DeShawn come back. You t'inkin' he just after mi winnin's. But it not like dat. You wait. You see.We gonna make a good t'ing here dis time.”

Adele shook her head. “Honey, I hope you're right. I've seen my share of gold diggers, though, and you're one rich lady right now, as I understand.What
you
need is a lawyer.”

Ruth—the only one not swaddled in coat and hat—laid a gentle hand on Chanda's arm. “To be happy is what we want for you too, Chanda. If he is serious, as you say, he should court you, marry you,
then
move in as the daddy.”

Chanda stuck out her bottom lip. “But he's already Dia's daddy—an' my kids need a daddy
now.
We gonna get married, soon as I get me a house, t'ings like dat. Don't want to wait.”

“That's what worries us, honey,” Adele murmured. “Not to mention you livin' in sin. Don't you read your Bible? You got babies by three different daddies. Don't that say somethin'?”

Chanda's chin went up. “Well, maybe so. At least I didn't get no abortion when I got pregnant wit my t'ree babies. Could've been done wit dat, live free an' easy—but I took responsibility for mi mistakes. Gonna raise my kids and get 'em a daddy, if it be de last t'ing I do!” The green eye shadow was sparkling now.

“I really think this needs another time when—” Avis tried again.

Stu's head jerked up. “Don't go making abortion the worst sin in the world, Chanda George.” I flinched. Full names again. Stu's voice raised a notch. “I see a lot of hurting women in my work at DCFS. A woman makes a mistake, gets pregnant, feels backed in a corner. Man leaves, no money, no job, everybody's going to talk—no wonder she considers an abortion! But”—a note of scorn crept in—“a
mistake
is one thing.
Three
mistakes in a row—now, that's something else.”

Chanda's mouth dropped and her eyes widened. The tension in the foyer crackled like an electrical short. Sweat trickled down my back, whether from standing so long indoors with my coat on or from stress, I wasn't sure. But just then Adele took a firm grip of Chanda's arm and practically pushed her out the front door. “Avis is right. This conversation needs a sit-down, and I, for one, have to open up the shop at 7 a.m. Chanda, take me home in that new chariot of yours.”

Ruth's front door shut behind them. All eyes turned to Stu. She pulled her long hair out from under the collar of her jacket and flipped her head to loosen it. “Well, somebody had to say something.Why have we all been dancing around Chanda in ballet slippers?”

BEN'S DOCTORING WAS TOO late. I was up half the night sneezing and hacking and trying to breathe, and Denny made the call to Bethune Elementary at six thirty the next morning saying I needed a sub. I crawled back into bed, down in the dumps. One brief week between colds was
not
a good sign. I ached all over. Maybe I had the flu.

Denny called Dr. Lewinski, who said I probably pushed it two weeks ago. He recommended at least three days of bed rest. “There's a nasty Asian flu hitting the States,” he told Denny. “Jodi's immune system is weakened without her spleen. She needs to be careful.”

Huh.What did he know about careful? I taught third graders for heaven's sake! Colds and flu were part of the job description.

I meekly stayed home the next three days, listening to music CDs, working on my quilt square for Avis—
Avis and Peter,
if Delores's faith weighted God's scale—and catching my first glimpse of a robin in our backyard. Would've been bliss if I hadn't felt so rotten. Willie Wonka played the dutiful nursemaid, trailing me from room to room when I was out of bed, watching me with a doggy frown imbedded in his soft brown forehead, and offering his ears to scratch when he thought I needed something to do.

Avis dropped off a new
Songs 4 Worship Gospel
CD. “Keep your praise on, Jodi,” she said, breezing in and breezing out again Monday afternoon. I wanted to talk to her about the sparks that flew between Chanda and Stu the other night, but she had a staff meeting.

I skipped some of the exuberant praise songs the first day or two because they made my head throb. Some of the worship cuts were beautiful, though. I lay on the couch, stroking Wonka's ears and absorbing the words like intra-venous nourishment.
“There's a lifting of the hands . . . a lift-ing
of the hearts . . . a lifting of the eyes . . . Beyond the hills,
to where our help comes from . . .”
I checked the lyric sheet. Some group called Israel & New Breed. I listened to it again . . . and again. So true.
“Our help comes
from You . . .”

Well, Yada Yada was going to need help from God, that was for sure. I kept thinking about what happened Sunday night between Stu and Chanda. On one hand, Stu just said what the rest of us had been thinking. It was true! None of us trusted Dia's daddy, even if he was a good dancer and wore leather. (Or maybe
because
he was a good dancer and wore leather!) But Stu's hackles had really risen when Chanda defended herself about having three kids by different daddies, patting herself on the back because she didn't choose abortion.

Something funny about it all. Almost as if—

I blinked at the notion that pushed its way to the front of my mucus-muddled head. Almost as if Stu was defending
herself.

STU MUST HAVE TALKED to Florida about going to testify to the parole board, because Florida called me during the week saying she was good to go, “ . . . if Carla not still sick. Saturday after next, right? Well, she oughta be okay by then. 'Less she got that SARS or whatever they talkin' about on the radio.”

SARS—Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome. It was all over the news, at least now that several cases had shown up in the U.S. A few people had come down with what seemed like the flu and died. I rushed to assure Florida. “Haven't heard about any cases involving children . . . ahh-ahh- ahh! 'Scuse me, Flo,” and I sneezed into the big T-shirt I was wearing. Man! I needed to remember to carry one of Denny's handkerchiefs around with me.Now I had to change my shirt. “Sorry,” I sniffled. “Hope Carla doesn't feel as lousy as I do.”

“Maybe
you
the one should worry about that SARS thing, Jodi. Didn't the doc say you runnin' around with-out all your immunities or somethin'?”

Or something.Whatever. So far it was just a cold. I shifted the topic. “So how come you're calling me in the middle of the day? Aren't you at work?”

“Nah. Had to take a couple o' sick days to stay home with Carla. Carl got him a temporary job at some ware-house—security guard or somethin'.”

“Hey, that's good, Flo. Sorry you had to miss work, though.” I wasn't sure Florida's job paid for sick days.

“Huh. I think it's temporary 'cause his job record's not so hot. Two weeks on a job—then
bam!
he quits. Or gets fired. I ain't complainin', though, 'cause I'm praisin' God for this time with Carla. She's asleep right now, but you know what we been doin'? Reading books! The TV's broke, and she threw a fit at first. Boys too. But I went to the library, an' we been reading
Amelia Bedelia
an' some old American black folktales—girl! I remember my mama tellin' me some o' those tales!—an' that new chapter book about Ruby Bridges you gave her. Carla, she eatin' it up. I . . .” Florida's voice seemed to choke up, and she cleared her throat a couple of times. “Best thing of all, Jodi, is Carla and me all cuddled up in the bed, my arm under her head . . . an' she been callin' me Mama 'stead of Florida.”

“Oh, Florida.” I could hardly breathe—and this time it wasn't because of my cold.

“He's a mighty good God, Jodi. Mighty good. I think we gonna make it now, hard as it been. If Chris jus' stop disappearin' when he s'posed to be home, an' Carl hang onto that job—oh. I hear Carla. Gotta go.” She hung up.

Well. I sure did have something new to praise God for . . . and pray about. As I tossed the cordless on the couch and shuffled toward the front door to get the mail, I caught myself begging God to make it all right for the Hickman family—
everything
all right. Except I knew God didn't usually work that way, tying up all the loose ends in a pretty bow.What I'd been learning from Florida—from all the Yada Yada sisters, for that matter—was more like two steps forward, one step back, a victory here, a seeming defeat . . . but never losing sight that God was bigger than the enemy.

I stepped out on the porch long enough to dig out the mail from our rusty metal mailbox and pick up the newspaper. A front-page headline blared: SHOCK AND AWE! U.S.MILITARY PLANNING HIGH-TECHWAR ON BAGHDAD. I scanned the story with growing dread, not even realizing I was shivering on the front porch in nothing more than my oversize T-shirt and socks, till I heard Josh's voice yell, “Why is the front door open? . . . Mom! Are you nuts? If Dad saw you out there, he'd have a fit!” My son actually grabbed the paper from me and pulled me inside like a bad puppy.

I ignored his disapproval, rifling through the usual assortment of bills and ads in the mail as I followed him into the kitchen. “Whoa! Josh! Look at this!” I held up a long official envelope with Josh's name on it. “Your letter from UIC!” I handed it to him with a grin. “Open it!”

He shrugged, putting down the glass of orange juice he'd just poured for himself. “Okay.” He tore open the flap in a jagged tear and pulled out the contents, scanned the letter, and tossed it on the counter.

“What?” My heart flopped. Had they turned down his application? Couldn't be! He had great grades and good test scores. I reached for the letter and read it myself as Josh wandered toward the living room, orange juice and newspaper in hand.

The first phrase leaped off the page: “We are pleased to inform you . . .” Accepted! Josh had been accepted at the University of Illinois-Champaign. “Josh!” I screeched, tearing toward the living room. “This is great! You got accepted by UIC. Congratulations!”

Josh, imbedded in the couch, barely raised his once-again-shaved-bald head from the newspaper. “Thanks. Doesn't mean I'm going to go, though.”

31

I
counted to ten—make that twenty—and said in a calm-but-really-screaming voice, “Don't throw away a college acceptance willy-nilly, Joshua James Baxter.We need a sit-down—with Dad too.” Good grief. I used all three of his names.

“Okay.” Josh lowered his eyelids over the top of the newspaper, feigning patience. “It's not like that's news. I told you I might volunteer at Jesus People for a year and get a job on the side.”

“Correction. You told Mr. Douglass in our presence. Not the same thing. You—”

The cordless started ringing somewhere in the couch. Josh dug it out of the cushions. “Yo. Baxters. . . . Okay.” He held out the phone in my direction. “For you.”

I snatched the phone and mouthed at Josh,
“Later.”
Then I spoke into the phone, “Hello? Oh, Nony! Hi. Thanks for returning my call.” I stalked down the hall toward my bedroom and flopped on the bed, suddenly very tired. “You weren't at Yada Yada Sunday night. Just wanted to see if the boys are any better, and how you're doin'.”

“Oh. Thank you, Jodi.” Nony's liquid voice had a calming effect on my ruffled spirit. “Both boys are back in school, praise Jesus.”

“You and Mark?”

“Oh, we're fine. Mark never gets sick, healthy as a—”

“I didn't mean that. I meant, how are you and Mark . . . you know.”

“Oh. That.” A brief pause, like a silent hiccup. “We do best not talking about it, putting it in the cupboard, I think you say.” I smiled at the phone.
On the shelf, in the cup-board—
same thing.
“But God and I,” she continued, “we talk all the time about South Africa. Or”—she laughed nervously—“maybe I'm doing all the talking. I think God was speaking to me at the last Yada Yada meeting, though I didn't want to listen.”

“Really? I was afraid it wasn't what you wanted to hear.”

“It wasn't. But two days ago I got an e-mail from my brother in Pietermaritzburg—maybe you heard this on the news—”

Not me.Has there been anything else on the news except
the buildup of war clouds in the Middle East?

“—the Truth and Reconciliation Commission has been pressuring the South African government to make reparations for victims of apartheid. Nyack says opinion from the international community is vital and is asking me—begging me!—to make the issue known here in the United States. He wants me to lobby Congress, generate letters of support, whatever I can do. The vote is coming up in Parliament in April.”