The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (38 page)

“DeShawn.”

“Yeah, him too, if he'd like to join us. She said she'd ask, but I haven't heard back. Looks like we lost our warm weather, though. Shoot. Maybe I could get per-mission to use the small gym at West Rogers High—yeah, that's it. No sweat. Hm, better double-check with Giordano's about those pizzas. Don't want ten hungry teenagers on my hands and
no food
.” Denny rolled his eyes in mock horror, not especially aware that he'd mostly been talking to himself.

I did a basic grocery shop and picked up the prescription for the ear infection doc said I was working on and probably explained why I'd been feeling so run down. The antibiotic would take care of it in a few days. But that wasn't what I dreaded telling Denny. Still, I had the afternoon to figure it out. Amanda was babysitting; Willie Wonka and I had the house to ourselves—a perfect time to finish working on my quilt square for Avis. denny and josh didn't get home till after nine that evening. I'd zonked out on the couch watching Dick Clark host
The Best of the Bloopers,
but I sat up when I heard my own “Geezer” and “Young Blood” raiding the refrigerator, wiped the drool off my face, and tried to look halfway intelligent by the time they tromped into the living room.

“Hi, guys.” I clicked off the TV. “How was—”

“Wait, Mom! Turn it back on.Was that
CSI: Miami
?” Josh hunkered down on the other end of the couch and stuffed a sandwich into his mouth.

I stuck the TV remote behind me. “Not on your life, buster. Not till I hear about your Guys' Day Out.”

“It was great, wasn't it, Dad?” Josh said, chewing and talking at the same time. “Okay, now turn it on. Never mind, I'll get it.” And the scoundrel got up and turned on the TV the old-fashioned way, with the
on
button.

I gave up on Josh, but I hauled Denny back into the kitchen just before he sank into the recliner. “Denny! C'mon. Tell me about it. Did DeShawn show up?”

“Nope. Chanda made some lame excuse, though Thomas said he never came home last night.”Now Denny was chewing and talking. “Frankly, Thomas didn't seem to mind—kinda latched on to Peter Douglass since they were both solo.”

“Peter! Really?”

“Uh-huh.” Another mouthful of sandwich. “Oh, yeah. Thomas said he wants to be called Tom now.”

To hear Denny tell it, the Geezers whupped the Young Bloods—for about thirty minutes of play at West Rogers High's small gym. Then the Young Bloods took the lead and stayed there—for two games. “Even with all those shorties!” Denny groaned in mock despair. “Tell you what, Jodi. I was proud of Josh and Pete and José—Chris Hickman too. They kept cycling the younger guys in on a regular basis, so everybody got to play.”

Denny made himself another sandwich. “Didn't you guys get pizza?” I asked, eyeing the Dagwood-size creation.

“Yep. Got two pieces, I think. That was hours ago.” The second sandwich seemed to fuel Denny's willingness to re-create the Guys'Day Out, because he launched into the “guy talk” after the pizza. “I was thinking Mark Smith would be the man to get the guys talking—you know, being a teacher and all that. Yet I think the boys were intimidated by all that education and fancy title. Turned out Peter Douglass—sans suit and tie and soaked in sweat—was
da man.
He just kept asking questions: what video games they liked to play, what they liked—and didn't like—about school, what teachers were good, what teachers were lousy. Pretty soon the kids were so eager to talk they kept interrupting each other. But then Peter asked each of the Geezers—sheesh, we'll never live that name down now—to just tell the guys our own stories. What's been tough, what's been important, what we'd do different. Man!” Denny's eyes got a bit wet. “It was powerful stuff.”

“Even Ricardo Enriquez? I mean, did he actually
talk?”

“Yeah, he did. He seemed powerfully moved that the rest of us wanted to listen. And Mark . . .” Denny stopped chewing. “Dunno. I might have gone out on a limb there.”

“Limb? What limb?”

“Well, Mark actually told the guys—kinda half-joking about it—to think twice before marrying a girl from outside the U.S, or they'd be arguing about where to live the rest of their lives.”

Ah.
“And you said . . . ?”

Denny swallowed his last bite and licked mustard off his fingers. “Well, nothing right then. But later, while Mark and I were taking out the garbage, I opened my big mouth and said, ‘Know what, Mark? When I see Nony, I see a woman who's dying inside by inches. Have you ever thought about taking a sabbatical from Northwestern and taking the family to South Africa for a year or two? God put that fire in her for a reason.'”

My mouth dropped. “You didn't! I mean, you did? What in the world did he say to that?”

Denny shrugged. “Not much. Just gave me a funny look and muttered something like, ‘Not that easy.' Still, glad I said it. Been thinking it for some time.” My husband stretched his shoulder muscles and groaned. “Bet I'm going to be sore tomorrow.” He stood up. “Mind if I finish up
CSI
with Josh?”

I shrugged. “Sure.” Though I still hadn't told him what Dr. Lewinski said. “Uh, one more thing.”

He turned at the hallway. “Yeah?”

Denny looked like a big overgrown kid standing in the doorway, still in his sweats. Face tired but eyes warm and satisfied with his successful outing. Dimples framing the slight smile on his lips.No. This had been a great day for Denny and the guys. My news could wait. “Uh, just wanted to remind you that Yada Yada is visiting Adele's and Chanda's church tomorrow.Wanna come?”

He rolled his eyes and laughed. “I think I've had enough stimulation for one weekend! If the guys do it again, we'll have to call it the Bada-Boom Bada-Bing Brotherhood or something.” He disappeared down the hall, still chuckling.

The Bada-Boom Bada-Bing Brotherhood. Good grief.

37

T
he first Sunday of April rolled in an hour early—the day Chicago and most of the rest of the country switched to Daylight Savings Time. One less hour of sleep. But I made sure we changed our clocks this time because I didn't want to show up an hour late at Adele's church. Not that that could happen, since I rode with On-Time Stuart the next morning—though when we pulled up a few car lengths from the square brick building, I felt a little embarrassed at the thought of climbing out of her sporty Celica in a neighborhood that seemed like a photo op for urban blight.

“Uh, why don't we park around the corner and walk back?” I suggested.

“ 'Cause I want to keep an eye on my car, that's why! C'mon.”

The church sign said,
Paul and Silas Apostolic Baptist
Church.
Huh. There it was, just like Adele said. “Uh, do you see any other Yada Yadas?” I peered anxiously through the windshield at the assorted people gathered around the entrance to the compact church building. Several older men—older than me, anyway—in black suits, white shirts, and narrow black ties stood on the steps and in the double doorway, shaking hands with people. Little boys chased each other in dark pants and button shirts—until a nearby adult cuffed the closest scamp upside the head. Frilly dresses and last year's Easter hats adorned a bevy of little girls. All the women, young and old, wore dresses. And hats. Not a pantsuit in sight. Not a white face either.

Oh, dear.
Adele had given us the “dress code,” so at least I was wearing a proper skirt. But I didn't have a single hat to my name, and I didn't think one of Denny's handkerchiefs pinned to my head would pass muster.

“There's Adele and MaDear . . . Avis and Florida too.” Stu locked the car and hustled across the street to the cluster of Yada Yada sisters. I had to wait for two low-slung cars to rumble by, their sound systems so loud my teeth rattled, before I caught up to her.

MaDear, shuffling behind her walker, peered from under an ancient black hat wrapped in netting and sequins with a puzzled frown. “Do I know you?” she said, squinting at Florida. “Bessie's girl, ain'tcha. Girl, you gotta quit runnin' around and get yo' behind to church mo' often. An' where's yo hat?”With a shake of her head, she allowed two of the black suits to assist her up the steps to the door of the church.

“Bessie's girl, hmm?” Avis stage-whispered. “Been running around, my my.”

“Watch yourself, now,” Florida came back.

Adele smirked. “Come on; I'll run interference.”

Didn't know what she meant by “running interference” till we got to the inside door. A greeter holding a basket smiled at us. “Welcome to Paul and Silas. This your first time? Bless the
Lord!
Just help yourself.” She held out the basket, which was full of small, lace head coverings with a hairpin stuck in each one.

“That's all right, Sister Berry.” Adele waved her off. “These are my guests . . . I spoke to Reverend Miles.”

My bubble of relief was immediately pricked by Avis's effort at unity. “It's all right. I don't mind.” She took one of the lacy circles and pinned it on the top of her neat French roll.

Oh, thanks, Avis.
But I, too, dipped into the basket, just as glad Denny and the kids had elected not to come. I'd never hear the end of
this.

“Can't say I didn't try,” Adele muttered and led the way into the sanctuary.

I started to follow Adele and Avis, then realized Stu was heading back outside. I started to call after her, but saw her heading toward Chanda standing at the bottom of the outside steps and wearing a stunning pink suit and wide-brimmed matching hat. Thirteen-year-old Thomas—Tom—looked quite manly in his suit and bow tie; Cheree and little Dia wore matching coats, white frilly socks, and black-patent Mary Janes. Stu said something to Chanda, and Chanda waved the three kids inside while she stayed behind, one hand on her tailored pink hip, to hear what Stu had to say.

Lord Jesus!
I sent up a quick prayer.
Pour some grace on
that conversation.
Wasn't sure what Stu intended to say, but hopefully it would be oil on the troubled waters stirred up the last time those two had talked. Had to admire Stu taking the initiative before we all tried worshipping together.
Thank You in advance, Lord, for what You're going to do.
I smiled to myself. Definitely a New Jodi prayer.

The sanctuary was not large, maybe room for two hundred with two aisles dividing three sections of padded pews. A row of older women wearing white dresses and wielding cardboard fans sat in a front pew on the right. Must be the “mother board,” though I wasn't clear exactly what that meant. Should've asked Adele to brief us white folks a little more.

Chanda and Stu slipped into the pew behind us just as a young man in a blue and gold choir robe sat down at an actual piano—no electric keyboard—and pounded out several strong chords. As if on cue, the congregation rose, a flower garden of multihued hats and clumps of brown male heads. I took the opportunity to glance around. Nony, wearing an African-print head wrap, sat a few rows back, along with Delores, Edesa, and a wide-eyed Hoshi, “doilies” on their heads. No sign of Ruth or Yo-Yo.

No sign of “Dia's daddy” either.

Two lines of blue and gold choir robes started down the aisle, stepping slowly to the music, swaying side to side, filling the room with the proclamation:
“We've . . . come . . . this . . . fa-ar by faith! . . . Leaning on
. . . the Lo-ord!”

The words of the old spiritual still echoed in my heart as the service progressed.
(“Can't turn arou-ou-ound,We've
come this far by faith!”)
Two hymns from the pew hymnals were interspersed by two choir numbers (A and B selection), and a testimony time that went something like, “I praise God on today for my salvation, because He's brought me a mighty long way!” and “I coulda been dead, sleepin' in my grave, but He woke me up this morning in my right mind, praise Jesus!” and “I want to give honor to God who is the head of my life, and I'd like to say I'm glad to be in the house of the Lord one more time.”

The elderly Reverend Arthur Miles III, wearing a black robe with a white stole, came in from a side door halfway through the service and sat in an oversize chair, nodding his head to the B selection and the testimonies. But when he got up to preach, I was surprised at the strength of his voice. His sermon, titled “The Blood's Cleansing Power,” required two glasses of fresh water and a dry hand towel for mopping sweat off his face and neck. I was fascinated by the old-time preaching, the singsong voice, as he preached from the book of Leviticus about the “sin offering” required—a blood sacrifice—when a person broke God's law. The sermon crackled with electricity between the pulpit and the pews—practically after every phrase. “Preach it, pastor!” “You said it!” “My Lord!”