The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (4 page)

“Excuse me,” I said, firmly taking Delores by the hand. “Can you join us, please?” and I dragged her across the room to where Denny and José stood talking.

“Now.” I put on the best smile I could manage. “José informs us he wants to give Amanda a
quin
. . . uh, a
quin
—”

“A
quinceañera. Sí!
” Delores beamed, her round cheeks still glowing pink from our foray out by the lakefront. “A wonderful idea, yes?”

I still didn't have a clue what a
quinceañera
would entail, but it didn't really matter. “Well, yes, of course—maybe for Emerald. She'll be fifteen in a few years, and I'm sure it will be lovely. But . . .” I looked at Denny for help; he looked at me as though curious to know what I was driving at. “But . . .”
Oh God, help.What am I trying
to say here? I don't want to hurt Delores's feelings—or José 's
either, for that matter. But . . .

Okay, I was going to be honest. “But it feels awkward for
you
to give our daughter a birthday party.” I could feel the color creeping up my neck. “As if . . . as if we fell down on the job, didn't celebrate her birthday adequately.” Personally, I thought Amanda had a very nice birthday, though admittedly just a family dinner with Edesa Reyes and Emerald as special guests—her “big” and “little” sisters.We'd even redecorated her bedroom—well, we'd given her some sunshine yellow paint and a new comforter.

Apparently, though, that was B.J.
Before José.

Delores opened her mouth, then shut it and wrinkled her brow. She looked genuinely puzzled. Suddenly she laughed and clutched me in a big hug. “Oh, Jodi, Jodi. You think too much!” She let go of me and grabbed one of Denny's arms and one of José's, like they were going to do the cancan. “We love Amanda too—Amanda the ‘lovable,' ” she teased, playing on the meaning of Amanda's name. “You must share her with us, not keep her all to yourself! She is becoming a young woman—that is the purpose of a
quinceañera.
Like a . . . what do you say in English?”

“Like a debutante ball or ‘sweet sixteen' party?” Denny said helpfully. I stared at my husband.What did he know about debutante balls? Not in
our
income bracket.

“Sí!
That is it.” Delores beamed again.

Over Delores's shoulder I saw Amanda coming out of the women's bathroom, her butterscotch hair twisted up in a butterfly clip. “Just tell me,” I hissed, “have you mentioned this to Amanda yet?” If not, no harm done if we said no.

“No, I don't think so,” Delores said. “José?”

José shuffled. “Well, kind of.”

Great.
I turned to Denny.
Now what?

Delores was unperturbed. “Jodi, just think about it, okay? It could be fun. We could do it together.” She beamed. “Another Yada Yada party—Mexican, this time.”

“Sure,” Denny said. Denny the Amiable. “We'll think about it. But it depends—how much it costs, things like that.We couldn't let you pay for something like that.”

Amanda headed for us like an arrow toward a bull's-eye.

“Yes, yes, we'll think about it,” I said hastily. “And . . . it's sweet of you to think of her. Just don't say any-thing more to her right now, all right?”

“Hey! What are you guys talking about?” Amanda eyed her father and me suspiciously, then darted a questioning look at José.

“How long you
señoritas
take to change clothes, is what!” José joked. “I am being a gentleman, waiting till you are finished to get some food—but I am starving! Come on.” He grabbed Amanda by the hand and headed for the kitchen pass-through.

I heard Denny chuckle. “Nice save, José.”

3

W
e stayed to help clean up after the Warm-Up Party, so it was nearly four by the time we pulled into the garage behind our two-flat.The kids scrambled out of the minivan and hustled toward the house. “Josh! Take Willie Wonka out, okay?” I yelled after him. “He hasn't had a walk today.”

Josh's stride stuttered just long enough to tell me he'd gotten the message—long enough to probably roll his eyes too. “What's his problem?” I muttered, hauling the damp towels and blankets out of the back of the Caravan. “It's his job to walk the dog.”

“Rose Bowl,” Denny said, grabbing the sport bags with the wadded-up clothes and making his own shot put for the house.

Sure enough, the TV was on by the time I got inside, and both Josh and Denny were engrossed in the pre-kickoff interviews and commentary. “So what do you think Oklahoma's chances are of taking home a win today?” . . . “Well, Bud, we've had a great season, the team has worked hard, and we're ready. Don't tell Washington State, but we plan on taking home that trophy.” Mutual grins and laughter.

Sheesh. Do they bag that stuff and sell it by the pound?
I stood in the archway between the front hall and living room, debating whether to put my foot down and send Josh out with the dog or give up and take the dog myself. Josh looked up. “Mom! I promise to walk Wonka at half-time, okay? Just let him out in the yard for a few minutes—he'll be okay till then.”

“Well . . . all right.” As long as he wasn't ignoring me. I shed my own winter wraps, let Willie Wonka out, gathered up the damp towels and blankets, and headed for the basement to toss them into the washing machine. Josh seemed different lately. Not bad or anything, but less predictable. Like shaving his head last fall and leaving a long topknot—dyed orange!—just before his grandparents came to visit.
My
parents at that. We all survived, and the topknot, thank goodness, had eventually gone the way of all his other hair. But the bald head had stayed like a permanent light fixture.

And then there was the college application to the University of Illinois in Champaign—due January 1. Yet when I checked on it after the Christmas hustle-bustle, Josh hadn't even started! He barely got it in yesterday's mail so it'd be postmarked December 31.What was
that
all about? Last year he'd been so eager about going to college.

I set the washing machine temp to Hot, let it start filling, and filled the cap of the detergent bottle with blue liquid.
At least he's not into drugs or pierced body parts
—
thank You, Jesus!
I opened the lid of the washing machine to toss in the detergent—and realized with a start that the machine was already full of washed clothes. My upstairs neighbors'!
Oh God, don't let them come down here
till I spin the water out of there.
I quickly hit Stop, reset the machine to Spin, and bundled my armload of towels and blankets back up the basement stairs. Didn't want them to know I'd even been down there!

Back in our first-floor apartment, I dumped the laundry on the kitchen floor and collapsed on a stool. Saved! What if I'd dumped that detergent on top of all their clothes? I'd be in deep suds then. But as my thud-ding heart slowed, I thought,
This is so stupid! We've lived
in this two-flat for a year and a half, and we still barely talk
to our upstairs neighbors.
Rose and Lamar Bennett, an attractive African-American couple, held professional jobs, and we hardly ever saw them unless the furnace went on the fritz or Willie Wonka accidentally left a pile on the sidewalk. DINKS, Denny called them—Double Income, No Kids.

It bothered me that we had so little interaction with the Bennetts. I wasn't sure what I'd expected when we'd moved into the city from Downers Grove, but I'd imagined we might become friends, or at least friendly neighbors. Didn't happen.We were more like cold sides of beef hanging side by side in a frozen-food locker.

I got up from the stool and turned on the teakettle. That was one reason it had meant so much to me when Avis Johnson—my African-American principal at Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary, where I taught third grade—had invited me to that Chicago Women's Conference last May. Avis was also a member of Uptown Community Church, even before we started attending, so I knew her two ways: “Ms. Johnson” Monday through Friday, and “Avis” on Sunday.

I'd been in awe of her at first, never imagining we'd become friends as well as coworkers. Avis was so classy. She had a calming, upbeat presence, both at school and at church—and she looked mighty good for fifty-something too. Yet we'd gone to that women's conference together—urbane Avis Johnson and hick-chick Jodi Baxter from Des Moines, Iowa—neither one of us dreaming we'd come home with a prayer group as jumbled as a drawer full of mismatched socks. Not only Florida Hickman (“five years saved and five years sober—thank ya, Jesus!”) and Ruth Garfield, a Messianic Jew; but Hoshi Takahashi, brought up by Shinto parents in Japan, who'd met Jesus at the home of Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith when Nony's very American husband—a professor at Northwestern University—invited his students for an authentic South African meal.

And that was only the beginning. There were twelve of us in the prayer group, though for several months last fall we were only eleven when Adele Skuggs, owner of Adele's Hair and Nails on Clark Street, boycotted the group because—

The teakettle whistled.

I shut off the flame on the stove, batting back sud-den tears.
Oh God, we've been through so much mess this
past year. I could really use some peace in this new year—
even dull and boring would be nice!

I grabbed a dishtowel, overwhelmed as fresh memories flushed out along with the tears.
Denny on his knees at
Adele's salon, asking forgiveness of poor, confused MaDear
Skuggs for a crime he didn't commit, yet owning the legacy of
sin that had created so much rift between us . . . the heroin-crazed
woman who had robbed the prayer group at knifepoint
in this very house . . . and the face of the young teen boy, caught
in my headlights just before my car hit him, that still haunted
my dreams.
I gave up, slid down the kitchen cabinets until I was sitting on the floor, and had a good bawl.

With that sixth sense of dogs, Willie Wonka wandered into the kitchen and tried to lick my face. “And that,” I said, blowing my nose into the now-damp dish-towel, “is why I didn't even
try
to write the annual Baxter Christmas letter this year,Wonka.Not that you care.” Or could even hear me, for that matter. Yet in spite of being almost stone-deaf,Willie Wonka was a patient listener.

I got off the floor, splashed water on my face, made a big mug of hot tea, and grabbed the phone out of its cradle. I had a sudden urge to talk to Avis. She hadn't been at Uptown last Sunday, and with this being a school break, it felt like a
month
of Sundays since I'd even seen her, much less had a good talk with her.

The most comfy chairs were in the living room, but it was obvious that only football aficionados were likely to enjoy them until January 2. After peeking in on my family—even Amanda was sprawled on the couch, her feet on her daddy's lap, yelling for Oklahoma—I headed back down the hallway to our bedroom at the back of the house, punching in Avis's home number as I went.

She answered on the fourth ring.

“Avis! It's Jodi.” I kicked off my shoes and flopped down on the wedding-ring quilt covering our bed. I could hear a TV in the background—sounded like the football game. Stereo football—my house, her house.

“Hi, Jodi. Just a minute.” I heard the phone muffle but could still hear her say, “Turn the TV down a little, will you?” Then she was back. “What's up? How was the Polar Bear Plunge?”

Turn the TV down?
Who in the world was at Avis's apartment? No one was ever at Avis's apartment when I called. She was a widow and lived alone. Had a married daughter on the south side, another in Cincinnati, a third in college. Maybe Natasha was home for the holidays. “Got company?” I asked casually.

“Oh, Peter Douglass came over to watch the bowl games. Apparently that's a tradition for him, but he doesn't have any football buddies here in Chicago yet.”

And
you
are a football buddy?
I wanted to say. Avis had never shown the slightest interest in football since I'd known her. “Hey,” I said lightly, “we should've invited you guys over here. Denny and Josh and Amanda are glued to the tube.”

“Oh.Well, he wanted to see the Cotton Bowl, then the Orange Bowl, now the Rose Bowl.” She laughed—and didn't seem the least bit annoyed at all that football. “Now tell me how the Polar Bear Plunge went! Did you go in?”

“You know better, Avis Johnson! But Denny did—along with Josh, Amanda, and a bunch of other teenagers. Oh yes, and Stu and Yo-Yo!” I ticked off the Yada Yada sisters who had come to the beach, bringing their kids—or kid brothers, in Yo-Yo's case. “We went back to the church for hot chocolate and chili—it was kinda neat to have Ruth and Ben there. Ruth didn't come when Yada Yada visited Uptown that time.”