The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (5 page)

“Well, you wouldn't get me out on the beach in the middle of winter!” Avis said. “It's wonderful that Josh and Amanda keep including Yada Yada's kids in Uptown's youth activities. Especially Yo-Yo's brothers, since they don't go to any church. Real missionaries, your kids are.”

“You think? They've both been a little weird this fall—we had to ground Amanda for two weeks, remember? For sneaking off to the Mexican Independence Day parade with José and lying to us.”

“Well, they're kids, Jodi. Good kids, though. You ought to be thankful.”

Well, I am—most of the time.

“You gonna be at church this Sunday? Didn't see you last week, so I wasn't sure if you'd gone out of town . . .” I was fishing shamelessly, and I knew it. Avis never missed church, but she hadn't mentioned anything about going away for the holidays.

“Oh, sure. I'm leading worship. Peter's been church hunting and wanted to visit some churches in the area. So I took him to First Church of God up in Evanston. I used to go there before I came to Uptown.”

I had a slow, sinking feeling in my gut, like a blob of mercury sliding back down to zero in the meat thermo-meter after pulling it from the roast turkey. It had never occurred to me that Avis might go to some other church—though I sometimes wondered why she came to Uptown in the first place. For all Pastor Clark's good intentions of growing a diverse congregation, we were still pretty WASPish and rather slow to warm up to Avis's free style of worship and prayer. Florida showing up—and staying—had been a lot of support in that department, at least.

I heard Peter yelling in the background—and the Baxter trio yelling in stereo down the hall. Must've made a touchdown. “Oh, stop,” I heard Avis say, and she laughed. “You're nuts! Stop it.” And she giggled. “Peter is doing his own version of the end-zone dance. At his age!” She laughed again.

I couldn't imagine the distinguished black man Avis had brought to Uptown a month ago—clean-shaven except for a neat moustache, comfortable in a suit and tie, dark hair with only a hint of gray on both sides above his ears—doing the “touchdown stomp.” There was no doubt about it, though—a male voice was
woo-hooing
in Avis's living room, and Avis was giggling like a sixth-grader.

“Well, guess I better let you go since you've got company.”
Oh, grow up, Jodi! You sound like a kid who has to
share your mommy's attention.

“You all right, Jodi? Didn't ask why you called.”

“Yeah, I'm okay. Had a good bawl a little while ago, just thinking about the trauma we weathered this past year. Glad I didn't know
last
New Year's Day what God was going to take us through. And I was kinda missing you. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

“It
has
been a while, hasn't it? When did Yada Yada last meet? Before Christmas anyway. I'm so glad you called, Jodi. It was a tough year but a good year. God gave us the Yada Yada Prayer Group—who would've thought? And we've all learned a lot about God's faithfulness to us in the midst of all the . . .
stuff
that went down.”

A feel-sorry-for-myself lump gathered in my throat. “Yeah. I was just telling God I wouldn't mind a few months of ‘dull and boring' right about now.”

Avis laughed. “I'll stand in agreement with that! Let's all pray for ‘dull and boring—'”

Blaaaaaaaaaat.

“What was
that,
Jodi?”

I sighed. “Back door buzzer. Front doorbell has a nice
ding-dong
to it—you know.” I clambered off the bed and headed toward the kitchen. “Guess I better get it. Talk to you later, okay?”

I hung up the phone in the kitchen and peered out the glass window in the top half of the back door.
Good
grief.
It was my upstairs neighbor—Rose Bennett. Had she figured out that I almost rewashed her clothes in the machine? She couldn't have! I'd covered my tracks . . .

I put on a smile and opened the door. “Hi, Rose.” Her slim shoulders were hunched inside a sleek white jogging suit, her hair tied back with a black silk scarf—not her usual dressed-for-success attire. On a gentler day, I would have stepped out and just talked to her on the back porch. But that wind was nasty. “Come in before you freeze.”

The woman hesitated then stepped inside. “Jodi, isn't it?”

To my credit, I did not roll my eyes.We had only lived in the same two-flat for a year and a half. “Uh-huh. Jodi Baxter.What's up?” Did I really want to know?

“Lamar is being transferred to Atlanta.We'll be moving as soon as we find someone to sublet the apartment.”

“Oh.” I blinked a couple of times. “Okay. Thanks for letting us know. At least it's warmer in Atlanta.” I smiled helpfully.

Rose Bennett didn't even say good-bye. She just nodded, slipped out the door, and walked up the back stairs.

I shut the door after her and leaned against it. The Bennetts were moving! Was that good news or bad news? They certainly hadn't been very friendly. On the other hand, they hadn't been any trouble either—except for that late party last night. Maybe it'd been a good-bye celebration with their friends.

My brain was suddenly crowded with awful possibilities. What if a family with five noisy kids moved in upstairs? Or members of a heavy metal band who needed space to practice? I groaned aloud, imagining green spiked hair, black leather, and metal chains. “Okay, God, what's up with this?” I ranted. “What part of ‘dull and boring' don't You understand?”

4

T
he last few days of winter break, my kids acted like caged monkeys with bellyaches. Every time I asked Amanda to do something around the house, she wailed, “But I only have three more days till school starts!”—making it sound like these were her last days on earth. And Josh found some reason to be out every night till midnight, his non-school-night curfew. Funny how popular he was now that he had his driver's license.

“Can't we set a limit on how many midnights per week?” I fussed at Denny. “I never go to sleep till Josh gets home, and this is getting ridiculous!”

Frankly, I was glad when Amanda was invited to spend Friday and Saturday with her best friend in Downers Grove, taking the Metra train out to the south-west suburbs. Patti Sanders and Amanda had gone through elementary and middle school together, Awana Club and summer camp too. But the hour-plus drive on traffic-glutted highways between our Chicago neighbor-hood and Downers Grove meant that the girls hadn't seen each other that often since we moved. “Have fun, honey,” I said, giving Amanda a kiss at the Rogers Park Metra station Friday morning.
Go, go,
I thought.
Drive
somebody else's mother crazy.
And then I immediately had an anxiety attack when the train pulled out. She had to change trains at the Metra hub downtown. What if she got on the wrong train? What if Patti's mom wasn't at the station to pick her up? What if some maniac saw she was alone and . . .

Get a grip, Jodi,
I scolded myself as I drove back to Lunt Avenue.
Haven't you learned anything about trust
this past year? Didn't God protect Amanda and you and
Denny and all the Yada Yadas when we got robbed last fall?
Didn't God bring Hakim back to your classroom after his
mom yanked him out?

I grabbed one of the worship CDs we kept in the car, stuck it into the narrow slot, and punched through the selections till I found the song I wanted: “God is in control! This is no time for fear . . .” By the time I turned into our alley and clicked the garage opener, I was belting it out with Twila Paris: “God is in control! We believe that His children will not be forsaken!”

I came in the back door still singing—“He has never let you down; why start to worry now?”—but was immediately drowned out by an awful racket blaring from the stereo in the living room. Josh was in the dining room playing games on the computer but looked up when I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Oh good, you're back.” He headed for the living room, yelling, “Dad! Mom's back!” And suddenly the racket went dead. I shook my head to stop the ringing in my ears. Blessed tranquility.

Denny appeared in the dining room archway, shrugging into his winter jacket and carrying his sport bag. “Where's the car?”

“Oh. I put it away. Sorry.” I knew Denny had to coach a basketball practice today at West Rogers High, just forgot in the heady praise trying to drown out my anxiety about Amanda. “Uh . . . what was that on the stereo?”

Denny grinned and pecked me on the cheek. “A CD Josh wanted me to hear—a demo of a punk rock group called Head Noise.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Jesus People. You wouldn't like it.” He yelled down the hall toward the bedrooms, “Josh? You coming?”

I already knew I didn't like it. I mean, gospel groups like Radical for Christ or Kirk Franklin were one thing—loud, but at least you could hear the words—but heavy metal? punk? It might be
Christian,
but it didn't qualify as real music.

Josh appeared, jingling his own set of car keys. “I'll drive.”

I raised an eyebrow at Denny. “Josh going to work with you?”

“Nah. He's going to drop me off, then pick up some of the guys and go down to Jesus People to hear this band. They've got a couple of gigs today.” Denny winked at me and followed Josh out the back door.

I looked down at Willie Wonka, who was sniffing the back door as though checking for positive ID of who'd just gone out. “Well, looks like it's just you and me,Willie,” I said and headed for the computer. I had a few things I needed to do, and a quiet house with nobody needing clean socks or help with homework was an unexpected bonus.

I checked e-mail first, deleted half of the new ones, scrolled past messages addressed to Josh or Amanda, and opened one from Hoshi Takahashi.

To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Re: Mark and Nony

Dear Sisters,

Just got an e-mail from Dr. Mark and Nony. They are leaving Johannesburg today and will be arriving home tomorrow, Saturday, Jan. 4. Nony says hi and she's missed everyone so much and has lots to tell us.

I am also so happy to see them again! This house is not the same without Marcus and Michael.

Love, Hoshi

Bless Hoshi! Mark Smith had asked if she'd be willing to house-sit the fish tank, geckos, and houseplants when he left to join his wife and sons in South Africa a month ago. It actually worked out for Hoshi, since the dorms at Northwestern University closed for winter break. But it'd been pretty lonely too. Most Northwestern students went home for the holidays; “home” for Hoshi was Tokyo—and Hoshi's parents hadn't called or written since their disastrous visit last September.

My heart squeezed. A lot had happened since that crazy woman—now in prison at Lincoln Correctional Center—had sliced Mrs. Takahashi's hand during a robbery at our house. The doctor who stitched Mrs.T's hand had assured Hoshi that her mother's wound would heal quickly. Yet the deeper wound to Hoshi's family was still open and raw.
“This is what happens when a daughter is dis-obedient
and forsakes her religion!”
her father had fumed.

I made a note to call Hoshi. What time were the Sisulu-Smiths flying in? Was anyone picking them up? That'd be fun—maybe Denny and I could do it. We'd still have room for their family of four in the Caravan, though luggage might be a problem.

I called up Google and typed “quinceanera” into the search line.Wow! Lots of hits. I poured myself a cup of the coffee still sitting in the coffeemaker—
ugh! Too bitter.
I made some fresh coffee and settled down to read up on the party José wanted to give Amanda.

I was not happy at what I found. I mean, it sounded practically like a wedding, with a fancy gown, a special mass—which was a problem, since we weren't Catholic, and neither was the Enriquez family, for that matter—and maids of honor and
chambelánes,
for Pete's sake. Not to mention food, favors, a live mariachi band, and a huge birthday cake for the “hundreds of guests.”

Good grief!
What is Delores thinking, encouraging José
in this crazy idea?
Well, there was no way Denny and I could afford such a celebration. Sometimes this multi-cultural stuff went too far.

I printed out some articles to show Denny, then I went back to Google to search for information on learning styles. Hakim Porter might be back in my classroom, but his mother was still opposed to testing him for a learning disability. And maybe the problems he was having weren't a learning disability at all. Avis seemed to think it could be related to posttraumatic stress after his big brother was killed . . .

A familiar wave of nausea sent me to the bathroom. I rarely threw up, but the feeling was so strong I sat on the side of the tub for a few minutes just in case. It still seemed like a cruel cosmic joke that the little brother of the boy I'd hit with my car last June ended up in my third-grade classroom—unknown to either his angry, grieving mother or me.Not till that awful day we'd faced each other at the first parent-teacher conference.