by Neta Jackson
A whine near my knees begged for attention. “Wonka! Ohmigosh, you haven’t been out yet.” I unlocked the back door and called out, “Uh, Becky! Do you mind if Willie Wonka comes out? He’s been in the house all day.”
“No problem.” Becky kept digging, her words coming out in grunts. “He’s good company. Doesn’t boss me around”—she snorted a laugh—“not like the grounds super at Lincoln.” She plunged the spade in once more.
Willie Wonka scrambled down the porch steps as best as his arthritic joints would allow and lifted his hind leg, watering the rusty charcoal grill that had stood out all winter. Why in the world hadn’t we moved it into the garage last fall? Oh, yeah. There wasn’t any room now that Leslie “Stu” Stewart parked her silver Celica in the garage. Our apartment’s two-car garage—kind of like a double bed—was more like one and a half.
Tough luck, Mr. Grill.
The teakettle whistled, and I poured the steaming water over a tea bag in the biggest mug I could find. Then, on an impulse, I grabbed another mug and tea bag, sweetened both cups with honey, and headed out the back door.
“Hey, Becky! How about a tea break?” I held the second mug aloft and sat down on the back steps.
The red bandana turned, hesitated, then Becky laid down the spade and sauntered my way. How did she get into those tight jeans? The twenty-something young woman didn’t have one spare inch on her lithe frame, and she showed it off to good advantage.
Becky stopped a good two yards away. “Are ya sure ya want me to sit?” She held out her hands, dirt creating brown moons under her fingernails. “These paws are kinda grubby.”
I shrugged. “Sure. What’s a little dirt?”
Still standing, Becky gingerly took the hot mug, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. “Tea, huh? Ain’t much of a tea drinker. Like a good shot of coffee, though.”
“Oh. Sorry . . . I could go make a pot.” I started to get up.
Becky waved me down. “Nah. This is OK.” She took a tentative sip, then sat down on the bottom step.
I suddenly felt awkward. I’d never been alone with Becky Wallace for more than two minutes in our entire acquaintance. Good grief. How would I just chat with an ex-con, a street woman whose life had no possible relation to my own?
Whaddya mean, Jodi Baxter? No relation to your own life? The Voice inside my head seemed to be shouting in whispers. Didn’t this woman get baptized yesterday in front of dozens of witnesses? Declare she wanted to follow Jesus? Doesn’t that make her your sister in Christ?
Well, yes, but . . .
And isn’t she a mother—just like you? Doesn’t she live upstairs, your “neighbor” now? And didn’t Jesus say to “love your neighbor as much as you love yourself”?
I darted a glance at Becky over the rim of my mug, wondering if she suspected the inner tussle I was feeling. But she just held the mug in both hands, sipping now and then, looking back and forth between the flowerbeds on either side of our postage-stamp backyard.
“Say, Becky. Tell me a little more about Andy, your little boy. I mean, if you don’t mind.” That’d be a safe topic.
A small smile creased her sober face, and she glanced up at me. “Don’t mind. I like to talk about Andy—helps me remember him. ’Cause some days . . .” Her voice faltered and she looked away. “Some days I can’t remember what my baby looks like.”
“You don’t even have a picture of him?”
“Nah. Went to prison with jus’ what I had on that day—came out with the same. Don’t know what happened to my stuff. Didn’t have that much anyway.” She shrugged. “Little Andy—he’s one cute kid. Whatever else go wrong with his daddy and me, we sure did make a pretty baby. Big Andy’s black—think I tol’ ya—good-lookin’ guy. Lotta muscles. Thought I’d made quite a catch. But . . .” She sighed. “Guess I screwed up. The drugs an’ all.”
I tried to steer the conversation back. “Tell me about Andy.”
She perked up. “Andy got pearly skin and black hair. Not kinky, not straight. Lotsa loose curls. People used ta say he look like hot chocolate an’ whipped cream—I’m the whipped cream, ya know.” She grimaced. “Not so sweet though. Been messin’ up most of my life.” A long pause followed while she stared at her tea.
“Andy,” I prompted.
“Oh, yeah. That boy, he’s bright. Picks up ever’ little thing anybody say, say it right back. Trouble is, he picks up the bad words too. He don’ know what they mean; still, I don’ want him talkin’ trash. He’s only two years old!” She frowned. “Or was, las’ time I saw him. He had a birthday while I was in prison.” She stared into her mug of tea. “Must be gettin’ big now. Hope his grandmama helpin’ him with his letters and numbers. I never did that, really. Didn’t have many books. Not a reader myself.” She looked up at me again. “You got books for kids? I mean, you a teacher, right? I’d like to have some books to read with Andy when DCFS lets me have a visit—”
We both heard the garage door on the alley side go up and turned expectantly. The sound of a car engine dying—two cars?—and voices. Then the back door to the garage opened, and Amanda spilled out . . . and stopped.
“Hey!” She called back into the garage. “Hold it, you guys. They’re both out here in the yard.”
Josh’s shaved head showed up behind his sister; then Stu’s black beret and long blonde hair appeared too. The three looked at each other with mutual shrugs and disappeared back into the garage.
Josh, Amanda . . . and Stu? No telling what they were up to. Though how they hooked up to arrive home at the same time was anybody’s guess. Denny sometimes picked up the kids at Lane Tech, but Stu’s schedule visiting her DCFS clients was erratic at best.
“They up to somethin’,” Becky muttered. She stood up and set down her mug, only half-empty. “Maybe I better get back ta—”
The Three Musketeers came tromping out the door at that precise moment, followed by Denny, and all four of them had a flat of flower sets in their hands. “Happy early Mother’s Day, Mom!” Amanda crowed.
“And happy early Mother’s Day for you too, Becky,” Stu added. They set the flats on the sidewalk in front of Becky and me.
I wanted to laugh. “But you already got me a flat of flowers a couple of days ago. Thought that was my early Mother’s Day gift.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Denny said. “That was just for starters. We all decided that since we now have a gardener in residence . . .” He grinned at Becky, whose eyes looked about to pop at the array of marigolds, snapdragons, alyssum, purple lobelia, and dianthuses tucked in their little plastic six-packs, nine to a tray.
“Uh, only one catch.” Josh wagged a finger at me. “Let Becky plant ’em, Mom. Face it. Whatever your fantasies about actually getting these babies into the ground, you don’t have a green thumb!”
OK, let them laugh at me. I laughed too—until I looked at Becky. Tears puddled in her gray eyes, tears she rapidly brushed away with her hands, leaving dirty tracks. She pulled off the red bandana and wiped her eyes and nose. “Sorry. Jus’ that . . . nobody never gave me a Mother’s Day gift before.”
Stu, looking spiffy in her belted leather jacket and black beret, tossed her hair. “Hey, this is just the appetizer. Wait’ll you get the real Mother’s Day gift!”
3
Becky looked confused. I was too. Who was Stu talking to—Becky or me? But Stu just headed up the back stairs that led to the second-floor apartment. “Hey,” she called over her shoulder. “You guys want to grill something tonight? I have a couple of chicken quarters we could throw on for Becky and me. Got some crusty bread we could grill too.” Stu disappeared into her back door without waiting for a reply.
I looked at Denny. He shrugged. “OK by me. We might have a bag of charcoal left over from last summer . . . somewhere.” He moseyed back out to the garage to begin the hunt.
Becky went back to spading the mulch. I picked up her mug and squinted at the sky. Clouds hung heavy overhead, even though the temperature was in the high fifties; we m
ight be in for more rain. Guess we can always eat in. I let the screen door bang behind me as I went inside to hunt for chicken body parts in our freezer.
Denny found the charcoal, though it was damp and old, and he had to use half a container of lighter fluid to get it to burn. By the time the coals were hot enough, I’d managed to thaw enough chicken pieces in the microwave to feed the Baxter Four and grated some carrots for a carrot-and-raisin salad—my substitute for a tossed salad once I’d seen how limp and pathetic the lettuce looked that’d been hiding in our crisper. I didn’t really mind firing up the grill this early in the month; I’d even wanted to invite Stu and Becky down for supper one of these nights. We’d pretty much left the new housemates alone last week to get settled and sort things out after Becky’s release from prison. But Stu had done it again—preempted my good intentions and caught me off guard, unprepared for company for dinner.
I sighed. Probably just as well. Becky might feel more comfortable with something spontaneous anyway.
Sure enough, by the time Denny yelled that the chicken was done, it was starting to sprinkle, so I shanghaied Amanda to set our dining room table for six. I was filling glasses with water and ice when Stu came in bearing the platter of golden-brown chicken, followed by Becky with a basket of grilled bread. “Better switch the silverware, Amanda,” Stu chided. “The knife and fork shouldn’t be on the same side.”
I snorted. Good for you, Stu. Maybe Amanda will remember if somebody besides me nags her about how to set the table. Then it hit me. Oh great. Stu probably thinks I’m the one who taught her to do it wrong. I bit my tongue, waved everybody into seats at the table, and held out my hands to Becky on one side of me and Denny on the other. Becky’s eyes darted from person to person as we joined hands for our table grace, then she ducked her head and squinted her eyes shut as Denny “blessed the food” in twenty-five words or less. My husband didn’t believe in long prayers while the food was hot.
Becky didn’t say much as we all tackled the chicken, letting the rest of us do the talking. Stu asked about prom and graduation coming up for Josh, and what was he going to do next year, and was the Uptown youth group going to do a mission trip again this summer? That got Josh wound up about taking a year off before going to college and volunteering with Jesus People USA here in the city. I eyed Denny. That wasn’t a decision yet, was it? But every time Josh talked about not going to school next fall, the idea edged another inch toward reality.
“And the youth group is going to volunteer at the Cornerstone Festival this summer,” Amanda added with her mouth full. “Cheaper than going to Mexico or someplace. You wanna come, Stu? It’s so cool. All the hot CCM bands play at Cornerstone.”
“Contemporary Christian Music,” Denny explained, noticing Becky’s bewildered look. “And Cornerstone is the big music festival sponsored by Jesus People every summer here in Illinois.”
“Oh. Never heard of it. For kids like them?” Becky waved her fork at Josh and Amanda.
“No, it’s for everybody! Even you, Becky—oh.” Color crept up on Amanda’s face. “Sorry. Forgot about the . . . the ankle thing.”
Becky shrugged. “It’s OK. Don’ worry ’bout it.”
“The ankle thing” was the electronic monitor Becky Wallace had to wear, restricting her to “house arrest” for at least six months as a condition of her early parole. The fact that she was out at all only eight months after a felony conviction—ten years for robbery and assault—was mind-boggling. A case of God at work, mixing together the overcrowded conditions at the women’s prison, Yada Yada testifying on Becky’s behalf at a special hearing with the parole board, and Stu offering to let Becky stay with her since she needed an address to qualify for “house arrest.” A miracle, really.
Funny thing about miracles, though—they’re uncomfortable; they upset the natural order. One hardly knows what to do with them; they don’t come with instructions. Right now, the only thing I knew to do was hang on to God’s promises and hope He knew what He was doing.
“—supposed to meet this Sunday?” Stu was asking. “Jodi?”
“Uh, Yada Yada? We were supposed to meet at Avis’s before she up and got married.” I grinned. “Yo-Yo said we could meet at her apartment this time. Kinda neat, huh?” My grin turned to a grimace. “Oh, shoot. I was supposed to send an e-mail and let everybody know. Thanks for the reminder.”
Denny frowned. “Sunday is Mother’s Day, though.”
“So? You guys already gave Becky and me our Mother’s Day gift. The flats of flowers.”
My husband pulled a puppy-dog face. “But we still like to hang out with our favorite mom. Right, kids?”
“Right!” they chorused dutifully.
I snorted in jest. “Right. By five o’clock, Mother’s Day or not, you’ll all be off doing your own thing. Yada Yada might as well pray.” I started to clear the table.
“Uh, you guys hang out and do special stuff on Mother’s Day?” Becky’s question halted the table clearing.
Sheesh. Nothing like sticking my foot in my mouth. She said she’d never had a Mother’s Day gift before—maybe never celebrated Mother’s Day, even as a kid. “Well, sure,” I said. “I was just teasing them. Doesn’t have to be a big deal, but it’s kinda nice to do something as a family.”
Becky’s jaw muscles tightened. “Yeah. That’d be nice. That’s what I’d like to do for Mother’s Day, hang out with my kid.” She shrugged. “Someday, anyway.” She pushed back her chair and started piling plates and silverware.
Stu caught my eye over Becky’s head . . . and winked.
WITH “DON’T TELL” HANGING OVER MY HEAD, I’d almost forgotten what Denny had said about Mark Smith applying for a sabbatical until I got an e-mail from Nony in reply to the one I finally sent out about meeting at Yo-Yo’s apartment this Sunday.
To: Jodi Baxter
From: [email protected]
Re: Ride on Sunday
Dear Sister Jodi,
I am blessed that Yo-Yo invited Yada Yada to meet at her apartment on Sunday! Mark said he can drop us off—we’ll bring Hoshi—but he needs the car to attend a faculty function at NU that evening. Could you bring us home? If so, we’ll be there!
(Wasn’t Sunday’s baptism a glimpse of glory? We need glimpses like that to help us bear the pain and sorrow all around the world.)
Love, Nony
P.S. Has anyone heard from Avis and Peter?
I was still thinking about Nony’s e-mail as I walked to school on Wednesday. Hm. No mention of Mark taking a sabbatical. He must not have said anything to her yet. But her mention of the “pain and sorrow all around the world” was characteristic of Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith, raised in South Africa, educated at the University of Chicago—where she’d met Mark—but longing to return to her homeland, now that apartheid had ended, to help her people.
“Especially children orphaned by AIDS,” I murmured as I tossed my tote bag on my classroom desk and changed out of my walking shoes and sweat socks. I admired Nony’s heart for suffering people—though it seemed we had plenty of suffering children right here in Chicago who could keep her busy. Right here in my classroom, I thought as the first bell rang, and I headed out to the playground to bring in my class. But still. If Mark could get a sabbatical and give Nony a chance to go where her heart resided, that would be wonderful.
If. What if he didn’t?
No wonder Mark hadn’t told her yet. Wouldn’t want to get her hopes up only to—
I felt a tug on my sleeve as the line of children jostled past me into the third-grade classroom. “Ms. B?”
I looked at the upturned face. Hakim’s deep brown eyes seemed to be searching my own. “Yes, Hakim?”
He hesitated, waiting until the last child had gone through the door. I let it close, leaving us alone in the hall. “This gonna be my last week. Mama found a teacher to help me, one of them special schools. S’posed to start next week. Goin’ to summer school, too, so I can be ready for fourth grade.”
My heart felt like it dropped down into my stomach. “Oh, Hakim.” Anything else I wanted to say came up a big blank. How could his mother do this, so close to the end of school! Couldn’t she wait till next fall, start him in a new school then? But didn’t you tell her you couldn’t help him, Jodi? That he needed professional help to deal with his post-traumatic stress, that you realized you needed to let him go?
I bent down and gave him a hug. “I will miss you very much, Hakim. So much.”
He seemed embarrassed. “Um, sorry I scratched my desk.” He pulled away and looked up at me quizzically. “Why didn’t you ever get it fixed?”
I smiled. The three-inch jagged lightning bolt, scratched with a paper clip, still decorated Hakim’s desk. “Because it reminds me of you.” I playfully boxed his shoulder. “Only kidding. They’re supposed to fix it. Guess the janitor can’t do everything at once.”
Except I wasn’t kidding. I kind of hoped that desk never got fixed, not if Hakim was going to leave. It would remind me of the boy who wore a scar on his heart—a scar I helped create when his big brother ran in front of my car—and loved me anyway.
4
Hakim’s news on Wednesday morning left me with only two days to figure out some kind of send-off. I didn’t want Hakim to just disappear with no good-bye. What would be appropriate? I stewed about it all the rest of that day and into the next. Keep it light. Keep it fun. But let him know he’s been an important part of our class . . .
For some reason my mind didn’t churn out the usual string of ideas, and the more anxious I got about it, the more I came up blank. Then I realized this was Old Jodi behavior: stew about it first; pray later, when all else fails.
“Didn’t Jesus say God cares about a sparrow who falls out of the sky?” I muttered as I let myself into the house after school on Thursday and put Willie Wonka out. “He’s gotta care about Hakim leaving our class.” So I prayed aloud as I put a saucepan of water on the stove to heat and started peeling potatoes for supper. “Sorry, God. Didn’t mean to be slow talking to You about this. You know the situation; You know how awkward it is that Hakim is even in my class! Yet I do want to thank You. Yes, thank You for putting Hakim in my class. He doesn’t know it, but he’s brought so much healing to me just by his presence . . .”
