The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

by Neta Jackson

  “I’ll think about it.” Stu waved as her black beret disappeared down the stairs.

  SURE ENOUGH, Denny took us out to eat at Baker’s Square—definitely a “family” restaurant. “Hope you don’t mind,” he murmured in my hair as we followed the hostess to a table out in the solarium. “I’m saving the fancy eats and fancy price for when it’s just you and me.” He had a point. Teenagers only want burgers or pizza anyway.

  We came home with a triple-berry pie to heat up and a half-gallon of french vanilla ice cream. “Mind if I invite Stu and Becky down to share it?” I asked, popping the pie into the oven to warm. Obviously, my family didn’t mind—Denny and Josh were already cruising through TV channels to catch the NBA scores, and Amanda had disappeared with the phone.

  Going out our front door, I rang Stu’s doorbell and waited on the porch until I heard feet tromping down the carpeted stairs. “Hey, you wanna . . .” we both said at once.

  Stu grinned. “You first.”

  “Just wondered if you and Becky want to come down in a few minutes for pie and ice cream. Mother’s Day treat.”

  Stu’s grin got wider. “Sure. If you can cut the pie in sevenths. We’ve got a guest.”

  “Oh.” I was disappointed. That kind of changed things. “Well, sure. About ten minutes?”

  “We’ll be there!”

  Back in the house, I brought out seven dessert plates, forks, and spoons and put on a pot of coffee. Who was visiting Stu? Her mother? That didn’t make sense; Stu would go visit her, wouldn’t she? Huh. Just goes to show how long you can know a person and still not really know her.

  A few minutes later, I heard voices come in the front, then Denny exclaim, “Hey! Who’s this?” his voice high with delight.

  Curious, I quickly snatched the pie from the oven before it got too hot, then I hustled down the hallway to the living room. Stu stood off to the side, wearing a grin so wide it threatened to put another pierced hole in her ears. Denny had squatted down on his haunches in front of Becky, who was standing almost trancelike in the middle of our living room with her hands on the head of a little boy—a little boy with loose black curls and skin the color of hot chocolate with whipped cream.

  My heart nearly skipped a beat. It had to be . . . Andy.

  6

  The best Mother’s Day surprise I’d ever seen sat on a pile of encyclopedias stacked on one of our dining room chairs and tackled his piece of triple-berry pie and ice cream with lip-smacking gusto, complete with a dishtowel “bib.” This certainly had to be the best Mother’s Day gift Becky Wallace ever had! The thin young woman never took her eyes off her son’s face, as though he might disappear if her eyes strayed for even an instant.

  The joy of seeing a mother and her child reunited was contagious. Amanda immediately fell in love, even dragging out her much-loved Snoopy dog that she still slept with and using it as a puppet to “talk” to Andy. The TV was abandoned and left talking to itself in the living room, and Josh, working his fingers like a pretend pair of scissors, teased, “Hey, buddy! Wanna trade my bald head for all that hair?” . . . which sent Andy into squeals of laughter, holding his arms protectively over his head.

  Stu busied herself chatting lightly, jumping up for more coffee, laughing a tad too easily. I sat back, suddenly realizing the emotional price Stu had to pay for this reunion. Seeing little Andy in the flesh, so alive and downright huggable, so three years old, couldn’t be easy for her. For it was digging into Andy’s DCFS files that had brought Stu face to face with her own heavy secret: Andy’s birth date was the same due date of Stu’s own baby, the day he should have been born, the baby she’d aborted . . .

  I blew out a breath, pushed back my chair, and began clearing the table. Don’t want to go there right now. Stu was right behind me with a stack of empty dessert plates.

  “Well, you sure worked a miracle,” I murmured to Stu, sticking the berry-stained plates into the kitchen sink and turning on the faucet full force. “Had no idea you could arrange a visit so quickly—Becky’s only been out of prison a week!”

  Stu shrugged, taking the rinsed plates from me and sticking them into the dishwasher. “Have to admit I played the Mother’s Day card pretty heavy, both with his new caseworker and the grandmother. In fact, my whole deck was nothing but Mother’s Day schmaltz.” She grinned. “I was shameless!”

  “No, you were brave.”

  Stu’s hand paused in midreach for another plate, as if my words had turned an Off switch. Then our eyes met.

  “It can’t be easy,” I added softly. “It’s a great gift to Becky. She doesn’t know what it costs you—but I do.”

  Stu’s eyes squeezed shut, and she gripped the edge of the kitchen counter for a long moment. Then she took a deep breath. “No, it’s not easy. It helps that you know and understand. Really, really helps, Jodi—I mean it.” Her face softened beneath the fall of long blonde hair that fell over her shoulder. “Actually, it’s a gift to me too . . . to see Andy. I like to think of David like this—giggling, being silly, fat cheeks, laughing eyes.”

  David . . . “Beloved.” The name Florida and I had given to Stu’s aborted baby that weekend the story had all come out.

  “OK. Dishes loaded.” Stu shrugged off the moment, dried her hands on a paper towel, and glanced at the kitchen clock. “Yikes. Almost four. We better get going. Andy’s new caseworker is coming to meet Becky, then I have to take him back to his grandmother. Might be late to Yada Yada; tell the girls I’m coming, though. Oh.” Stu cocked her head. “Has anybody heard from Avis yet? Is she going to be there tonight?”

  “Who knows? I left a message on her voice mail, telling her we’ll be at Yo-Yo’s place just in case.” I made a face. “But my guess is Peter wouldn’t be too happy if Avis skipped out their first evening home.”

  “Huh.” Stu fished for her keys. “They’ve had a whole week together. Nonstop romance. She probably needs some sister sympathy about now.”

  IT TORE MY HEART APART to see Becky cling to Andy in the backyard, not wanting to let him go, not knowing when she’d see him again. Stu gently pried him loose and disappeared into the garage with a wailing Andy in tow. Becky stood stock-still in the yard until the silver Celica disappeared down the alley, then she turned and took the outside back stairs to Stu’s apartment two at a time.

  She did not look like she wanted company. Or sympathy.

  As Stu’s back door slammed behind Becky, I had my doubts whether this had been a good idea after all. Was the pain of another separation worth the few hours of being together again? Then I saw Amanda head back into the house with her threadbare Snoopy dog under one arm, and I remembered the birthday we’d given it to her. She’d been three—about the same age as Andy. And I knew that if I was in Becky’s jeans and that wailing three-year-old had been Amanda—or Josh, for that matter . . . yes. Absolutely. I’d have given my right arm to spend two hours with my child. Even if it hurt like fire to say good-bye.

  A half-hour later, I was hollering at my teenagers that if they wanted a ride to youth group to come now, when the phone rang. My ears tingled when I heard the voice on the other end. “Avis! You’re back!”

  “Alive and kicking,” she said. Was that a giggle I heard in her voice? “Can’t say the same for my plants. Should’ve given you a key and asked you to water them; bedraggled would be a kind description. Hopefully they’ll resurrect by tomorrow—”

  “Avis! I don’t want to hear about your plants! How was Cancun? What’d you guys do? Did you have a honeymoon cottage on the beach? No, wait; don’t tell me. I’m just heading out the door to Yada Yada, and I’m sure all the sisters would love to—”

  “Jodi, slow down. That’s why I’m calling. Don’t think I’m ready for Yada Yada yet after a week on the beach with my man—”

  My man. I wanted to snicker. Watching Avis fall in love at fifty-something was like discovering the fountain of youth wasn’t a myth after all. At the same time, a smidgeon of jealousy dampened my joy for her. Th
ings were going to be different now that Avis was remarried and had a husband to think about, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

  “—so just wanted to let you know we got back safe and sound, and please give my love to all the sisters. See you tomorrow at school, all right?”

  An impatient honk honk sent me flying out the back door. Josh had already backed the minivan out of the garage and was leaning on the horn. “I know, I know,” I apologized as I waved him out of the driver’s seat. Why did teenagers immediately obey only when it was inconvenient?

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled up in front of an apartment com plex in Lincolnwood, not far from the neighborhood of compact brick bungalows where Ruth Garfield lived. The complex was fairly new and only two stories high—part of Chicago’s scattered-site low-income housing. I waved at Adele Skuggs and Chanda George, who pulled up the same time I did, and we walked up the outside stairs to the second landing and pushed the doorbell for apartment 2G. Somewhere inside we heard an obnoxious blaaat.

  “Now why dey can’t put a nice ding-dong on de bell?” Chanda sniffed, her Jamaican accent notched up. “When I get me ’ouse, de doorbell gon play a whole tune!”

  The door flew open, and Pete and Jerry, Yo-Yo’s half brothers, shuffled out, high school sophomore and seventh-grader respectively. “Yo-Yo says go on in,” Pete grunted, thumbing over his shoulder. “Say, Mrs. Baxter, next time you Yabba Dabbas meet here, bring Josh so we can go shoot some pool! C’mon Jerry. The ol’ man said don’t keep him waitin’.” Pete grabbed his younger brother by the shirt, and they clattered down the metal stairs in their big shoes, laces flying. I peeked over the railing to see Ruth climbing from the Garfields’ massive Buick. The two boys dove into the backseat, and Ben took off for parts unknown.

  Adele arched an eyebrow, said nothing, and marched into the apartment. Chanda and I trailed in her wake. A few minutes later, Delores Enriquez, Edesa Reyes, and Florida straggled in the door behind Ruth. I arched an eyebrow at Florida. How’d they get here? The el didn’t come this direction; would’ve meant a couple of bus transfers at least.

  As if reading my mind, Florida said, “Humph. We shared a cab. But no way we goin’ home by cab! Could’ve fed my kids two, three days for a fare like that.” She smirked. “Stu goin’ to be our taxi, though she don’t know it yet.”

  I opened my mouth to offer, then I remembered I’d promised to give Nony and Hoshi a ride home. So I joined the rest of the Yada Yadas who’d just arrived and were getting a tour of the small, two-bedroom apartment. Yo-Yo’s pale face was flushed, and she seemed nervous having visitors; at the same time, she kept saying, “Know it ain’t much, but I’m glad you guys willin’ to hang out at my crib.”

  She was right about that. Her “crib” wasn’t much—two tiny bedrooms, a narrow bathroom, a decent-size main room that ran from the front to the back of the apartment and served as both living room and eating area, and a three-sided shoebox of a kitchen just off the dining area. All the walls wore nondescript beige. The living room furniture was sparse—a frayed brown couch, a couple of discount-store padded chairs, a TV and VCR sitting on a scratched coffee table in the corner. No rugs, no curtains, just miniblinds pulled up to let in the evening light of early spring.

  You’d think we hadn’t seen each other for months, the way everyone was yakking at once, but it was the first time we’d been together since the special events of Yada Yada’s “anniversary weekend.” The banter was interrupted a couple of times by that awful door buzzer, admitting Hoshi and a flustered Nony, and finally Stu. Ruth kept grousing about the two tiers of wedding cake still sitting in Uptown Community’s refrigerator, while the rest of us helped ourselves to Yo-Yo’s leftover pastries from the Bagel Bakery.

  The lack of rugs and curtains didn’t help the noise—or keep Chanda’s voice from carrying over the rest.

  “Dey don’ tell you about dem big taxes!” she pouted to no one in particular. “Me tink I’m supportin’ de whole U.S. government wit’ me winnin’s!” Most of us were a little tired of hearing about Chanda’s “winnin’s.” She could hardly talk about anything else since she’d won the Illinois lottery a few months ago. Chanda George, of all people! Single mom, three kids. So much for trying to tell her that playing the lottery wasn’t a wise use of her hard-earned money cleaning houses on the North Shore.

  I tried to sidle away, but Chanda dogged my heels. “But me startin’ to look for a real ’ouse now. No more two-bit apartment! No more paint peelin’ from de ceiling. An’ a car—oh Jesus! Hallelujah! One of dem fancy cars wit’ power dis and power dat.” She shut her eyes happily and waggled a hand in the air.

  “You got a driver’s license yet?” I asked pointedly. The champagne Lexus she’d driven to a Yada Yada meeting a couple of months ago had gone back to the dealer when they discovered she was using a state ID instead of a driver’s license.

  Chanda was unfazed. “Dat too. Soon as me get some driving lessons.”

  Delores rescued me by coming by with two big mugs of coffee and tipping her chin toward an empty corner. “I am so disappointed Avis didn’t come tonight, Jodi. I know she hasn’t had time to look at the friendship quilt we made. Do you have it at your house?” She handed me one of the mugs.

  Only then did I notice the bandage on her right forearm. “Delores!” I hissed. “What happened?”

  She must have seen the alarm in my eyes and guessed what I was thinking: her husband sometimes went on drinking binges, especially after losing his trucking job. He’d seemed happier since he’d picked up a regular gig with his mariachi band, but . . . She shook her head. “Not what you think. Dog bite.” She kept her voice low.

  “Dog bite! How?”

  She sighed. “Ricardo got one of those ugly dogs last week. A pit bull.”

  I gaped at her. “A pit bull? But . . .” I hated to say it. But with their family of five kids trying to live on Delores’s salary as a pediatric nurse at the county hospital, taking on the expense of a dog seemed ludicrous.

  “You know it. I know it. But Ricardo . . .” She grimaced. “He’s got some crazy scheme up his sleeve. I can smell it.”

  I wanted to ask what kind of scheme, but just then Yo-Yo raised her voice. “Uh, guys. I mean, ladies . . . whatever. Somebody want to start this meeting? I’m just providing the four walls. Avis ain’t here, so . . . Nony?”

  7

  Nony had seemed a bit flustered when she first came in—ready to burst with her news about Mark’s sabbatical, I suspected—but she waited calmly while we all found a seat, some on the couch, some on Yo-Yo’s mismatched table chairs, some on the floor. Then, looking like a queen beneath her crown of braids, she smiled. “Sisters, God is so good to us. Let us give Him some praise! Think back upon this week, and let us pour out our gratitude for His mercies . . . His abundance . . . His loving-kindness.”

  So our chatter turned to praise, not one at a time, but several at once, for all the good things God had been doing among us. “An’ that includes Becky Wallace, our new sister in God’s family,” Florida tossed in.

  “And that Becky got to spend time with her little boy on Mother’s Day,” Stu added. That news sparked several shouts of “Hallelujah!” and “You’re a good God! Oh, yes!”

  I wanted to praise God, too, but the biggest thing on my mind was that Hakim wouldn’t be in my classroom on Monday, and I didn’t feel thankful about that. Finally I raised my own voice: “Thank You, God, for Hakim, for giving me the privilege of being his teacher this year, for all the gifts and potential You’ve created within him. And thank You, God, for going with him wherever he is, even though he’s no longer in my classroom.” My voice caught, and I felt a hand squeeze mine. Hoshi’s long, smooth fingers. I squeezed back.

  Nony wrapped up our praise time with one of her favorite Scriptures from the Old Testament: “Father God, thank You that the plans You have for us are to prosper us, not to harm us, plans that give us hope and a future!”

  “That’s right,” Florida chimed in.
“You sayin’ it now.”

  Nony’s voice got emotional as her prayer followed the familiar verses from Jeremiah 29: “Even though we sometimes find ourselves in a strange land, just like the Israelites of old, You never forsake us. You have promised that if we call upon You and seek You with all our heart, that we will find You and You will bring us out of captivity, back to the place from which we were exiled. Yes! Thank You! Thank You!” Nony suddenly laughed aloud and clapped her hands. “Thank You!”

  Startled, I opened my eyes; others did too. Nony wore a smile so wide and joyful it lit up her whole face, even as tears wet her cheeks. Knowing what was behind her joy, I couldn’t help it; I started to laugh.

  Ruth looked back and forth between us. “So what is this laughing? A secret you two know? Not so nice to laugh in our face.” She sniffed.

  “Better tell ’em, Nony.” Frankly, I was eager to hear more than she’d given me over the phone.

  Nony took the wad of tissues someone passed to her and wiped her eyes. “You all know that Mark and I have quarreled many times about my desire to go home to South Africa. God has put such a burden on my heart for my people, wounded by the many years of apartheid, suffering from the ravages of HIV and AIDS—especially the children.”

  “Dat we know!” Chanda broke in. “We wanna be hearin’ de good part!”

  Nony laughed again. “All right. The good part! Two days ago, Mark told me the university has granted him a one-year sabbatical from the history department! He said he applied several weeks ago but didn’t want to tell me in case it was denied.”

  “Sabbatical? What’s that?” Yo-Yo’s forehead wrinkled into tire treads. “Somethin’ like the Sabbath?” Yo-Yo, who was anything but Jewish, nonetheless got half her religious education behind the counter at the Bagel Bakery.