The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

by Neta Jackson

  Adele looked up from her customer, a jar of white goo in one hand, a brush in the other. “Jodi Baxter! Don’t have room for walk-ins today, but you could use an appointment.”

  Adele was anything but subtle.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I made a face. “I’m still not used to the beauty-shop routine. Maybe for Josh’s graduation. Came by to see if MaDear wants to play”—that got a smile from Adele—“but it’s starting to rain.”

  The jar of goo and brush paused again in midair. “Well, if you’re up for it, I’ve got something you could do with MaDear here in the shop. Come on.” I followed Adele past the hair dryers, past the nail station where the not-much-more-than-a-teenager Corey was doing exquisite designs on the toes of another teenager. I curled my bald fingernails into the palms of my hands and followed Adele into the back room, where her elderly mother sat strapped in a wheelchair, dozing.

  Adele picked up a shoebox and handed it to me. “Pictures. I’ve been meaning to get them into a photo album, but mm-hm. Another good intention gone straight to hell.” I blinked at her language then remembered the old cliché, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” “Thought MaDear might enjoy looking at some of the pictures, might waken some of her memories.”

  I took the shoebox. “Well . . . sure. But if she doesn’t remember who’s who, I won’t be able to tell her.”

  Adele shrugged. “Still, maybe it’ll be a start.” She shook the old woman, shrunken inside a faded, flowered dress. “MaDear. MaDear! Someone to visit you.” Then she was gone.

  MaDear blinked, her eyes bleary, as she came awake. The brown leathery face, sprinkled freely with freckles and age spots, crinkled in a smile. “I know you. Sissy’s little friend, ain’t ya?”

  Sissy was Adele’s younger sister, a grown woman with a family of her own. But I let it pass. There was no use arguing with MaDear; you were who she thought you were.

  I opened the shoebox. There on the top lay a sepia-toned photo of a smooth-skinned young woman with large, dark eyes and a full head of hair curled up on the sides forties-style, the rest gathered into a bun at the nape of her neck. But there was no doubt who it was: MaDear. Sixty years younger. “Oh, MaDear!” I showed her the picture. “You were beautiful!”

  MaDear took the picture and studied it for a long minute. Then she stabbed at it with a bony finger. “Sally.” She nodded. “Sally Skuggs.”

  “That’s right!” Adele had said her mother’s name was Sally, though even the customers called her MaDear. I pulled out another picture. No recognition. I decided to fish through the pictures . . . there. A man, a woman, and two little girls. The woman was obviously Sally; could that be Adele and her sister, Sissy? Oh! This was too much fun!

  We looked through all sorts of pictures—snapshots and portraits, all of African-Americans with varied skin tones, some darker, some lighter. Most of the older pictures were brown tint, gradually shifting to black-and-white prints, then color snapshots, all mixed together. If Adele wanted to do a photo album, she sure had her work cut out for her.

  Suddenly MaDear’s hand snatched a small picture from the box. A family group, obviously from the rural thirties—father, mother holding a toddler, a barefooted youngster about six or seven, a middle girl about ten or eleven, a teenage boy. MaDear held it close to her face. Then her finger traced the outline of the teenage boy in trousers, shirt, and suspenders. “Larry.” That’s all she said.

  I thought my heart would stop beating. Larry? MaDear’s brother who’d been lynched by white neighbors because they decided he’d gotten too “uppity.” I felt torn between wanting to memorize the face of the brother who’d only been a name until this minute . . . and wanting to flee. What was Adele thinking, letting me look at photos with MaDear? Did she want to stir up all that pain again? MaDear’s painful memories, hidden beneath her dementia and forgetfulness. And Denny’s pain, when MaDear mistook him for one of the men who’d killed her brother two-thirds of a century ago.

  I tried to gently take the picture from MaDear, wanting to bury it back in the box, but she held on tight. “Larry,” she said again. Then she smiled a sweet, sad smile. “Young man who killed ’im tol’ me he was sorry—”

  Now I could hardly breathe. That was Denny! She remembered Denny coming to ask forgiveness for what happened to Larry. “Because she needed to hear someone say ‘I’m sorry,’ ” he’d told me.

  “—an’ I forgave him. Yes, I did.” Her head bobbed up and down. “Sure do miss Larry, though.” With a shaky hand, she brought the faded photograph to her lips, kissed it, and let it flutter to the floor. I put it in the box and replaced the lid.

  “Bye, MaDear,” I whispered, softly kissing her leathery cheek. The lump in my throat was so big, I made sure Adele was busy with a customer before I walked out, giving her a wave from the door before it tinkled shut behind me.

  11

  Josh was hunched over the computer in the dining room when I got home. Loud music pumped from behind Amanda’s bedroom door, and Willie Wonka looked at me expectantly, hoping for—what? A walk? A treat? A scratch on the noggin?

  A scratch took the least energy. I tossed my shoulder bag on the dining room table and gave Wonka a good knuckle-rub on his head. “Where’s Dad? Did you guys have any lunch yet? How did the breakfast go? Did Ben Garfield show up?”

  “Uh . . .” Josh clicked the mouse a few times, peering closely at the screen with the intensity of an air-traffic controller. “Which question do you want me to answer, Mom?”

  I stifled a smart retort. “Your dad.”

  “He, uh”—the mouse clicked again—“had to coach a baseball game at West Rogers High. One o’clock, I think.”

  I glanced at the clock in the kitchen. Half past noon. Ack! Did Denny tell me he needed the car? But as if reading my mind, Josh added, “Don’t worry. One of the other coaches picked him up around noon. He said he’d call if he needed a ride home.”

  “Oh.” Didn’t sound like I was in trouble. But I felt frustrated. I wanted to tell Denny about the picture of Larry Skuggs—or was “Skuggs” MaDear’s married name?—and that MaDear remembered she had forgiven “the man who killed Larry.” For an old woman who barely remembered who Adele was some days, that was huge.

  And I wanted to hear about the men’s breakfast, though Josh didn’t look like he was in a chatty mood. “Whatcha doing?” I peered over his shoulder—and recoiled. “Lord, have mercy. Josh! What is that?”

  A red background filled the computer screen; across the top ran a black banner bearing the words KIDS FOR WHITE PRIDE in big white letters. On the rest of the screen, cartoon “white guys” threatened violence against cartoon stereotypes of blacks, Asians, and Jews, like a comic strip. “Watch,” Josh said, clicking one of the cartoons. The figures immediately came to life, bashing and kicking and laughing until the victim lay in a heap. The animation stopped, returning the cartoon figures to their starting position, ready to do it all over again at the click of a mouse.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Joshua James Baxter. Why are you looking at that garbage? It’s . . . it’s worse than garbage! What if Amanda walked through here?” I made a grab for the mouse. “Turn it off—now!”

  Josh gave me a look and minimized the Web site. He swung around in the desk chair. “Mom. Calm down. I was listening for Amanda and would’ve cut it off if she came out of her bedroom—though she’s got the phone in there talking to you-know-who, so I don’t think it’s likely.”

  I glared at him. “Still. Why are you looking at that garbage?”

  “Because it’s all over the Web, and we don’t even know about it! Mark—Dr. Smith—told us these hate groups are targeting some of their Web sites to kids, like that stuff I just showed you. All this ‘fun,’ interactive stuff—jokes and cartoons and games, all putting down Jews and blacks and other minorities. And if people like us don’t know about it, if we just ignore it, then these hate groups have free rein to do whatever they want!”

  I knew I
was in trouble, trying to argue with an eighteen-year-old who was on the debate team at school. I wanted to rip the computer plug right out of the wall and throw the whole thing out the window. The computer screen suddenly seemed like a cunning portal through which evil could creep into our house.

  I pulled out one of the dining room chairs to give my hands something to do, and sat. “Josh,” I said finally, “you’re right. We shouldn’t be ignorant that this stuff is out there. But I don’t want this filth in our house or on our computer. It makes me feel like we’ve just opened a door and invited all these . . . these demons into our house. And I especially don’t want my kid feeding his mind with all this hate propaganda—even for ‘educational’ purposes.”

  Josh arched an eyebrow. “Demons, Mom?”

  Well, maybe I didn’t know what I was talking about. My religious background certainly acknowledged the reality of Satan. But we didn’t get into all that other stuff, like demon possession or “the devil made me do it.” Sin and salvation, heaven and hell. That was about it. I just looked at my son—good-looking in spite of his shaved head, taller than his dad, filled out and muscular since his beanpole days at sixteen. Legally a man. Definitely not a child any longer. Definitely with a mind of his own.

  I opened my mouth to say something but was distracted by angry yelling in the apartment upstairs, then a slammed door. Stu and Becky? Josh eyed the ceiling with a knowing smirk. “Was wondering when Ying and Yang would stop being polite up there.”

  Again I opened my mouth, this time to say it was none of our business, when I heard footsteps stamping down the outside back stairs, then rapping on our back door. Sounded like someone was about to make it our business. Had to be Stu. No way would Becky Wallace complain to us if she and Stu had a falling out. I stood up, irritated. I didn’t need this right now. But as I started for the kitchen, I said, “Josh, please get rid of that Web site—at least until we can talk more, OK?”

  Stu didn’t wait for me to open the door; she just charged in. “Ye gads, Jodi. I can’t stand it!” She paced my kitchen in a pair of faded jeans and a sweatshirt. “Becky doesn’t know the meaning of ‘put it back where it belongs.’ She takes something out of the pantry and leaves it sitting on the counter for two days. Leaves her wet towel in a heap on the bathroom floor. Dirty dishes in the living room.” She grabbed fistfuls of hair on both sides of her head. “Arrgh! I’m going nuts!” Then she looked at me accusingly. “It’s not funny!”

  I didn’t even try to stifle the grin on my face. “I know. It’s just that it sounds like my house—except your teenager is twenty-five.” I shook my head. “Might be too late for reform.”

  “No, no, it can’t be!” Stu sank down on our kitchen stool, head in her hands. “OK, help me think this out. Obviously, living on the street, no real family, Becky’s never been taught how to keep a house tidy. Maybe I could, you know, offer to teach her some housekeeping tips, how to organize her stuff—”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “What?”

  “Uh-uh. Too paternalistic—or maternalistic, as the case may be. You aren’t her mother. She’s your housemate. You guys gotta sit down and agree on a contract, an agreement of expectations—what you’re going to do, what she’s going to do. Who does what chores. Stuff like that.”

  Stu just blinked at me. Frankly, I felt like blinking at myself. Where did that come from? And why hadn’t I ever tried that out on my kids? Might work a whole lot better than the nagging I’d perfected.

  “A contract.” Stu’s voice held wonder in it—probably because the idea came from me instead of herself. But she said, “Thanks, Jodi. That just might work.” She got off the stool and looked over my shoulder. “Oh, hi, Amanda. How’s José?”

  Amanda had come into the kitchen to replace the phone. “He’s fine—or would be if my parents ever got around to deciding if I can go to the sophomore dance at his school.” She glared at me.

  Stu grinned. “My cue to exit. Thanks, Jodi.” She pecked me on the cheek and closed the back door behind her.

  Ah, yes. The sophomore dance. “OK, I promise. When Dad gets home, we’ll talk about it and give you our answer. OK?”

  “Don’t know what the big deal is,” she grumbled, pouring cereal into a bowl and getting out the milk. “You’ll probably let Josh go to the prom—you let Josh do everything—and you won’t even know his date, not like you know José.”

  Prom? I watched Amanda disappear, cereal bowl in hand, dripping milk on the wood floor like Hansel and Gretel dropping crumbs. Willie Wonka followed in her wake, licking up the spilled milk. Of course I knew Josh’s graduation was coming up, but so far he hadn’t said anything about the prom.

  Josh was still at the computer, but to his credit, he was typing something instead of surfing the Net. “Josh, honey?” I pulled up a chair beside him. “Do you want to go to your senior prom? Haven’t heard you say anything about it—and it’s OK if you don’t. I was just wondering.” And wanting to peel the lid off any last-minute surprises. Who would he take, for goodness’ sake? Josh was a very sociable kid, but he didn’t seem that interested in dating so far. Just made friends, like those two girls with green hair and pierced body parts from Jesus People . . .

  My thoughts stuck like flies to flypaper. Ohmigosh. Would he ask one of those girls?

  Josh finished typing the sentence he was working on, hit Save, and turned to look at me. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it, but . . .”

  “Prom is pretty special.” I smiled. “Who would you invite?” OK, I was shamelessly fishing. But he seemed willing to talk about it.

  He shrugged. “That’s just it. The girls at school . . . they’re OK, I guess. But most of them are so immature, always blabbing about some stupid reality TV show and who said what to whom and which guys are hot. I hate that stuff. And there are no girls my age at Uptown—not like our church back in Downers Grove. Wish I knew a girl I could talk to about important stuff, like Edesa.”

  I blinked. “Like . . . Edesa? Edesa Reyes?”

  Josh rubbed the back of his head sheepishly—the same gesture Denny did so often without thinking. “Well, yeah, like Edesa. Actually, not like Edesa . . .” A faint flush crept up his neck. “I’d like to . . . What do you think, Mom? Do you think Edesa would go to the prom with me?” His words began to rush. “I know she’s twenty-one and I’m only eighteen, but when you think about it, if it was the other way around, nobody would think a thing about a three-year age difference. And—”

  I was so shocked, my mind didn’t even compute the rest of what he said. Josh had a crush on Edesa Reyes? But Edesa was a . . . a woman, and Josh was just a . . . a kid. Wasn’t he? And Edesa came to Yada Yada, the world of grownups, and Josh was only in high school. For a few more weeks anyway.

  But if he goes to college next year, he’ll be a freshman and she’ll be a junior . . . not unheard of for college romances.

  “Uh . . .” I licked my lips. “It might be better to ask someone your own age, Josh.” That was lame, and I knew it. Shouldn’t I be ecstatic he was attracted to someone like Edesa, a young woman with a strong faith, who wasn’t running around with every Tom, Dick, and Harry—a woman with strong family ties, even if they were in Honduras?

  Josh rolled his eyes. “You’re not listening, Mom. I don’t like any girls my age. Most of them are such airheads.” He swung back to the computer. “Forget it. Maybe I won’t go.”

  I got up and put my arms around him from the back, resting my cheek on the back of his bald head. “I’m sorry, Josh. You just took me by surprise. Honestly, I don’t know what to think. Guess the only person who could give you a real answer is . . . Edesa.”

  12

  I snagged Denny when he got home from coaching his baseball game. “You up for an impromptu date? Like now? Let’s go have coffee at the Heartland.”

  “Sure.” Denny looked at me funny. “Something up?” I rolled my eyes in the direction of the kids’ bedrooms. “OK,” he said, peeling off his muddy s
weats. “Give me ten minutes to shower.”

  Half an hour later, we were sitting inside the Heartland Café, a few short blocks from our two-flat on Lunt Avenue. Several die-hards in shorts and T-shirts sat outside at the sidewalk tables in spite of the on-again, off-again drizzle that afternoon, but I figured, why risk getting dumped on?

  Denny slouched in his chair, one arm over the back, and sipped his black coffee. “What’s up?”

  “Well, I’d like to hear about the men’s breakfast, but . . .” I briskly shook cinnamon on the pile of whipped cream crowning my mocha decaf. “I mean, nothing bad actually happened. Just . . . I don’t know what to think!”

  Denny looked at me under lowered eyebrows. “Jodi . . .” He had that I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about tone of voice.

  “OK.” I matched him stare for stare. “Josh has a crush on Edesa.”

  Denny blinked.

  Ha. That got him.

  “And you know this because . . . ?”

  “Because he wants to ask her to the senior prom at Lane Tech! Edesa, of all people! She’s practically an older woman!”

  Denny rubbed the back of his head, the edges of his mouth twitching.

  “He did that too!” I accused.

  “Did what?”

  “Rubbed his head! Like when you’re mulling over something.”

  Denny threw back his head and laughed. “Yeah, well. This one’s a corker, all right.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the wooden table. “Gotta say, our kids have interesting taste in the opposite sex. Got an eye for quality, at least.”

  “Denny! Edesa’s a wonderful person, and if Josh was twenty, I’d say hallelujah.” I scrunched up my forehead. “At least, I think I would. Aside from the whopping cultural differences, that is. I mean, she’s only been in the U.S. a couple of years, and even in Honduras she was a minority. ‘African-Honduran,’ or whatever they call black people there. What if he asks her, and she’s embarrassed to be asked to a high school prom? How awkward is that going to be?”