The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

by Neta Jackson

  “Garfield.” The voice was gruff. Curt. Male.

  “Ben? It’s Jodi Baxter. I’m calling to see if Ruth is feeling better. We missed her at Yada Yada on Sunday.”

  The briefest of pauses, like a skipped heartbeat. “Yeah, sure, she’s OK. Some low-grade bug she’s been fighting, nothing serious. Or maybe it’s, ah, you know, a female thing. But she’s at work today. Be home in an hour or so.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed my disappointment. So would my family, and once supper, the evening news, kids on the phone, and homework kicked into gear—and oh, yes, tonight was midweek Bible study at Uptown—it’d be bedtime, or tomorrow, before I’d get a chance to call again. “Just tell her I called, OK? Thanks, Ben.” I started to hang up.

  “Hey! Miss In-a-Hurry. You called me. So talk.” The gravelly voice at the other end chuckled. “Actually, I’ve got a question. Is Denny there?”

  “No. Baseball practice after school, you know.”

  “OK, that’s not my question. What I want to know is, is your good-looking husband going to that sicko rally at Northwestern on Friday?”

  Now it was my turn to skip a heartbeat. “Yes,” I admitted. “Josh wants to go too.”

  “Good for the boy. Good for Denny. Tell both of ’em to keep me in line just in case I’m tempted to wipe the mouth off a White Pride kisser or two.”

  I think I made a strangled noise. Couldn’t be sure if it was me or static on the line.

  “Jodi, sweetheart. Just kidding. I’m going to behave myself. Mark Smith asked me to be there, so I’m going to be there. Glad I’ll have some company. OK. Now you can hang up.”

  “Wait! Ben?” Ben Garfield had to be older than Ruth by at least ten years—she was close to fifty, which probably made him fifteen or twenty years older than I was. For some reason, his teasing and gentle gruffness made me feel like a little girl being hugged by my daddy. And I found myself blurting out the whole business of Josh ordering books from the White Pride people, and there they were, sitting in my house, making me feel like a party to all this mess.

  Ben listened. At least he was quiet while I bumbled along. Then he said, “The kid’s got guts. What’s he finding out from these books?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. He hasn’t said anything.”

  “Said anything! Of course he’s not going to say anything. This kind of venom isn’t exactly dinner-table talk. I meant, have you looked at these books? Didn’t you tell Yo-Yo once upon a time—one of you Yada Yadas did—that parents or guardians better watch what their kids watch, read what their kids read, listen to what their kids listen to? Of course, this is different, because Josh is educating himself about this mess. Still, I’d go look at those books if I were you, Jodi.”

  How long had Wonka been scratching at the back screen door? “Um, thanks, Ben. You’re probably right. Don’t forget to tell Ruth I called.” I hung up quickly, getting rid of the phone like a hot potato. Absently, I let the dog in.

  Did I want Ben Garfield telling me I should look at those books?

  No.

  Maybe because it was Ben. Maybe because Denny had told me some of Ben’s family history during the Holocaust. If Ben Garfield thought I should look at those books, maybe . . .

  I glanced at the kitchen clock. Amanda might be home any minute; I wasn’t sure about Josh. Denny wouldn’t hit the door until six thirty. But for the moment, I had the house all to myself.

  Slowly, I walked to Josh’s bedroom. The door was ajar. Usually I pulled it shut when I passed by, not wanting to see the puree inside, as if bedclothes, dirty socks, ratty jeans, gym shoes, underwear, books and papers, soccer equipment, and a hundred CDs had been dumped into a giant blender. Out of sight, out of mind, I figured—until the next cleaning orgy at least. But today I pushed it open and entered. Don’t go snooping into anything else, Jodi Baxter, I told myself. Just the books.

  Took me several minutes to find them, stuffed under his bed. What else was under there, only God knew. Probably Josh himself had no idea. I shuddered. As long as it wasn’t crawling, growing mold, or multiplying, I’d let it go. For now.

  I pulled out the books. Most were thick, four hundred pages at least. But I picked up a small booklet. The Pro-White Creed—A Summary of What We Believe.

  A summary. That would do it for me.

  I glanced at the table of contents. It read almost like a religious handbook, designed to instruct the novice believer. “The Ten Commandments of White Pride” . . . “We Believe—A Daily Affirmation of Faith” . . . “Fifteen Principles of Healthy Living.” I steeled myself for a twisted form of Christianity, like the Crusades or the Ku Klux Klan. But the more I read, the weaker I got in the knees until I ended up on the floor.

  “We believe our race is our religion. . . . The inferior races are our avowed enemy, and the Jewish race is the most dangerous of all.” The enemy? Dangerous? I didn’t get it. I mean, by definition racists thought other races were “inferior”—but why the “enemy”? And why the Jews? I always thought of Jewish people as “white.” They looked that way to me.

  “Christianity was invented by the Jews to destroy the White Race. . . . Christianity rapes the minds of otherwise intelligent White Men.” My eyes practically bugged out of my head. What? What in the world did they mean, “invented . . . to destroy the White Race”? Seemed to me most Jewish people got rather offended by Christians claiming Jesus was the Messiah. But hey, if these White Pride types didn’t believe in God or Jesus, that was fine with me. Gave me less to apologize for.

  “What is good for the White Race is the highest virtue. . . . There is nothing more despicable than a traitor to his or her own race.” I read that one over at least three times. What were they talking about? Mixed marriages? Disagreeing with them?

  “Eat only raw vegetables . . . drink no poisons like coffee or alcohol . . . exercise regularly. Build up the White Race!” OK, so they were health nuts. I flipped more pages.

  “It’s a law of nature to protect one’s own. . . . Do nothing illegal. But be ready to defend yourself. Racial war is only a matter of time—”

  A door slammed. The phone started ringing. “Mo-om! Where’s the car? Can we go shopping? I need new underwear for the dance!” The ringing phone cut short. “Hello? Baxter’s Beauty Barn . . . Oh, hi, Mrs. Garfield. . . . Mo-om! It’s for you!”

  I quickly shoved the books back under Josh’s bed, scrambled to my feet, and met Amanda in the kitchen with a smile plastered on my face.

  20

  So. It’s Baxter’s Beauty Barn now, is it?” I could practically hear the smirk on Ruth’s face. “Sorry about that, Ruth. I did teach my kids phone manners once upon a time.” I aimed that last salvo at Amanda, who ducked and scuttled out of the kitchen.

  “So. You called?”

  “Yes! Yo-Yo said you weren’t feeling too good Sunday night. How are you?”

  “How should I be? This body’s got nearly half a century hanging on it. A tune-up I need. Still, I could be dying and Ben wouldn’t take it seriously. ‘Ben,’ I say, ‘can you bring me some Pepto-Bismol?’ ‘What?’ he says. ‘Can’t you get it yourself?’ ” Ruth snorted in my ear. “Husbands. God help us—’cause they’re sure not going to.”

  I giggled. “Oh, come on, Ruth. Ben sounded kinda worried about you when I talked to him a while ago.”

  “Humph. Maybe, maybe not. Would it break his face to show me he’s worried?”

  “Are you still sick?

  “I should be so lucky. A little attention I might get. A queasy stomach is all . . . So how was Yada Yada? What’s the latest melodrama?”

  Movement in the kitchen doorway caught my eye. Amanda was bouncing on the balls of her feet and pointing at the clock. I turned my back on her. “Ruth, I’m sorry. Amanda thinks the end of civilization will be upon us if she doesn’t get new underwear right now for the dance at José’s school this weekend. Let me call you back, OK?”

  “New underwear! Jodi, Jodi. Go put your feet up. My grandmother Zelda, God rest her
soul, had one thing to say when the boys began to call: ‘Always wear your ragged undergarments, young lady. More likely to keep your clothes on.’ ”

  My turn to snort. Knew that would go over like spinach at a birthday party. But maybe I could put off Amanda until Saturday, at least, since Denny and I’d been trying to make it to the Uptown Bible study on Wednesday nights.

  As it turned out, we didn’t go. The phone rang during supper, and Denny answered. “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . I can do that . . . What? Sure, I’ll hold . . . Yeah, still here . . . OK. No problem. I’ll ask her.”

  I raised my eyebrows into question marks as he sat back down at the table.

  “Uh, that was Mark. He hasn’t been able to get hold of Peter Douglass or Carl Hickman about getting together tomorrow night to pray, and he has to attend some meeting tonight at the university. He asked if I’d call them. Then Nony told him to ask you to come—maybe Avis and Florida too.”

  “Not just the guys?”

  Denny shrugged and tackled his now-growing-cold mashed potatoes. “Guess not. Nony wants to be there.”

  “Can I come?” Josh asked. “I want to see Dr. Smith about something.”

  Denny’s mouth was full, but he managed, “Guess so.”

  I sat up inside. The cobwebs that’d been clouding the corners of my spirit all week vanished, as if they’d been dusted out. Praying together. That’s what I needed. Hadn’t been able to pray by myself all week—why was that? If Denny, Josh, and some of the other guys were going to this rally, too, it’d be great if we could all pray together first. Avis could probably come with Peter. Would Florida need a babysitter?

  I got up to get my Yada Yada phone list then glanced at the clock. “Oh! Denny. What about Bible study tonight?”

  “Not me. Not if we’re going out tomorrow night.” He didn’t even look guilty.

  Amanda pounced. “You’re not going to church tonight? Does that mean we can go shopping?”

  Grandmother Zelda’s “recipe for virtue” almost popped out of my mouth. Instead, I said, “It can wait till Saturday morning—if we go at all. I’m not sure it’s necessary, Amanda. Nobody’s gonna see—”

  Amanda’s mouth dropped. “Mom!” She grabbed my arm and dragged me into the kitchen, out of hearing of her father and brother. “That’s not the point,” she whispered. “I just want to feel, you know, special from the inside out on Saturday night. It’s, like, my first real date.”

  I studied my daughter. Her first real date. With José. Yes, I was aware of that. For a moment, I put aside mother bear mode and tried to remember what it was like to be fifteen and going on a “real” date. Well, sixteen in my case. My parents had a solid spot in the Strict Parents Top Ten, just under the ones who advocated arranged marriage. But I could remember that awesome feeling of knowing that somebody—a boy, a nice boy—liked me. Liked me enough to ask me out and be seen in public with me. Remembered all the nerve endings that felt naked and exposed for days leading up to the date. Will I do something dumb and humiliate him? Humiliate myself? How am I supposed to act? Is my dress dorky? Should I dip into my college savings, just this once, and—

  “All right,” I said. “Saturday morning.”

  “OK.” She shrugged. “Can I have the phone?”

  I snatched it first. “No! Your dad and I have to make some calls about this prayer meeting tomorrow.”

  Amanda’s mood-o-meter swung from mild compliance to mutiny. “Mo-om! You won’t take me shopping, and now you won’t let me use the phone. Nobody ever lets me do anything!” She flounced out of the room and disappeared. A door slammed.

  I came back into the dining room, hoping to send Denny after his melodramatic daughter. I found him in the living room, already engrossed in a TV special on the fiftieth anniversary of the first ascent of Mount Everest.

  Which was nothing, in my opinion, compared to raising teenagers.

  WHEN WE GOT READY TO GO Thursday evening, Josh showed up lugging his old school backpack, the one with the broken zipper. I started to ask what happened to the new one we got him this year, but Amanda interrupted. “If everybody’s going to be gone, can I go upstairs and do my homework with Stu and Becky?”

  That’s nice, I thought. Except when we went out to the garage, we realized Stu’s car wasn’t there. Uh, God? I’m leaving my daughter alone with an ex-con. Does this make any sense?

  “They’ll be OK,” Denny said. “Let’s go.” But at the last minute, he ran up the back stairs and asked Becky not to have any “friends” over while Amanda was there.

  “What’d she say?” I hissed when he climbed into the minivan.

  “She said, ‘I’m cool with that.’ ” He flicked the garage opener and backed into the alley.

  Josh gave a snort from the middle seat. “Maybe we could just let Amanda live upstairs all the time.”

  Hm. Tempting.

  Nony met us at the door of their ivy-covered brick home in north Evanston. “Denny! And Josh too! Go on through the kitchen. Mark’s in the family room with Avis and Peter.” She gave me a warm hug, wrapping me in the folds of the yellow-and-black caftan she was wearing. “Thank you for coming, Jodi. Would you help me carry in the tea?”

  In the kitchen, Nony picked up a tray with a teapot wrapped in a cozy, cups, a honey pot, and a small pitcher of cream. The real deal, I grinned. “Bring that lemonade, too, will you, Jodi?” she said. “And glasses—up there in that cupboard.”

  The TV was on in the family room as we came in with the drinks and munchies. I threw a smile at Avis, who was sitting patiently at one end of the comfy couch while the guys were all glued to the TV. A couple of news anchors were bouncing all over the president’s announcement that U.S. troops would remain in Iraq “indefinitely,” even though the war was supposed to be officially “over.”

  “It’s not over,” Mark muttered. “Not by a long shot.”

  The doorbell rang, and a moment later Nony ushered Florida and Carl Hickman into the room. And Stu. Stu? Oops. Should I have called everybody in Yada Yada about this prayer meeting?

  “Don’t think I’m not grateful for the taxi service, Leslie Stuart,” Florida was saying, drowning out the TV. “But, girl, you need to get a bigger car if you gonna haul around the likes of Carl and his long legs.”

  “Flo!” Carl’s color deepened.

  Stu grinned. “Why do you think I drive a small car? You really have to need a ride to call me up.”

  Nony shut off the TV and sat down next to her husband. They looked like a photo shoot straight out of Ebony magazine. “Guess we’re all here. Stu, can you stay? We’re going to pray about the rally tomorrow.”

  “Well, OK. Haven’t been home yet, but I could stay a little while.” Stu sank into an overstuffed chair.

  Josh slung the backpack off his shoulder and handed it to Mark. “These might help give you a heads-up for tomorrow, Dr. Smith.”

  “What’s this?” Mark reached into Josh’s backpack and pulled out a book, then another. I stared. Those books. I glared at Josh. Was my son out of his mind? I could guarantee Nony would be upset seeing that venom in her house.

  All the books were dumped on the coffee table, tea and lemonade forgotten. Peter and Carl each picked up a book, turned it over, and read the back, frowning. Stu grabbed one, too, and began paging through it. “Good grief,” she muttered. “Glad Ruth and Ben aren’t here. These people really hate Jews, don’t they?”

  “Jews and blacks and Asians and Christians,” Josh said. “And whites who ‘mingle’ with, um, non-whites.” He grinned at his father and me. “We’re all traitors.”

  I could tell Mark was fascinated. “Where’d you get these?”

  Josh told about finding the White Pride Web site and ordering the books as research for his debate team. “Pretty nasty stuff,” he admitted. “But they might give you a clue what these jerks are going to say at their ‘free speech’ rally tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Thanks, Josh. I appreciate it.”

  Nony did no
t pick up any of the books. She sat on the couch, arms folded against her chest, hidden within the roomy caftan. I caught her eye. “Where are the boys?” I mouthed at her.

  She pointed toward the floor and mouthed back, “Play room. Downstairs. Video games.” Then she pressed her lips together. Nony was not a happy camper.

  “Listen to this,” Peter said, and began to read the “Ten Commandments of White Pride.” Avis got up from her end of the couch, threaded her way through the bodies and knees populating the Sisulu-Smiths’ family room, and disappeared into the kitchen. Didn’t blame her. Maybe I’d go use the bathroom next. Stick my finger down my throat and throw up.

  “Whassup with this, Mark?” Carl was shaking his head. “These guys talk about preparing for ‘racial holy war.’ Man! I thought all that was in the Middle East.”

  Denny spoke up. “It’s not too late to reconsider, Mark. No one in this room would blame you if you decided to just ignore these guys tomorrow. That might be the wisest thing anyway.”

  Everyone had an opinion. Comments flew back and forth. Short snippets from the books got read. Josh was engaged with men he respected; that part I could be grateful for. But I felt unsettled. The tension in the room—spoken and unspoken—was high.

  Stu whispered something to Florida. “Hey, everybody.” Florida raised her voice over the hubbub. “Hate to break up the party, but didn’t we get together tonight to pray? Stu’s gotta go in a few minutes, maybe some of the rest of us too. Kids, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course.” Mark started stuffing the books back into the backpack; then he looked at Josh. “Could I keep these till tomorrow? I’d like to look at them a little more carefully.” At Josh’s nod, Mark glanced around the room, as if searching for a place to put them.

  “Not in here!” Nony snapped. “Take them up to your office. I don’t want the boys to see them.”

  “Right. Be back in a minute.” Mark disappeared with Josh’s backpack.

  “Where’s Avis at?” Florida frowned. “She’s been gone a long time. But if we’re gonna pray now, she’s gonna want to be here.”