by Neta Jackson
Hm.Not a bad idea, actually.
I DIDN’T REMEMBER when Becky said her interview was, but I happened to glance out the kitchen window in midafternoon and saw her on her knees, pulling weeds out of the flower garden as if they were one of the ten plagues of Egypt.
“Hey, Becky!” I yelled from the back door. “How’d it go? ”
No answer. Just a so-so waggle of her hand before jerking out another weed.
So-so? I poured two glasses of “swee’tea” over ice and headed down the steps and across our undersized backyard. “Here.” I handed her the tea. She rocked back on her heels and took the glass, mumbling, “Thanks.” The baggy T-shirt she was wearing over a pair of sweat shorts stuck damply to her skinny body, the electronic monitor she always had to wear strapped to one ankle of her bare leg. Not exactly “dressed for success.” I suddenly had an awful thought. Had any of us thought to ask Becky if she had anything to wear to this interview?
“Um, so did you go to the interview? Taking the bus go OK? ”
A nod. Another weed went sailing.
I lowered myself to the patchy grass, amazingly green for August. Had to be Becky’s doing. I knew neither Stu nor we Baxters were good at remembering to water it. “So how’d it go? Did you get the job? ”
“If I want it.” She jerked another weed.
It wasn’t the answer I was expecting, not the way she was acting. “Becky! That’s great! Is there a problem? When do they want you to start? Don’t they pay enough? ”
Becky gave up on the weeds and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Right after Labor Day. And pay’s OK, I guess. Can’t expect more doin’ what I’d be doin’—wiping tables, washing dishes, takin’ out trash, stuff like that. But the man said if I stuck it out for six weeks, he’d train me on the cash register, do counter stuff. I’m OK with that. I know I gotta prove myself, work my way up. But . . .” She flicked a ladybug off her arm, sent it flying. Took several long swallows from her glass of iced tea.
“Becky.” I laid a hand on her arm. “Tell me what happened. You don’t seem too happy. But I know how much you wanted a job.This seems like an answer to our prayers. Your prayer.”
The long sweep of her Adele haircut fell over one side of her face. “Yeah.” She pushed back her hair and turned angry eyes at me. “So tell me, Jodi. How come God answers prayers but He don’t go the whole way? Huh? Can you tell me that? I get out of prison early.God gets three cheers. But I end up on house arrest, can’t go nowhere. Then Stu offers me a place to live. Sweet. But she gets a burr up her butt ’cause I’m not Martha Stewart. Finally, parole officer says I can get a job. I get an interview. Hooray, God. Then the Jewish guy tells me they ain’t open on Saturday, I gotta work Sunday.” She spit out gutter words that would’ve earned a bleep even on today’s TV.
My mind was spinning. Sunday? Becky had a problem with working on Sunday? Avis maybe, or Nony. I was brought up that way too. But I hardly thought it’d be a problem for Becky. Yo-Yo worked Sundays.We all thought it’d be good when she got a different job, could go to church on Sunday. But one thing at a time.
And then it hit me. “You mean . . . Little Andy? ”
She nodded. “I ain’t gonna give up my boy’s visits.” Becky’s eyes narrowed, her voice fierce. “Not for one minute. Had to fight too hard to get what I got already.”
“Oh, Becky. Maybe DCFS would change the day to Saturday. You never know.”
She snorted. “Maybe. But Big Andy’s mama gonna put up a hissy fit, make it as hard as she can. She don’t want Andy to visit me—period. She wants to take Little Andy away from me if she can.”
Becky’s shoulders sagged. “An’ that’s not the only thing. I like takin’ Little Andy to church. Makes me feel like we’re a . . . a family. He gets to see everybody, play with other kids, learn about Jesus in Sunday school.” Her eyes filled with tears. “That’s what I want, Jodi. To be a family. And for Andy to be part of God’s family too.”
20
I felt badly for Becky.What a choice! An actual job offer—nothing to sneeze at when you’re an exfelon—versus her hard-won Sunday visits with her son. But sounded like Becky had already made her choice. Little Andy came first.
Too bad she wasn’t clear on that before she messed up her head on heroin.
Not knowing what else to say, I took her hand, grubby from tackling weeds barehanded, and we prayed. In the middle of praying that “God would make a way out of no way,” I stopped.
Becky opened her eyes and looked at me. “What? ”
“I’m sorry. I just . . .” I felt like laughing. Was this wisdom? God’s loving answer? “I just had an idea. Even if you took the job at the Bagel Bakery, it wouldn’t start for a few weeks, right? How would you like a job for five days next week you could do right here at home? For pay? ”
BECKY JUMPED AT THE IDEA. Denny acted like I’d just come up with a peace plan for the Middle East. Even Stu the Magnanimous said sure, why not, sounded like fun, though she pulled me aside and asked if we’d keep an eye on things when she was at work.
When Chanda called that evening, I told her I had lesson plans and school prep and couldn’t take the girls—but I knew someone who’d like the job. She sounded put out at first but perked up when she realized that we’d just be downstairs. “Dat’s good, dat’s good,” Chanda said. “And Becky needs de money.Tell her I pay her good.”
“You tell her! It’s between you and Becky now.” I simpered at Denny, who could hear my side of the conversation. He gave me a thumbs-up.
But my qualification for the Nobel Peace Prize was shortlived—about as long as it took me to wonder why I hadn’t heard from Florida by Tuesday morning. It’d been three days since the move. Had Chris come home? Maybe their phone wasn’t hooked up yet.Did the Hickmans even have the same number? I dialed the old one just in case.
Florida answered. “Hey, Jodi. Glad you called.What’s the number of Bethune Elementary? I gotta get Carla registered.”
“Uh, sure, Florida. But what about Chris? Is he home yet? ” I couldn’t imagine my fourteen-year-old being gone for three days without reducing me to gibberish.
“No, he ain’t, and he ain’t comin’ home till he gets a thing or two straight in his head. Carl found him coolin’ his heels at some kid’s crib, felt like smackin’ him good. But ya can’t do that nowadays, ya know. Anyway, Chris said he knew we’d be mad, him runnin’ off like that during the move, that’s why he didn’t come home. Carl said, yeah, we mad as hot pepper sauce, but if he wanted to come home, he’d just have to face it like a man. That, or he could just live at the homeless shelter.”
“Uh, Florida? I don’t think they take minors at shelters. And you can’t just leave your kid out on the street. What if he gets in trouble? You know, stealing to get food or something. They’ve got all those laws now making parents responsible for what their minor children do.”
Florida snorted. “Yeah, we know that. Chris just don’t know it. We countin’ on him to show up today or tomorrow. The mama where he at said he could stay one more day max. Then she was kickin’ him out.”
I blew out a long breath.Would I have the guts to exercise that kind of tough love? “Still feels kind of risky, Flo. He could just go from friend to friend, a night here, two nights there, for a long time.” Or get caught up by some pimp. I shivered.
“Jodi, you with me on this thang or not? I don’t need no friend tellin’ me I gotta let my kid run all over me. Got better things to do, like get Carla and Cedric registered for school. You gonna get me that number or not? ”
I mumbled my apologies and got her the number.
I HAD A HARD TIME not getting tangled up in my feelings the rest of the week. Why did friendships have to get so complicated? And Becky’s question about half-answered prayers had been bothering me too. Wouldn’t mind a few answers myself. Like why Nony’s husband woke up from that coma in answer to our fervent prayers, but he still struggled to tie his shoelaces. And take Florida and
Carl, who’d come so far getting their family back together, which was nothing short of miracle upon miracle, but now their teenager was spinning out on the street. And why my job got a reprieve from the budget ax—thank You, Jesus!—but Bethune Elementary was getting a dump of underachieving kids from other schools that would stress my classroom to the max.
Yeah, what about those half-answered prayers, God?
Decided to hold off on calling Florida for a few days. She could call me if she wanted to fuss about Chris. I tried to pray for Florida’s family, though; tried to pray for Becky and Little Andy, tried to pray for Ruth and Ben—even remembered to pray for “that girl” in the White Pride group, the one who probably fingered Mark’s assailants and was in protective custody. But sometimes it felt like I was just praying in circles. How did I know what was best?
Huh. Sometimes felt like I hadn’t learned anything about prayer in the last year and a half. But I did know one thing: God was God all by Himself. His ways ere not our ways; His thoughts not our thoughts—all that stuff. Somewhere along the line, I had to trust that God was going to “work all things together for good.”
Hm. Just to be sure, I looked up that well-worn verse in my modernlanguage Bible. Romans 8:28— “We know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose for them.” Hm.His purpose.
OK, God. I need to trust You for my friends, as well as for myself. For their children too. I know stewing and worrying doesn’t help.Work out Your purpose in each of their lives. Just . . . give them wisdom, Lord.And me too.
“Mom? ” Amanda interrupted my thought-prayers Wednesday evening as I tossed some chilled pasta with olive oil, sun-dried tomatoes, yellow peppers, and still-crunchy broccoli for supper. “Has Dad asked Mr. Enriques to the men’s breakfast yet? He’s still riding José really hard. Somebody’s got to talk to him.”
“That’s putting a lot on your dad, isn’t it? ” Olives. And feta cheese. That’s what this pasta salad needed.
“But he’s a man! He’s not going to listen to me.”
I kept a straight face. I could well imagine the disaster if Amanda, hands on hips, gave Mr. Enriques a piece of her mind about his “unreasonable” demands on José. “Smart thinking,” I allowed. “But I don’t think your dad wants to invite Ricardo to the men’s breakfast just to confront him about José. It takes time to build a friendship.”
“Yeah, well, he could start. ”
If only teenagers ran the world . . . “Oh, just remembered. Don’t think there’s going to be a men’s breakfast this Saturday. Heard your dad talking to Pastor Clark about the Uptown guys showing up at a workday at New Morning instead.”
“So? Dad could ask Mr. Enriques to that!”
Amanda flounced out of the kitchen. I hollered after her, “Well, don’t talk to me about it. Ask your dad”
AS IT TURNED OUT, Denny almost seemed relieved to switch our anniversary night out to Saturday instead of Thursday. Still new to his job as athletic director at West Rogers High, he sometimes didn’t get home until six thirty or seven. And Amanda must have used her daddy’s-girl charm on him, because he did call Ricardo Enriques and invite him to the doughnuts-coffee-and-hammer work fest with the Uptown and New Morning guys. “I tried, kiddo,” he told Amanda. “But he said he can’t make it.”
The workday at New Morning was a nice gesture—no, more than a gesture; maybe essential for two congregations considering a merger—but I felt sorry for Denny and Josh heading out the door Saturday morning in scruffy sweat shorts and old T-shirts. The weatherman promised temperatures in the nineties, and as far as I knew,New Morning didn’t have central air in their new building yet.
At least Adele’s Hair and Nails had AC, lucky me. The bell tinkled over the door of her shop as I pulled it open; a blast of arctic air nearly knocked me back outside. Sheesh! I should have brought a sweater! Three women in the waiting area flipped through Oprah’s magazine and Essence as they chatted, their skin coloring ranging from honey to ebony. The chatter momentarily died when I came in, and I felt my cheeks grow hot at the once-over I knew I was getting. “Who’s that white chick coming in here? ” “I don’t know, girl, but that hair needs help bad!” “Hair? I thought it was a Halloween wig.” . . . Well, maybe they weren’t.
Adele, who’d gone “natural” with her short ’fro, looked up from the weave she was doing in the first chair. “Jodi Baxter.” Adele had a way of saying my name that made me feel like a schoolchild caught ditching. “Didn’t I tell you eleven o’clock? I got three people ahead of you and only one of me.”
“I know.” My voice squeaked. “Your shop is air-conditioned, and my house isn’t.” Nobody laughed at my little joke. “Just kidding. I came early to play with MaDear. Is she here? ”
Adele pursed her lips. “Yes, she’s here.Not sure she’ll want to go out in the heat, though.What’s that thermometer say?
I peered outside the front window. “Uh, eighty-four.”
“Humph. Not too bad yet. It’ll be good for her to get out.” A smile finally broke on Adele’s round face, showing the small gap between her front teeth. “Thanks, Jodi. ’Preciate it.”
Adele’s mother sat in the back room in her wheelchair, her lap full of buttons, plinking them into the little cups of a cardboard egg carton. “Hello, MaDear.” I kissed the leathery, freckled cheek, then knelt down beside her. “What are you doing? ”
The old woman shook her head. “Cain’t find where this red ’un goes. Do ya see red ’uns”
We sorted buttons for a little while, then I belted her in her chair and wheeled her through the crowded shop, backing out the front door onto the sidewalk. I stayed away as long as I could, trying to keep MaDear in the shade along the storefronts, but the sun relentlessly climbed straight overhead, flooding both sides of Clark Street.We got as far as the Rogers Park Fruit Market and I bought her a California navel orange, which I peeled and sectioned to give her something to do as I wheeled her back to Adele’s shop.
“Jodee!” Chanda’s bubbly voice greeted me as I backed the wheelchair into the shop to the tinkle of the bell. “Adele told mi you absconded wit’ her mama. Glad to see you letting Adele fix you up right smart for de big night tonight wit you mon.”
Two of the women who’d been waiting for appointments when I left were now under the hair dryers and the third was in the chair, her hair smeared with relaxing cream. Chanda followed me into the back room while I parked MaDear and gave her the buttons once again, then she followed me back out to the long couch under the front window, chattering the whole time.
“Mi getting me ’air braided and beaded, won’t ’ave to do not’ing wit it while Thomas and mi in Hawaii next week.”
“You going surfing, Chanda? ” I teased, flipping through Adele’s latest issue of O.
Chanda thought that was funny. “De only water mi touching wit mi big toe be in a big hotel pool. On de beach, mi lay out wit a cool drink in one hand and watch de mons behind mi sunglasses! ” She giggled again.
“You get that mammogram you promised? ” Adele eyed us as she wrapped foil around various hair sections of the honey-skinned woman in the chair. “Yes, you, Chanda George. It’s been a year since your last one, and you’ve got that lump.”
“Humph.” Chanda folded her arms across her chest. “You sure know ’ow to shoot down mi ’appy day, Adele Skuggs. Mi do dat mammo ting when mi get back from Hawaii. No rush.”
My eyes widened. “Wait a minute, Chanda,” I said. “You’ve got another lump? Why didn’t you say anything at Yada Yada? ”
Chanda fluttered her hand. “Mi not tinking about it. The last one, just a cyst. Dis one itty bitty, just a cyst too. No big deal.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. No big deal, my foot. But no sense scaring Chanda just before her big trip. “Well, I’m with Adele. Get that mammogram right away when you get back, promise? ” Chanda rolled her eyes. “Promise? ”
Adele sent the ho
ney-skinned woman back to the sinks to get the relaxing cream rinsed out, then shampooed and conditioned. “You better do it, Chanda, or we sic the whole pack of Yada Yada sisters on you.” She snapped a black plastic cape open. “Jodi! In the chair.”
21
Becky Wallace was blowing smoke rings on the back stairs leading up to Stu’s apartment when I got home from the beauty shop. “Oh. Hi, Becky.” I jiggled my keys, eager to get inside before my “party” hairdo frizzed up. “Sure is muggy. Say, any news from DCFS about Andy’s visiting day? ”
Becky shrugged. “My case worker’s workin’ on it, I guess. Stu said she’d put in a good word for me too.” She blew another smoke ring. “Got mixed feelin’s ’bout it, though. Hate to give up Sundays.”
“Could you talk to the guy at the Bagel Bakery? Or did you already? ”
Becky frowned. “I’m not so good at stickin’ up for myself—not as good as I was stickin’ up you guys.” The second those words spouted out of her mouth, Becky looked at me, horrified. But when I snickered, we both started laughing. Howling, actually. Becky Wallace had just made a joke in the middle of her pain.
My phone was ringing. “Gotta go,” I gasped, and gave her a quick hug. “It’s going to work out,Becky, I know it will. Somehow.”
I got the kitchen phone just as the answering machine kicked in. “Hi! I’m here”
“Hola, Jodi. I am so glad you are home.”
My heart warmed to hear Delores’s voice. Delores Enriques and I were probably around the same age, but she had a mothering heart that made me feel safe. Loved. “Me too! We haven’t talked in a while.”
“I’m sorry. I’m working extra hours to help with—well, you know. But I just called to say gracias to Denny for asking Ricardo to the workday at New Morning.”
“I’ll tell him, Delores. But Ricardo said he was busy.”
Her sigh was deep. “Lo sé. But, still, I think it meant something to be asked, though he wouldn’t admit it. I’m not sure what he’s ‘busy’ with this morning, but his band is playing at La Fiesta tonight. Maybe they’re practicing.”
