by Neta Jackson
We were both silent. Should I ask? Curiosity overcame me. “What about, you know, the dog? Does he still have it? ” What I really meant was, Is Ricardo still fighting that scary pit bull in those illegal dogfights? That was what had started the whole mess about Ricardo saying they had to get more money somewhere—if not betting on the dogfights, then José had to drop out of school and get a job.
“Just pray for us, mi amiga. The good news is, José was accepted at Lane Tech. A long commute from Little Village, but that boy wants to go to college. And he will.”
“OK. I’ll pray now.” It was becoming more natural for me to “pray on the spot.” And we did, right there on the phone. Delores prayed too. That woman. She had so much faith in the middle of circumstances that would knock me over.
When we hung up, I looked at the clock. One o’clock. Denny and Josh would be home at three, they said. I had two hours to myself, time to put on my makeup and paint my nails. Denny hadn’t said where we were going for dinner. Maybe he hadn’t decided.
And then a wonderful thought danced into my brain. La Fiesta. The largest Mexican-American restaurant in Chicago, famous for its authentic cuisine and colorful atmosphere. And Ricardo’s band was playing tonight . . .
“WOW.” Denny looked me up and down, then turned me around.
“Nice. Very very nice—for forty-four.”
“Forty-three. My birthday’s not for another month.” But my cheeks flushed at the light in his eyes. I dd look nice. The mirror said so. Not exactly my everyday bangs and ordinary brown hair brushing my shoulders. Little twists, anchored by a row of glitter pins, pulled my hair back from my face, releasing the bouncy fall of waves behind my ears. The hairstyle my Yada Yada sisters had picked for me last year at my first makeover at Adele’s Hair and Nails made my brown eyes stand out, especially with some liner and mascara. And the slinky black dress Denny got for my last birthday slimmed down the few pounds I’d put on the last couple of years.
But Denny’s eyebrow went up when I suggested we go to La Fiesta Mexican Restaurant for dinner. “Hm. Isn’t that where Ricardo Enriques’s mariachi band has a regular gig? ” I’m sure I looked guilty. “Jodi Marie Baxter. I smell a Yada Yada scheme. Can’t we do something just us on our anniversary without involving the trials and tribulations of your Yada Yada sisters and their families? ”
I protested. It wasn’t a scheme. Honest. But didn’t he remember the wonderful music Ricardo and his band played at Amanda’s quinceañera? And Avis’s wedding? So romantic. Why not go to La Fiesta and hear him play? Ricardo probably wouldn’t even know we were there.
But a few hours later, when we asked for a table for two, the hostess led us to a table not ten feet from the band. “Oh, well,” I whispered to Denny as he pulled out my chair. “So much for anonymity.” To my surprise, Mr. Bump-on-a-Log Enriques, dressed like the rest of the mariachi band in a short black and silver jacket, white shirt, and black pants, actually smiled when he saw us sit down. Then he once again bent over the large guittarón he hugged like a lover to his chest, coaxing the lilting music from its heart.
We were halfway through our combinación plates when the band took a break. Ricardo stopped by our table and shook hands. “So glad to see the Baxters at La Fiesta.” His smile was genuine. He tipped his head at me. “The lady is beautiful tonight.What is the special occasion”
Denny grinned and laid an arm across the back of my chair. “Our anniversary.Twenty-one years.”
Ricardo’s smile broadened. “Congratulations. Enjoy.”
We did. The restaurant walls beamed with brilliant shades of orange and yellow. Sombreros, piñatas, and other Mexican trappings decorated the walls and ceilings. We lingered over café de olla—a pot of coffee with chocolate and cinnamon—so we could hear the band play again. I was glad Denny seemed to be enjoying himself.
I was just about to whisper, “Shall we go? ” when Ricardo Enriques took the microphone. “We have un ocasión especial tonight.” His eyes twinkled, and he swept a hand in our direction. “Mr. and Mrs. Baxter are celebrating their twenty-first anniversary at La Fiesta—”
People started clapping. The tips of Denny’s ears turned red.
“—and we are going to play a special song in their honor—a song for lovers.” His smile got bigger and he motioned to us. “Come, come, Jodi and Denny. For you, we are going to play while you do the jarabe, the dance for lovers—otherwise known as the Mexican Hat Dance.”
I could tell Denny was starting to panic. Denny would never voluntarily dance in public. But Ricardo was insistent. “Come, come, I will show you.” He tossed a sombrero on the floor and snapped his fingers to set time for the band. “One, two, three, one, two three . . .” And then Delores’s husband took my hand and led me in a startling dance around the hat on the floor. The other dinner guests clapped and yelled encouragement. I was laughing so hard, I had no idea what I was doing, but it was fun.
After a few minutes, Ricardo bowed to me and handed me off to Denny. “Now you, mi amigo. ”
I was sure Denny would say no, afraid of making a fool of himself, but to my surprise he shrugged and flashed his two big dimples. “Can’t dance, but I can’t let mi amigo have the only dance with mi amor.” He took my hand, the band swept back into the dance music, and the two of us, laughing, stumbled and fumbled around that big hat to cheers and clapping all around us.
Inspired, other patrons got up and danced as Ricardo and his band introduced other dance music: la raspa, a sort of square dance with a little hopping step all its own . . . jarana, a complicated fast dance that put us out of commission . . . and everyone’s favorite, la bamba. It didn’t seem to matter whether anyone could dance or not. For the next hour, all the strangers who’d come to La Fiesta that night were knit together in the joy of a culture and a people whose history was so entwined with our own.
Denny and I finally pooped out. We giggled at ourselves all the way home. I couldn’t remember having so much fun since . . . maybe never.
Only one thing bothered me. I was having a hard time matching up this Ricardo—Ricardo the talented mariachi musician, brightening the lives of La Fiesta dinner guests each weekend with his flamboyant guitar—with the Ricardo Enriques who kept a pit bull in his garage for illegal dogfighting. It didn’t make sense.
THE EXHILARATION of our anniversary night out stayed with me right through church at Uptown the next day. Why don’t we dance more in church, I wondered, responding with our bodies to the joy of the Lord? Then I realized that’s what Avis and Florida did in their own way, whether anyone else did or not.
I was still smiling inside on Monday, in spite of spending all day sorting out old lesson plans and doing back-to-school shopping with Amanda that evening, gasping at the price of brand-name jeans. Even had a big grin on my face Tuesday when I heard Stu and Becky’s doorbell. I peeked out my front door. A taxi was doubleparked in front of the house, its hazards flashing, while Chanda fussed over Dia and Cheree on the porch.
“Oh, Becky.Mi hope dey got all dey need for five days wit’out dey mama.” She ticked things off on her fingers. “’Jammies. Toot’brushes. Swimsuits. Sandals. Shorts and T-shirts—”
“They gonna be fine, Chanda! Just go. Go!” Becky squatted down, making eye contact with the two girls. She tweaked the nose of Dia’s stuffed dog. “Who’s this? Does he bite? ” Dia giggled. Twelve-year-old Thomas smirked at the girls behind his cool sunglasses, obviously thrilled not to have his little sisters tagging along to Hawaii.
I poked my head out the door. “Chanda! You and Tom have a wonderful time.” Everyone waved. “Bye! Bye!” And the taxi was gone.
Becky worked hard at entertaining the girls the next few days—if the board games, kid videos, markers, and scratch paper she kept borrowing were any indication. I could hear them out in the back-yard squealing as they ran through the sprinkler, and at least once a day, the girls knocked at our back door and asked if Willie Wonka could come out to play—which good ol’Wonka was ha
ppy to do, providing it didn’t require doing more than panting in the sun.
By Thursday, Becky looked a little ragged. I’d already planned a trek up to Evanston to give Nony a break. Why not take Cheree and Dia along? They could play with Nony’s boys while I visited with Mark and folded some laundry. Nony and Hoshi took the opportunity to go out for lunch and do some shopping. Both were laughing when they came back. But I struggled with sadness when I left. Mark’s left eye was patched again—another surgery to clean out the hemorrhage—and he seemed to tire quickly. I didn’t ask but I wondered . . . would he ever see with that eye again? Would his body and spirit ever really recover from the beating?
Since we were out, the girls helped me shop for Amanda’s birthday, then we dropped by the Hickmans’ house to deliver a hanging plant for Florida’s front porch. Carla immediately took the girls to her new bedroom on the first floor, a NO BOYS ALLOWED sign on the door. Florida made a big fuss over the plant, as if it hadn’t been almost a week since she’d yelled at me on the phone. She tipped her head toward Carla’s bedroom. “That girl in heaven havin’ her own room. The boys too.”
Boys—as in plural? Florida grinned. “Yeah, that’s what got Chris back home. We told him he had his own room now—the boys’ rooms are upstairs. He behavin’ himself so far, even got him registered over at Sullivan High School. Right now he’s cleaning out the garage as punishment for runnin’ off.” She winked. “Never can tell when the Hickmans gonna get us a car, the way God is blessin’ us. Oh, thank ya, Jesus!”
Becky was zonked on the couch when I brought the girls back home, using Stu’s extra key to let ourselves in. Dia and Cheree clamored to watch TV, so Becky popped in one of our ancient kid videos and followed me to the back door. “Man, Jodi. I didn’t know keepin’ up with two little girls was gonna be so hard! They good, but—man! They always wantin’ me to do somethin’ with ’em.”
I grinned. “Welcome to parenthood. Maybe that’s why they come out as babies instead of kids. Gives us parents time to fall in love before we have second thoughts.”
She glared at me. “Second thoughts? You mean about Andy? Never.”
I had a last-minute inspiration. “Do you and the girls and Stu want to come to Amanda’s birthday supper tomorrow? Maybe the girls could help decorate.” I knew Amanda wouldn’t mind. It’d feel more like a party than the “no-frills birthday” we’d promised, even if the guests were only six and eight.
As it turned out, given construction paper and rolls of crepe paper, the decorating kept Becky and the girls busy for hours. They made cards and plastered signs and streamers everywhere I’d let them stick tape. And just as we were lighting the sixteen birthday candles on the fudge chocolate layer cake, José “just happened” to come by with a present for Amanda—a big white teddy bear with Sweet Sixteen embroidered on its heart—so it turned out to be quite a party after all.
Lots of chatter and laughter. Family. Friends. Simple gifts. Thank You, Jesus.
Josh offered to take Amanda and José to a movie after supper as his birthday gift, and Becky tried to drag Dia and Cheree upstairs to get ready for bed, but the girls begged for a story first. “Mr. Denny! Mr. Denny! You read us a story!”
For two seconds Denny looked like a deer caught in the headlights, but then he grinned. “Sure. That means I don’t have to do dishes, right? ” I chased all three of them out of the kitchen with a snapping dishtowel.
Stu and Becky helped me clean up the kitchen, then I peeked into the living room, where Denny was reading The Wind in the Willows with Cheree and Dia cuddled up on either side of him. I turned to leave silently when I heard Dia interrupt the story. “Mr. Denny? I wish you could be our daddy.”
Oh Jesus.My heart squeezed. Out of the mouths of babes. I wondered what Denny would say.Tell them he was married to me , not their mama, so he couldn’t be their daddy. Then I heard him say, “Tell you what, snicklefritz. I could be your uncle, how about that? Uncle Denny. How does that sound? ”
The giggles coming from the living room told me it sounded just fine.
SINCE BECKY COULDN’T LEAVE THE HOUSE, I took the girls to the airport to meet their mama and brother on Saturday, even though we had to meet at United’s baggage claim. Thomas showed up in a colorful Hawaiian shirt, new shorts, and the ever-present sunglasses. Chanda wore a teal Hawaiian sarong with a creamy orchid print and flip-flops. The girls squealed as Chanda lifted fresh-flower leis from her neck to theirs.
“Ooo, Sista Jodee, so glad you come to get us,” she said as we waited for the luggage carousel. “Mi got more suitcases comin’ dan goin’, and dem taxi mons all want a big tip. So how de girls behave for Becky? ”
“They were great, Chanda. I think she enjoyed them very much. But I’m eager to hear about your trip.Was it everything you hoped for? ”
Chanda rolled her eyes. “Oh, girl, don’t get mi started! What dey offer for ‘free’ more like a budget motel wit’ a dinky pool six locks from de beach! No chocolate on de pillow; no complimentary breakfast buffet. When mi complained, dey say, ‘Oh, you can upgrade!
Only pay a little more!’ Better hotel, better food, better view—till mi spending four, five hundred dollars on me ‘free’ vacation. Dem big mout’s at Glass Slipper Vacations ina big badda touble wit’ Chanda George!”
“Oh, Chanda. I’m so sorry. I was hoping you would have a really good time.”
The baggage carousel hiccupped noisily to life and started spitting out all sizes of bags and suitcases. Chanda heaved a large sigh, then leaned toward me in a low voice. “Huh. A cut-rate vacation to Hawaii wit’out no mon. No chocolate, no sex—what kind of vacation is dat? ”
22
The phone started ringing Sunday morning while I was in the bathroom trying to salvage what was left of my weekold “party ’do.” Denny pounded on the door. “Jodi! It’s for you. I’ve gotta shave anyway.” He handed me the phone as I came out.
“Jodi, how ya doin’? ” Florida was altogether too lively for this early in the morning. “Yada Yada comin’ to my house this evening for a house blessing, right? ”
I racked my brain. Had we talked about this? “Uh, fine with me, Flo.” It would be the first time we met at Florida’s home. Did that mean we had to call everybody?
“Well, help me remember to tell Stu and Avis at church today—Oh. Is Uptown meetin’ with New Morning at the shopping center today? It’s the fourth Sunday.”
I squinted at the kitchen calendar, suddenly annoyed.Why was I information central for Yada Yada, anyway? Today was the fourth Sunday all right, but August had five Sundays. I’d written on the fourth Sunday, “Meet w/ New Morn.” And on the fifth Sunday: “Uptown Bus Mtg.”
Yikes.The church business meeting was only a week away. The decision about selling our building and merging with New Morning. Had I been praying about it? Seeking God, as Pastor Clark had urged? I blew out a breath. “Yeah, you’re right, Florida. Thanks for the reminder.”
“Good. That means Nony and Hoshi will be there too—that’s half the Yada Yadas right there! Hey, gotta go. See you in an hour or so.”
Well, at least I hadn’t offered to make all the calls, and Florida hadn’t asked me to. But I’d no sooner hung up than the phone rang again. Nony this time.My heart gave a lurch. “Nony? Is everything all right? ”
“Oh, yes, Jodi. God is good. Mark even wants to come to worship this morning—we are meeting at the new building, yes? He can’t do the stairs at Uptown when New Morning meets there.”
Nony had said Mark hadn’t been going to church, but I hadn’t realized Uptown’s stairs were such a barrier.Duh.Of course. Another reason for New Morning to get into their own building quickly. Maybe a good reason for Uptown to merge with New Morning, for that matter. How many other folks with disabilities were kept away from our worship services by those steep stairs?
“I’m calling because—just a moment, Jodi.” I heard a door close. Nony came back on the line, her voice lowered. “Can you still hear me? Hoshi is in
the next room. It’s her birthday next week. Remember? That’s why her parents came to see her last year about this time. Can we do something for her at Yada Yada tonight? I will be glad to purchase a cake—”
“Fine with me.” I was starting to feel like a parrot, repeating myself.
“—but I was wondering, Jodi. Could you look up the meaning of her name? It might not be easy, since it’s Japanese, but—”
“Sure.” Doing a meaning-of-the-name card would be fun, especially since nobody was asking me to bake a cake. “I’ll see what I can do.”
IT WAS GREAT TO SEE MARK SMITH at worship that morning. Nony drove their minivan and unloaded Hoshi and her family at the door of New Morning’s shopping-center church. Marcus and Michael ran ahead to open the double-glass doors, but Mark walked into the large sanctuary-in-progress on his own steam. A black patch over his left eye made him look a bit suave and mysterious, but I noticed that he found a chair quickly and stayed anchored during the entire two-hour service. He’d always looked slender and fit; now he just looked thin and fragile. But he was there. Smiling.
I apologized to the Lord for my snippy attitude that morning, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that something felt “off ” during the whole service. I shut my eyes, trying to close out my normal distractions, enjoying the combined praise team—especially that lovely wailing saxophone—as our two congregations filled the house with “We bring a sacrifice of praise!” and “What a mighty God we serve!” followed by a few quieter worship songs: “I love to worship You,” and a new one to me, “This is the air I breathe . . . Your holy presence living i.”
That’s what I want, Lord, I thought, breathing my own prayer. Your holy presence living in me.
So why did I feel so edgy today? Couldn’t put my finger on it until Debra Meeks,my new friend from New Morning, came up to me after the service and gave me a hug. “It’s a strange time, isn’t it? ” the older woman commented. “Both of our congregations trying to decide whether we want to merge.” She gave a little snort. “What if you say yes and we say no? ”
