by Neta Jackson
Denny’s eyebrows lowered until they practically met in the middle.
“Lemonade stand, Mom? ” Amanda snickered. “How dorky is that. I mean, sure, did that when I was five . But a bunch of old ladies? ”
“Shut up, squirt.” Josh came to my defense. “Edesa said you guys were trying to diffuse the after-school tension along Clark Street, where that alley got tagged last week. Personally, I think it’s a cool idea, except . . .” His face clouded. I noticed a golden shadow along his jawline. Facial hair. Was Josh shaving? Or not shaving, more like it.When did that happen? “I dunno,” he went on. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mom, but seems kinda risky to do something like that, just a bunch of women.”
“Why? It was just a lemonade stand, for heaven’s sake! Besides, Ben Garfield was there.” Well sort of there. Today. I kept my eyes on Josh, ignoring Denny.
“Oh right. A sixty-year-old white guy with an attitude. Sorry, Mom, don’t mean to put you down. But it could’ve gotten nasty. Edesa said a black kid—big dude—got on her case because she’s black and speaks Spanish. I mean, that’s what the clash was about last week, right? Rivalry between blacks and Latinos? ”
Got on her case? Edesa must have left out the part about his grabbing her arm.
Denny slowly turned his back and resumed loading the dish-washer. He still hadn’t said a word. Josh snitched the last cookie before the platter disappeared into the dishwasher. “Anyway, mind if I steal your idea? Rick Riley and Pastor Cobbs are trying to think of ways to meet kids along the Howard Street strip. If we had something like a free lemonade stand, then we could invite them to teen activities at New Morning Church, right there in the shopping center, or heavy metal concert, stuff like that . . .” Josh was still rattling off ideas as he headed back toward his bedroom and his earphones.
Amanda snatched the phone. “Dad, can you finish up? I gotta make a quick phone call.”
“Homework first!” I yelled after her.
The kids disappeared. Silence settled over the kitchen again like putrid air. Denny poured powdered dishwasher soap into the little cups in the door, banged the door shut, and turned the knob. The old dishwasher chugged away. Then he turned and leaned back against the counter, arms folded. I stood in the middle of our small kitchen, still holding the plastic container with leftover salad, like a caught rabbit.
“I want to know just one thing, Jodi. Why didn’t you tell me what you were up to the past couple of days? ”
I avoided his eyes. How did this get to be such a big deal? What could I say to lighten this up? It just happened.My intentions were good. Nothing bad happened. End of story.
I must have taken too long to reply. Denny pushed himself off from the counter and stalked out of the kitchen, his body language dripping aggravation. I stood staring at the leftover salad I still held in my hand. With sudden fury I hurled it into the trash basket, container and all.
30
Itold Denny I was sorry I didn’t tell him about the lemonade stand. He said, “OK.” But the rest of the week felt as if we were acting in silent movies on two different screens. A peck on the cheek as he went out the door in the morning. “Pass the salt, please.” . . . “Any clean laundry? ” . . . “Staff meeting tonight.” . . . A lot of TV.
Sheesh, I muttered to myself as I walked to school Friday morning. It’s my birthday today, for heaven’s sake, and Denny’s treating me like . . . like I maxed out our credit cards or posed in Penthouse magazine or something. Good grief.
In fact, it was easy to work up a good mad about the whole business. For one thing, Edesa and Yo-Yo were the only Yada Yadas who actually showed up to support the enterprise.Well, OK, Stu did the shopping with Chanda’s contribution. But what happened to Florida? And Avis? They both lived nearby. Actually, I never expected Avis to show up—but Florida? Her son was the one caught up in the middle of the mess. She was the one who kept saying, “We gotta do somethin’.” And Adele—even though she grudgingly let us set up outside her shop, I never felt like she was behind it 100 percent. Not even 50.
So much for unity.
And yeah, yeah, I should’ve told Denny. But I said I was sorry, didn’t I?
A gift bag was sitting on my desk when I got to school that morning. Cheerful orange and yellow tissue paper hid a birthday card and some yummy melon lotion from Avis. I screwed off the cap and squirted the silky cream into my hand, smoothing it over my skin. It had been a long time since I’d taken care of my hands. Rough skin. A broken nail. A tear dribbled down my cheek and dripped off my chin.
Some birthday. A present from Avis. That might be it.
BUT I WAS WRONG. Amanda chased me out of the kitchen when she got home from school and actually made my lemon-and-thyme chicken recipe—one of my favorites. It easily passed the Baxter five-star test: super easy, super yummy. Stu and Becky came downstairs for dinner, bearing Becky’s second-ever birthday cake.Didn’t matter that it came from a box. It was chocolate.
I took a swipe of the frosting with my finger and gave her a big hug.
Stu and Becky actually helped thaw the deep freeze, and we all laughed and joked at the dinner table—me the butt of most jokes, of course. I didn’t care. It felt good to laugh.While Becky cut cake and Stu dipped up vanilla ice cream, I opened presents. A crocheted winter scarf from my mom. (I already had three.) A CD from my dad: Best-Loved Hymns by Top Country-Western Artists. ( “Yep. That’s Grandpa,” Josh snickered.) A pair of silver dangle earrings from Amanda and Josh. One from each, wrapped separately, the nuts. A fat candle with fall leaves embedded in the wax from Stu and Becky.
And a silky burgundy scarf from Denny in a Ten Thousand Villages gift bag.
I held the filmy scarf against my cheek and looked up at my husband, sitting at the other end of the table.Our eyes locked for a second—the first time in days. “Thanks, honey,” I whispered.
He smiled. “Happy birthday, babe.” But his smile seemed . . . sad.
Once again we slept that night with our backs to each other.
“DID YOU CALL HIM, DAD? What did he say? ”
When I came into the kitchen the next morning, Amanda was grilling her father, who was getting ready to jog over to the men’s breakfast at Uptown Community before heading over to the Howard Street shopping center to put in another Saturday workday laying floor tile in our new sanctuary.
Our and sanctuary still felt a bit of a stretch.
“Yes, pumpkin, I tried to call Mr. Enriques—twice last night.” Denny poured himself a second slug of fresh coffee. “Left one message on voice mail, one with some little sweetheart—Emerald, I think. But he hasn’t called back.” He touched a finger to her nose. “I don’t think he wants to come, Mandy. I don’t want to bug him.”
“But Da-ad! You said he was real nice to you and Mom when you went to that Mexican restaurant on your annivers—oh, rats.” The front doorbell sounded unnaturally loud at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. “That’s my ride. Gotta babysit all day for the Three Terrors.” She pulled a long face. “They better pay me good.”
I was grateful when the house emptied, except for Josh,who had come in after one o’clock and would probably sleep until eleven. I knew something was desperately wrong, and I needed to figure out what it was. For one thing, I hadn’t even touched my Bible that whole week. My prayers had been one-liners. “Quiet time” was a joke. A hole seemed to be growing inside me—empty, yawning, slowly sucking my soul into a bottomless pit.
Willie Wonka followed me outside while I filled the birdfeeder. How long had it been since I’d filled the birdfeeder? Had the birds given up? Would they come back? I settled on the porch swing with my Bible and a large mug of coffee,Wonka sprawled at my feet. Tears blurred my eyes. I didn’t even know how to start.
“Can I back up, Lord? ” I whispered. “Where did I get off? ”
You’ve been rushing, Jodi. The Voice in my spirit whispered back. Not taking time to listen.
I sighed. But it’s hard during the school
week. Every day is so hectic.
No, even before that. Last weekend. You were so busy with your thoughts, your ideas, your plans, you didn’t stop to ask for My wisdom.
I thought about that. The lemonade stand. Hadn’t God given me that idea? It seemed so . . . brilliant. Corny, yes. But simple, a way for us ordinary women to make a connection with kids in the neighborhood. What was wrong with that?
The Voice continued. Stop it, Jodi. The idea’s not the problem! But you ran with it in your own strength. Admit it. You pushed that one through Yada Yada in spite of some serious doubts from others.
Well, yeah . . . but—
And you didn’t trust your husband. That should have been a clue.
Trust? What does trust have to do with it? I just knew he’d get all worried and think of all the things that could go wrong. Don’t know what he’s so mad about.Nothing happened! We managed just fine.
Did you? Weren’t you grousing five minutes ago because not enough Yada Yadas showed up? Did you really have enough people “to be a presence on the street” if any violence had gone down?
I kicked the swing into motion, uncomfortable with how this inner chat was going. But it was a good idea, I thought stubbornly. And I think we made a difference.
Maybe. But you got all caught up in your good works, Jodi.
Good works? The words jogged my memory bank. “Not by works of righteousness that we have done but according to His mercy He saved us.” Must be one of those Sunday school verses I’d memorized back in sixth grade to get my Bible Warrior pin. Was that how it went? Maybe I could find it . . .Titus something.
I paged through the Bible on my lap and there it was:Titus 3:5. My modern language translation said, “He saved us, not because of the good things we did, but because of His mercy.”
My Old Jodi response tried to dismiss it. Nah, doesn’t apply. Paul was talking to Titus about our salvation. But I pondered. If good works couldn’t “save” us,maybe the same principle did apply to other things. Like the lemonade stand.My good idea. Maybe . . . maybe the only reason “nothing happened” was because of God’s mercy.
I dug deeper for a little honesty.To be truthful,Yo-Yo, Edesa, and I would’ve been no match for those bullies if they’d gotten rough. If Adele and the Curler Brigade hadn’t marched out there . . .
God’s mercy.
It suddenly hit me, like a Saturday morning cartoon when a piano falls out of nowhere on a passerby below. Got my attention. If they’d gotten rough? They had gotten rough. That big kid grabbed Edesa’s arm. Had practically accused her of being a race traitor, on the wrong side. That in itself had been frightening. And I’d been so busy justifying to myself and my family that everything went fine, what was the big deal—did I even call her later to see how she was doing? She must have been terrified!
Pianos must have kept falling on my head, knocking sense into me, because I suddenly knew why Denny was so upset. I’d shut him out.Yes, I knew he’d be concerned, wouldn’t think it was such a hot idea, and I’d basically said I didn’t care. Didn’t even give him a chance. I wanted to do it my way. I’d pronounced it “good” and nobody—not Denny, not Yada Yada, not even God—was going to change my mind.
My head sank into my hands. “Oh God,” I groaned. “I’m so stupid, stupid.” Denny wasn’t mad. He was hurt. How would I feel if he’d done something behind my back? Without wanting my input? If he’d shut me out?
“Uh,Mom? You OK? Didn’t you hear the phone ring? ”
I raised my head. Josh was standing behind the screen door in his sweat shorts, bare chested, tattoo bulging on his bicep, with a serious case of bed head. I shook my head. No, I didn’t hear it ring. Then nodded. Yeah, I’m OK.
He opened the screen door and handed out the phone. “Anyway. For you.”
I grimaced, covering the mouthpiece. “Sorry if it woke you up.” He just waved me off and disappeared back inside.
I took a deep breath to rein in my bucking thoughts, then ventured, “Hello? ”
“Sista Jodee? ” The voice was high, almost hysterical.
“Chanda? Chanda! What’s wrong? ”
I waited several moments while Chanda broke into muffled sobs. Then she blew her nose. “Dey just got mi test results back, Jodee.Mi doctor is very concern. He tinks dat lump . . . it might . . . it might be . . .” The sobbing started again.
But I knew what was coming before she managed the word. “. . . c-cancer.”
31
Cancer? ! Wait, wait—she’d said, “might be.” I shored up my own ragged emotions, which had already been close to tears even before the phone rang. “Chanda, now wait. Don’t run ahead of the facts. Sounds like they don’t know anything for sure yet.What do they want to do? ”
Between sobs and nose blowing, Chanda managed to tell me her doctor had ordered both a mammogram and an ultrasound earlier that week. It was not a cyst. She had to go back the next day for a “core needle biopsy,” taking some cells from the lump . . . just got a call from her doctor . . . cells were abnormal, but inconclusive . . . but her doctor and the radiologist agreed: the lump should come out.
“Dey want me to talk to a surgeon next week. Surgeon, Sista Jodee! Dat mean dey going to cut it out! Oh, Jesus, Jesus, help mi, Jesus!”
I didn’t know what else to do, but I offered to pray with Chanda on the phone. Felt like a hypocrite, when my own prayer life had been suffering big-time lately. Oh God, forgive me, I prayed, a silent rider hanging on to my out-loud prayer.
“Tanks, Jodee,” Chanda sniffled. “Uh, one more ting.Mi really don’t want to go alone talkin’ to dis new doctor. Could you . . . do you tink—? ”
“I teach every day, Chanda. It’d have to be a four o’clock or something. Don’t know if they make appointments that late.”
“Mi try dat. Let you know.Tanks.” And the phone went dead.
I sat a long time on the swing, feeling like my emotions had just been run through a spin cycle. I tried to unscramble my brain and refocus on what God had been saying to me just before Chanda called. I’d taken my “good idea” and run with it. I’d shut Denny out. And maybe my idea wasn’t that good after all. Good intent, maybe. But poor implementation. Maybe even poor context. So we gave the kids lemonade.What kind of follow-up was possible?
Zero. Nada. None.
Willie Wonka lumbered up with difficulty and stuck his wet nose into my lap. “Whaddya think,Wonka,” I murmured, stroking the white hairs sprouting around his mouth and eyes. “Am I ever going to quit tripping over my own goody-two-shoes? ”
The dog just licked my hand. Good ol’ dog. Always thereLike God’s forgiveness. “Just for me, just for me, Jesus came and did it just for me . . .” The words of a Donnie McClurkin song caressed the soreness in my spirit. I soaked in it for a while, letting the tears run free. Thank You, Jesus. Thank You.
But I also had some apologies to make—starting with Denny.
THE FOURTH WEEK OF SEPTEMBER bumped along over the usual rocky road of worldwide and hometown turmoil. The U.N. arms-inspection team reported no WMDs had been found in Iraq . . . Earthquakes devastated Hokkaido, Japan . . . Uptown Community was down to the last two Sundays before our official merger with New Morning . . . Carla got in another fight at school, this time with Mercedes LaLuz for “stealing” her mechanical pencil . . . and Chanda made an appointment with the cancer surgeon for four o’clock Friday—on Josh’s birthday.
But my wheels had been greased by my talk with the Lord Saturday morning and my talk with Denny Saturday afternoon, and to me the difference between last week and this one was like January and June.
Denny had dragged in about four o’clock that Saturday, covered with plaster dust, obviously weary. I considered a big hug and kiss then discarded the idea. He wasn’t exactly huggable in that state; even more to the point,we needed to clear out the garbage between us first.
“I’d . . . like to talk,” I’d said, handing him a glass of ice water. “Maybe after you get cleaned up? ”
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br /> He took the water and hesitated. Then tipped the glass and drank. Stalling. I knew I was asking a lot. He was beat, and a “talk” probably seemed as appealing as scooping up after Willie Wonka. A nap in front of the TV would be more like it.
But he came out of the shower looking less like a survivor from a chalk factory explosion and more like my husband. Shaved. Clean. Good smelling. Downright yum—
Nope. Couldn’t go there. Yet.
Actually, our talk didn’t take long.We sat on the swing on the back porch, more ice water on hand, and I told him I was wrong. I’d suspected he wouldn’t like the lemonade-stand idea, so I deliberately didn’t tell him until afterward to prove him wrong. But God had showed me my motives were full of pride.Worse, I’d shut him out. Had practically shouted that what he thought wasn’t important. A violation against our marriage really. And I was sorry, so sorry for hurting him like that.
I blew out a breath when I was done, and we sat silently in the swing, letting it drift in a small breeze coming in off Lake Michigan. A few birds fluttered to the birdfeeder hanging from the corner of the garage, then flew off. Probably empty again. Then Denny put down his glass of ice water, drew me into his arms, and just held me tight, not saying anything for a long time. But his embrace spoke volumes.
“Thank you, babe,” he finally whispered into my hair. “Funny thing is, I couldn’t even pinpoint why I felt so bad. Kept asking myself, what was the big deal, anyway? ut when you said, ‘I shut you out’—it was like you touched the sore spot on my heart. That’s what I was feeling and hadn’t even known how to put it into words.”
We sat on the swing like that for a long time.Then Denny murmured, “Kids gone? ”
“Yup.”
I felt him grin.
JOSH’S BIRTHDAY ALWAYS SNUCK UP ON ME, only a week after mine.Nineteen! But I tried to get things ready the night before for a birthday supper, and Denny said he’d pick up our gift for Josh—several music CDs and a CD case with a shoulder strap. Good thing he was taking care of that, because Chanda had left a message on our voice mail, saying she’d pick me up at Bethune Elementary on Friday afternoon at three thirty.
