by Neta Jackson
I was so caught up with the Carla problem and mulling over our church merger that the call from Ruth on Thursday surprised me. “So are the Baxters coming Saturday or not? ”
“Coming where? What are you talking about, Ruth? ”
“To our Sukkoth celebration. Ben was supposed to call you.”
“Um, not to my knowledge. Maybe he talked to Denny. You know how guys are about messages. Sukkot is . . .? ”
“Sukkot, Jodi! The Feast of Booths.What, you don’t know your Old Testament? First Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement for our sins. Now we are rejoicing that God has been with us while wandering in the wilderness, living in tents. Seven guests we must have—Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, and David. You Baxters make four, and Yo-Yo and the two rascals make seven.”
I wasn’t sure I was following all this, but I finally figured out she was inviting us over Saturday evening, the first day of the Feast of Booths— “To party!” I heard Ben yell in the background.
It didn’t take much to convince Denny to give up a Saturday evening “to party” with Ben Garfield. The kids were another story.
“Mo-om!” Amanda wailed. “I love Mr. and Mrs. Garfield, don’t get me wrong. But hanging around with your friends on a Saturday night—sheesh, Mom!”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Do you have other plans? ”
“Well, no, but . . .”
Josh, however, did have other plans. “Sorry,Mom. Can’t do it.”
“Why? Another overnight at Manna House? ” Ouch. I immediately regretted the two imps of sarcasm that snuck into my tone.
Josh hesitated, trying to read me. “No. But I already told Sue—”
Sue again. “Oh.Well, just thought it could be fun. Pete and Jerry are coming.” Unless Yo-Yo was having this exact same conversation with her two half brothers.
“Oh.” Josh made a face. “Well, sorry about that. But . . .” He shrugged.
But Amanda’s ears picked up. “Pete and Jerry? Hey, Mom, if Josh isn’t coming, can I invite José? ”
SO THERE WE WERE, seven honored goyim sitting on the deck behind the Garfields’ modest brick bungalow, eating chicken schnitzel and potato knishes, talking and laughing under a plastic tarp that had been strung up over the deck to represent the temporary “booths” or “tents” of the wilderness. Strings of tiny white lights were wrapped around the deck railings and strung overhead under the tarp, making this “festival of booths” festive indeed.The October weekend weather cooperated beautifully, hitting a high of seventy-eight degrees that afternoon, and cooling off to the midfifties as the sun went down. The four teenagers—Pete and Jerry Spencer, seventeen and thirteen respectively, and Amanda and José, both sixteen—lolled about in the tiny backyard, holding their plates of seconds and thirds in one hand and kicking around a basketball, brought by Pete in the unrequited hope that there would be a hoop in the alley.
“You guys sleepin’ out here on the deck tonight? ” Yo-Yo looked at Ben. “Mr. Hurwitz said lots of Orthodox Jews live out in their booths all week—what? ”
Ben was eyeing Yo-Yo from beneath scraggly white eyebrows. “Do I look like a Boy Scout, Yo-Yo? And can’t you just see the Queen Elizabeth here” —he jerked a thumb in Ruth’s direction— “docking up in a deck chair? ”
Ruth rolled her eyes and passed the last of the schnitzel right past Ben, dumping it on Denny’s plate. “Eat, eat, Denny. You’re skin and bones.” To which Denny laughed and gave her a big smackeroo right on the cheek.
It was good to see Ruth and Ben having fun. “Here’s to Indian summer!” I lifted my glass of iced-tea-from-instant-powder (good thing she didn’t invite Florida!) and clicked Yo-Yo’s glass.
Ben lifted his bottle of beer and waggled his eyebrows. “Cheers.”
Ruth pushed back her chair. “Hot weather we don’t need. Hot apple crisp we do. No, no, don’t get up. I can bring it.” No one had moved a muscle to get up, but we did break into mutual chuckles as she waddled herself and her “cargo” through the back door.
Yo-Yo, slouched on a deck chair in the inevitable denim overalls, was chatty tonight; she seemed pleased to be invited to a grownup function and to be sitting with the adults. “Yeah, Becky’s doin’ good at the Bakery. Real good. For some reason she hit it off with Mr. Hurwitz, ’specially after Stu brought Little Andy by the Bakery one Sunday when she was takin’ him home. Man! The fuss they made over that kid. Now Becky can do no wrong. She’s Lil’ Andy’s mama, and that’s that! . . .”
We kept talking, but it seemed to me that Ruth was taking a long time bringing out that apple crisp. “’Scuse me,” I said, getting up from the deck table. “I’m going to see if Ruth needs any help.”
But when I’d picked my way through the mudroom—full of coats and old shoes, shelves of canned goods, and gardening tools—and peeked into the kitchen, Ruth wasn’t there. “Ruth? ” I called, heading through the narrow kitchen into the dining room. “Ruth”
She was sitting on a straight-backed chair in the dining room, one elbow on the table, her hand supporting the weight of her head. The other hand clutched her side.
“Ruth!” I was at her side in two strides. “What’s wrong”
She turned and looked at me, eyes glittering with pain. “Pain . . . my side . . .my head . . .”
“Ben!” I screamed, running back through the kitchen. “Dial 911! It’s Ruth!”
36
I rode in the ambulance with Ruth and Ben while Denny took Yo-Yo and the kids to her place, promising to pick up Amanda and José later.When Denny found us in the emergency waiting room of Rush North Shore Medical Center half an hour later, he looked anxiously at Ben slumped in a chair in the corner and then shot a questioning glance at me. I beckoned my husband into the hallway.
“They’re still examining her, have her hooked up to fluids. All they’ve said so far is that her blood pressure is high, something about preeclampsia.”
“What does that mean? ”
“I don’t know, Denny.” I saw him wince. I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried. Ben’s a wreck. Doesn’t want to talk. Went over there to sit by himself.” I peeked around the corner. Ben hadn’t moved.
“OK, we won’t talk then.” Denny moved back into the waiting room and eased himself into a chair two seats over from Ben. Didn’t say anything. Just sat.
I sat, too, and we waited. I must have nodded off at some point because I jumped when I heard someone say, “Mr. Garfield? ” Sheesh. Couldn’t I even stay awake one hour to “watch and pray” with Ben and Ruth?
A thirty-something doctor in shirt and tie—no white coat, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened—was talking to Ben. Both Denny and I moved closer. “—elevated blood pressure, some protein in her urine,” the doctor was saying. “That and the headache and pain in her side all point to preeclampsia, which can be a serious complication. Left untreated, it can—”
“Treat it then,” Ben growled. “What’s the cure for pre—whatever? ”
The doctor stood relaxed, professional, arms crossed. The brown-haired poster boy of doctors. “There is no ‘cure’ for preeclampsia except ending the pregnancy. I would recommend—”
“Ending the pregnancy? !” I blurted. “What do you mean”
“I’m sorry. A poor choice of words. I simply mean that the only cure for preeclampsia is delivery of the baby—or babies in this case.”
Delivery? ! Oh God, no, not yet! Ruth’s babies couldn’t be more than two pounds at this point—ybe even less since there were two of them. “But she’s not due for another two months—Christmas, she said!” My heart was racing. I knew the doctor was talking to Ben, but I couldn’t help it.Would Ben stick up for Ruth carrying the babies to term?
“Exactly. Mrs. . . . ? ” The doctor lifted his eyebrows at me.
“Baxter,” Ben filled in. “Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, friends of my—of ours.”
The doctor nodded. “Mrs. Baxter has a point. If the twins were even a month older, I’d recommend taking
them now by C-section— and we’d do it anyway if Mrs. Garfield’s condition got to a high danger point. But while there’s no cure for preeclampsia except delivery, it can be managed in many cases, at least until the babies are more fit to thrive on their own. It’s a bit touch and go, given your wife’s age and the fact that’s she carrying twins.”
Ben suddenly wobbled. Denny caught him and lowered him into a chair. “Jodi! Get Ben some water.” I flew.
When I got back with a paper cup of water, Denny had loosened Ben’s shirt collar and had one arm around him in a tight grip. The doctor had disappeared. Ben took the water in a shaky hand and drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing slowly like a plastic ball on the end of a fishing line.
Denny blew out a breath. “The doctor said they’re going to admit Ruth for observation, told Ben to go home, get some rest. They’d like to do some tests—”
Ben snorted. “But you know what Ruth’s gonna say. No tests! Stubborn old . . .” He let it go and sank once more into a bitter, pressed-down silence.
Denny left to get the car. Even in our Caravan on the way home, Ben simply stared out the window, a silent hulk in the darkness. As we pulled up to the Garfields’ brick bungalow, Ben muttered, “You guys go on. Don’t mind me. I’ll be all right.” He struggled with his seat belt.
Denny was out of the car and had the side door open in seconds. “Come on. We’re going in.” Ben didn’t protest.
I’d forgotten about the Sukkot celebration. Dirty dishes and cold food sat out on the deck, just as we’d left them hours earlier. The white minilights sparkled cheerfully, as if waiting for the party to simply pick up where it had left off. I turned to Ben, who was staring stupidly at the remains of the Feast of Booths. “Ben, go sit down. I’ll clean up these dishes. It won’t take long.” Again Ben didn’t protest, just let Denny take his jacket and cap and sank into an overstuffed chair in the living room. I followed the menfolk, still talking, wanting to encourage, wanting to speak words of faith and hope. “It’s going to be all right, Ben. Even if they had to take the twins now, it’s amazing the care they can give preemies! Why—”
“No, it’s not going to be all right!” Ben’s voice was suddenly so loud, so sharp, that it felt like a slap to the cheek.
“What . . . what do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“That’s right! You don’t understand!” Ben was suddenly on his feet, yelling, as if a surge of anger had strengthened all his bones. “We’re Jewish, don’t you get it? And I’m a carrier! I’ve got the gene! If Ruth’s got the gene, one or both of those babies got a high chance of dying by age five—a horrible, debilitating death! But she won’t get tested, will she! Will she!” Ben’s fists clenched in utter frustration.
Even Denny’s face had paled, his summer tan gone, the blood rushing downward. He grabbed Ben’s shoulders. “What gene? Ben! What are you talking about? ”
Ben stared at him, eyes wide. Long seconds hung in the air. “Tay-Sachs,” he finally croaked. “Tay-Sachs disease. I saw my cousin’s kid die . . . it was . . .” He suddenly crumpled backward into the chair and began to weep, his head in his hands—huge, gasping sobs, as if speaking the words haunting him since Ruth first announced she was pregnant had pulled the finger out of the dam.
BY THE TIME WE CLEANED UP THE SUPPER REMAINS at the Garfields’, picked up Amanda and José at Yo-Yo’s apartment where they were all watching a video, drove José home to Little Village, and finally dragged into our house, it was going on one a.m. Josh wasn’t home either. I was too wound up to sleep, so while Denny steered a sleepy Amanda into her bedroom, I turned on the computer and called up the Internet. “T-A-Y S-A-C-H-S,” I typed into the search engine.
Instant list of Web sites.
Article after article, much like the ones I read before.
None of them encouraging.
“A genetic disorder . . . prevalent among Eastern European Jews . . .if both parents carry the gene, a one-in-four chance that their children will have the disease . . . a seemingly healthy baby ceases to smile, crawl, turn over . . . ultimately becomes blind and paralyzed . . . kidney failure, mental retardation, skeletal deformities . . . shutdown of the entire nervous system . . . death by age five.”
Willie Wonka, awakened from his sound slumber by all the strange nighttime activity, pushed his nose into my lap. Forehead wrinkled. Dark eyes worried. “Oh, Wonka,” I moaned, and suddenly I was on the floor, cradling the dog’s head in my arms, crying, shaking.Ruth . . . Ruth . . . Oh God, not Ruth’s babies . . . don’t let it end like this, please God . . .
Denny came in, turned off the computer, picked me off the floor, and held me until I’d cried it all out. Somehow we got to bed, slept a few hours, woke exhausted. I briefly considered staying home from church that morning, then decided the second Sunday of the merger wasn’t a good morning to skip. People would wonder. (Did I care? )
But I did get on the phone and call Yada Yada, especially the sisters who didn’t attend “Uptown–New Morning” or whatever we were going to call it, since I’d see them in a few hours. I didn’t say anything about Tay-Sachs disease to anyone. Ben had kept it to himself all these months, hadn’t even told Ruth—especially not Ruth. But I did tell Delores Enriques about the preeclampsia, wasn’t sure if it was “for sure” or “possible,” but I knew she’d be able to figure it out.
“Jodi,” Delores said before she hung up, “Yada Yada meets tonight, supposedly at Ruth’s. Ironic, no? ” She slipped in a little laugh. “But if Ruth’s still in the hospital, why don’t we meet there? To pray for our sister. For God’s mercy.”
God’s mercy. I wrapped those words around my heart as we automatically got ready and drove to church. I don’t know if I went to meet God—I was too numb at the danger hanging over my dear friend and her babies, too burdened by carrying Ben’s secret—but God met me there. Showed up when Peter Douglass sang a solo—Avis’s Peter, shy but steady at the front of the church, accompanied only by the keyboard and a sweet, mournful sax.
“Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand! . . .” Peter’s voice was surprisingly deep, slow, rich. I didn’t know he could sing! I remembered the story of the famous gospel singer, Thomas A. Dorsey, who wrote this song, grief-stricken after his wife and child had died in childbirth.
“I am tired, I am weak, I am worn . . .”
Oh Jesus! That’s Ben Garfield! He’s living in fear, and it has worn him out.
“Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light . . .”
Yes, Lord! Ben and Ruth are in the middle of a storm, raging around them, a storm others can’t see.
“Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home”
Tears poured down my cheeks; Denny handed me his handkerchief and laid a comforting arm across the back of my chair. Yes, Lord, yes! Lead Ben home—home to You, Jesus.
I don’t remember much about the rest of the worship service. Didn’t even notice that it was the second Sunday and we didn’t have a potluck afterward—though Stu told me later, as she and Becky and I drove to the hospital that evening, that some disgruntled Uptown members decided to go out and eat together, grumbling about Uptown’s traditions getting walked on in this merger.
“Aw, y’all gonna get that kinda stuff worked out,” Becky said encouragingly. “After all, we had that big spread last Sunday after church. Don’t seem like a big deal to me.”
I wanted to laugh. A pitiful laugh. Sometimes we church-born Christians were our own biggest enemies. Oh God, give us all a newborn heart like Becky’s.
Adele, Chanda, and Yo-Yo were already in the maternity waiting room when we arrived at Rush North Shore. I was surprised to see Chanda, parked in a padded chair, still moving gingerly and waving off any hugs. “Nah, nah. No bumpin’ an’ grindin’ for mi yet.”
“Hey, Stu. Hey, Becky.” Yo-Yo gave me a punch on the shoulder and a grin. “idn’t I see you this mornin’ already, ’bout midnight? ” I just rolled my eyes.
Delores and
Edesa were already in Ruth’s hospital room, no doubt trying to find out “what’s what” and praying the blood of Jesus over every inch of that room. If they only knew the real deal, I started to think—and caught myself.
They didn’t have to. Jesus knew.
As the other Yada Yadas straggled in, we all slipped into Ruth’s room in twos and threes, stayed for about five minutes, and gathered back in the waiting room.Ruth, bless her, pooh-poohed all the concern, saying there wasn’t anything ailing her that couldn’t be fixed with some bed rest and some hot blintzes.My heart squeezed. Ben obviously hadn’t spilled his guts to Ruth about the Tay-Sachs gene yet. But back in the waiting room, we held hands and fervently prayed for Ruth and Ben and the babies.
“Oh God!” Nony prayed. “Your Word says that You knit us together while we were still in our mother’s wombs. So you know these babies! You even know their names! Thank You, Lord God of heaven! You know them by name !”
A chorus of “Glory!” and “Hallelujah!” followed that prayer.
But no “Thank ya, Jesus!” That’s when I realized Florida wasn’t there. Hadn’t seen her at church this morning either.
Others asked about Flo. “Don’t worry. She’s where she should be,” Avis said. “Resting at home with the kids and Carl. She’s been working double shifts.”
Everyone nodded and seemed satisfied. Except Chanda. “Sista Jodee!” she hissed at me as we were giving goodnight hugs and heading for the elevator. “Why Sista Flo working double shifts, when dat girl got t’ree kids at home an’ a working mon in she bed! ” She shook her head. “What be going on dere? ”
Straight question. Deserved a straight answer. “Chris was caught tagging. Not sure what’s going on, but my guess is they’ve put two and two together and got him for two or three other walls they have to blast clean. The city sent them a big bill.Guess who pays.”
I expected Chanda to roll her eyes, give a short, impassioned discourse about the city soaking its citizens out of their money left and right. But she just hung back with me as others crowded into the elevator and headed down to the first floor. She seemed to be thinking. Hard.
