by Neta Jackson
“Yeah, well,” he called after me, “if you’re going to be queen, you better check your royal robe—you’ve got it on inside out!”
BIRTHDAY OR NO BIRTHDAY, we all had to be at school at our regular time. With just minutes to catch the city bus to Lane Tech, Amanda was fishing in the desk drawer in the dining room.“Mom! Don’t we have any more stamps? I need a stamp!”
I couldn’t remember the last time Amanda actually wrote a letter. “I think so—somewhere in there. Do you need it now?”
“Yes, I need it now! . . . Never mind. I found one.” Her tone by now was decidedly cranky, and she slammed the front door behind her.
Who was Amanda writing to? We’d said no phone calls; we didn’t think about letters. Couldn’t be any of her friends at school—she saw them during the day.
I sighed. Probably José.
I tried not to let Amanda’s surly mood and my parents’ impending arrival distract me from my lesson plans for that day, but I wished I felt better prepared emotionally. How would Dad react to Josh’s light-bulb head? Mom would silently disapprove, but Dad would definitely say something. I should have warned them, I scolded myself, as I set up a balance scale for today’s lesson on “Find the missing addend.” Given them some time to get used to the idea. After all, it had taken me awhile to get used to it—no, take that back. I wasn’t used to it, didn’t like it, and would be very glad when he let it grow back in again. Or at least shaved off that orange topknot!
My students had fun with the balance scale. I wrote “2 + ? = 5” on the chalkboard and let “helpers” place two counters on one side of the scale and five on the other. I explained that they had to place the correct number of missing counters on the “addend” side of the scale in order to make it balance with the “sum.”
Kaya carefully added one at a time to the two already on the scale—one . . . two . . . three—and beamed happily as the scale balanced with the sum of five. I wrote a second problem on the board: “5 + ? = 7.” Cornell dumped a whole handful of counters on the addend side and took some off one by one till it balanced with the other side—but then he didn’t know how many he had “added.”Well, try again. “Who’d like to be next?”
Hakim’s hand shot up. “Me! Let me do it, Miz B.”
I was so surprised, I ignored his calling me ‘Miz B.’ Hakim’s math papers so far had been pathetic. Trying to act matter-of-fact, I wrote another problem on the board: “3 + ? = 10,” and put the known number of counters on both sides of the scale. Frowning, Hakim studied the scales a moment, then picked up seven counters and piled them next to the three already on the scale. When the scale balanced with the ten, a wide smile broke his face.
“Hakim, how did you know how many counters to put on the scale?”
He looked at me scornfully. “See those three there? An’ ten there? Just counted backwards three times—ten, nine, eight.
Seven to go. Didn’t you know that?”
Christy and I both rewarded him with big grins. “I did indeed, Hakim. But you are smart to figure out that you have to subtract to find the missing addend. Why don’t you show the rest of the class how it’s done?” I put two more problems on the board then wrote them again as subtraction problems to get the same answer after Hakim figured out the missing addends in his head and balanced the scale both times. Now more hands shot up wanting to find the missing addend “in my head.”
I was so elated by Hakim’s participation and success that I was still grinning inside when the dismissal bell rang. Gathering up my stuff quickly, I determined to get home before my parents arrived who-knew-when. But as I made a beeline for the front doors of the school, the school secretary stepped into the hall and waved me down. “Ms. Baxter? Ms. Johnson wants to see you for a minute.”
For a second I felt like a kid being called to the principal’s office. What had I done now? Don’t be stupid, Jodi. This is Avis, remember?
As I peeked into her inner office, Avis Johnson was on the phone, but she waved me in, motioning for me to shut the door.
Shut the door? Maybe it was something serious.
Avis hung up the phone and smiled. “Hi, Jodi. How was your day?”
I relaxed. Couldn’t be too serious if we were doing first names. “Good. Real good.” Should I tell her about Hakim’s little breakthrough? I decided not—at least until I found out what this meeting was about.
“Wonderful.” Avis opened one of her desk drawers, pulled out a glittery gold gift bag with tissue paper and an envelope sticking out of the top, and handed it to me with a smile. “Happy birthday.” “Oh, Avis!” I was so startled I just stood there like a carved duck. “You didn’t need to—”
“Jodi.” Avis leveled her eyes at me. “Just take it. And enjoy!”
I dropped my tote bags on the floor. “Thanks,Avis. Can I open it now?” This was too much—a birthday gift from my principal! I opened the card first. A Mahogany card about “A friend who is like a sister to me . . .” I could hardly speak. I took out a small square box from the bag and opened it: a scented candle. Green apple.
That made me laugh. “Oh, Avis, if you only knew! I gotta tell you how my day started this morning!”
BEFORE I LEFT THE SCHOOL OFFICE, I remembered to ask Avis if she got the copy of the “Becky Wallace letter” I’d sent to her by e-mail attachment last night. I’d also sent copies to Ruth (for Yo-Yo) and Florida. “Any feedback?”
She arched an eyebrow. “I noticed you added yours and Denny’s names to the visitors’ list. That’s good. I stand in agreement with you. Now . . . we pray.”
Well, yes, I thought a few minutes later, walking fast to make up for lost time. But am I praying that B. W. will or won’t put us on her visitors’ list? After one block at a good clip, I realized I better slow down to a steady pace so I’d make it still in one piece. Didn’t want to have a relapse the minute my parents walked in.
A familiar light-blue Buick sedan was double-parked in front of our house, the trunk lid up. Help! How long had they been waiting? “Mom! Dad! Here I am!” I hustled the last half-block as my father, still wearing the old tweedy English driving cap he’d had for years, threaded his way between two parked cars and set suitcases on the sidewalk.
Sidney Jennings was not a large man—maybe five-ten, thin, almost wiry, a testament to his farm heritage. He straightened, a wide smile creasing his face as I dropped my tote bags on the walk by the suitcases.
“Here’s the birthday girl!” My father held his arms wide and enveloped me in a bear hug. Old Spice aftershave tickled my nose. “How’s that for timing?” he said, letting me go. “We just drove up. Couldn’t find a parking place, though. Clara? Clara! Come on, get out of the car. Jodi’s here now.”
I hustled up the porch steps to unlock the front door as my dad helped my mother out of the car. My left leg and abdomen were aching from my effort to get home quickly, but their backs were turned so they probably didn’t notice as I pulled myself up the steps by the railing. By the time I got the door open and had dumped my bags on the floor of the entryway, my mom—hair graying, no makeup, but cheeks pink and eyes twinkling—was coming in the door. Oh Jesus, I am glad to see her, I thought, giving her a big squeeze. I looked over her shoulder and yelled, “Dad! Drive around to the alley. I’ll open the garage so you can park there!”
By the time I got my parents and their bags settled in our bedroom— no way would it work to put them on the foldout in the living room since they usually went to bed at nine—Amanda had come in from school, forgetting her poor-me pout long enough to give her grandparents a big squeal of welcome. Both kids had had to downsize to small bedrooms and single beds when we moved from Downers Grove, but at least they didn’t have to give up their rooms now when the grandparents came. That fell to Denny and me—a fact that Denny grumbled about last night, but he finally agreed it was the only thing we could do under the circumstances.
Amanda gave my parents a quick tour of our first-floor apartment in the two-flat, includi
ng a peek at our postage-stamp backyard and a trip to the basement, while I filled the teakettle and hunted for cookies. I could hear their voices in Amanda’s room. “Painted it myself,” Amanda bragged.
Oh, right. With a little help. I finally found the package of lemon crèmes, my dad’s favorites.
“That yellow paint sure brightens up this small room.” My mom’s voice had that find-something-nice-to-comment-on quality that irritated me, because it barely masked a veiled comment. Small room.
The tour over, they came back to the dining room. “Now don’t go fixing your own birthday supper,” my dad chided as I poured hot tea and passed the plate of cookies. “We’re taking you out.” He chucked Amanda under the chin. “Oh, all right; I guess we’ll take you, too, princess.”
My father may be the only person alive who could treat Amanda like a little girl and get away with it. But going out was fine with me. I’d be thrilled not to cook my own birthday supper.
I knew Josh had a soccer game and wouldn’t drag in till close to seven. As we chatted over our tea at the dining-room table, my mother suddenly peered at me closely as if she had x-ray vision. “Are you all right, Jodi? After the accident, I mean.”
“Of course she’s all right!” My dad waved a lemon crème in my direction. “She looks great!”
Thanks, Dad. I really can talk for myself.
He leaned toward me and talked behind his hand, pretending my mom couldn’t hear. “Your mother simply can’t forgive herself for not being here for you, Jodi. I told her you’d mend better without us.”
What did he mean? Because Mom had been sick herself? Or did he suspect I hadn’t wanted them around? “Oh, Mom. I know you wanted to come, but you just couldn’t.” Much to my relief at the time, but I didn’t say it. “Please don’t worry about it. In fact, I could ask you the same thing: how are you doing since that terrible bronchitis?”
My dad butted in with a rundown of my mother’s illness that had kept them in Des Moines last June. I only half-listened, annoyed at his habit of answering for others. I was concerned about my mom. She looked . . . older. More frail than I remembered. What was she: seventy-one? seventy-two? Not very old. It occurred to me that my parents would not be around forever.
I suddenly felt incredibly selfish. We needed to make sure we saw them more regularly. Des Moines wasn’t that far. Maybe we could go visit them for Thanksgiving or during the Christmas break.
I glanced at the clock: 6:45. Denny and Josh ought to straggle in any minute. Amanda was in the middle of telling her grandparents about the Uptown youth group’s mission trip to Mexico, when I saw my mom glance at something behind me, eyes widening; her hand went to her mouth. I turned to see Josh in the kitchen doorway, school backpack slung over one shoulder, his sport bag over the other.
Rats. I totally forgot to warn my parents about Josh’s bald head.
26
Frankly, I told Denny later, it went better than I expected. “Hi, Gramps!” Josh had said with a wave. “Hi, Gram.” He went to his grandmother and gave her an awkward hug from his six-feet-on-the-hoof down to her five-four perched on one of the dining-room chairs.
“Your . . . head!” my mother said, blinking rapidly. Couldn’t blame her; I’d had exactly the same reaction.
“Oh, that.” Josh casually ran his hand over his smooth dome. “Just trying to imitate Gramps here.” He leaned over and patted my dad’s rapidly receding hairline.
My dad frowned, eyeing the orange tuft on the back of Josh’s head. “At least the hair I’ve got is a natural color,” he growled.
“Hey. Had to be sure people could tell us apart.” Josh grinned.
Oh, Josh, you’re good, I thought.
My son looked around at the tea things and lack of supper activity in the kitchen. “Isn’t it Mom’s birthday tonight? What’s happening?”
At least he remembered. I told him Gramps was taking us out and we better get ready so we could leave when Dad got home with the minivan. With only one bathroom, it took a bit of shuffling for everybody to “use the facilities,” as my mother insisted on calling it, but we were more or less ready when Denny came in the front door. “There’s a monster in the garage with Iowa plates!” he said in mock horror. “Flee! Flee!”
“Oh, Daddy.” Amanda rolled her eyes. My father guffawed. He liked Denny’s sense of humor, even if he was slightly suspicious of his son-in-law’s New York, mainline-church upbringing. I caught my husband’s eye as he hugged my parents, hoping he could read my mind: Garage okay?We hadn’t talked about it, but I didn’t want to risk parking my parents’ car out on the street, even if it had been bought several years ago—“in the last century,” Josh liked to point out.
Denny went back out to retrieve the Dodge Caravan, which he’d had to park in the next block, and we all piled in for the short trip to Bakers Square, Rogers Park’s best bet for decent Americana food, really good pie, and a tab that would be easy on my dad’s wallet. Over thick burgers dripping with avocado, bacon, and sprouts ( Josh, Amanda, and me), honey-mustard chicken with rice pilaf (Denny and Dad), and a grilled chicken salad (Mom), our conversation bounced from the Chicago Bears’ poor start— again—to Hakim popping out of his shell long enough to show the third-grade class how to “subtract in your head,” to Josh’s soccer game tomorrow night. “Wanna come, Gramps?”
My dad seemed pleased. He turned to Amanda. “What about you, princess? You want to keep Gramps company at your brother’s game?”
Uh-oh. We hadn’t talked about how to handle Amanda’s grounding while her grandparents were visiting. “Sure!” Amanda smiled sweetly at her grandfather, ignoring the warning look I sent her. I kicked Denny under the corner booth that accommodated the six of us, but he just gave a short nod that meant, “Later.”
We were all too full to eat dessert right away, so we bought a triple-berry pie to take home. As we climbed into the minivan, I noticed that my dad had cornered Josh out of earshot in the parking lot. Hmm. What’s that about?
Back home, Denny made decaf coffee and warmed up the pie while I opened presents: large wind chimes from my parents that looked like organ pipes, a pair of silver drop earrings from Josh and Amanda, and a slinky black dress from Denny.
“Try it on,Mom,” Josh urged. Denny just grinned.
I hustled into the bedroom and slid on the dress. Mmm, yummy. I gave a quick brush through my hair, which was back to its old basic style, stuck my bare feet into a pair of low heels— I could stand it for a minute—and sashayed out into the dining room.
Denny whistled. My dad clapped. Mom smiled sweetly. Who knew what she really thought? But I didn’t care. Even the kids nodded approval. “Next time we go somewhere fancy,” Denny said, “you won’t have to borrow a dress.”
“So there’s going to be a next time?” I fluttered my eyelashes shamelessly.
“Well, yeah. Our fiftieth anniversary is coming up in another thirty years.”
My father thought that was knee-slapping funny. Then he stood up abruptly. “Well, it’s off to bed for us. Happy birthday, sweetheart.” He gave me a peck on the cheek. “Come along, Clara.”
My mother obediently got up and trailed Dad toward our bedroom. I dashed ahead of them to grab the clothes I’d just taken off and a few other necessities we’d forgotten. The door shut behind me.
Well, one day down; three to go.
I made up the foldout in the living room while Denny cleaned the dessert dishes. On my way to the bathroom, I knocked quietly on Josh’s bedroom door. “Yeah?” came the muffled reply. I poked my head in. Josh was sprawled on his bed doing homework, earphones to his CD player cradling his ears.
I shut the door behind me. “Just curious. What were you and Grandpa talking about in the parking lot at Bakers Square—or dare I ask?”
Josh slid off the earphones. “He wanted to know why I left the little tuft of hair when I shaved my head. Said it made me look like somebody into Eastern religion.”
Humph. I’d wanted to say th
at very thing to Josh myself.
“Told him I wasn’t into Eastern religion, and Jesus said people shouldn’t judge other people based on how they look, and that oughta include hair.”
Okay. Josh had a good point. Brave of him to challenge my dad. “What’d he say to that?”
“He agreed, sorta, but he said how people dress is often a statement of who they identify with. Asked me to think about it.”
“What’d you say?”
Josh shrugged again. “Said I’d think about it.” He put the earphones on again. Conversation over.
ON FRIDAY, my parents decided to visit the Museum of Science and Industry since the rest of us would be at school all day. If they got back by three o’clock, I hinted, they could stop at Bethune Elementary to see my classroom. “You’ll miss rush-hour traffic that way,” I added.
Sure enough, I saw my dad peeking in the window of my classroom door just as the dismissal bell rang. Hoping they wouldn’t get run down by the herd of eight-year-olds stampeding for their hard-earned weekend, I called them in, introduced them to my student teacher, and showed them around the now-empty classroom.
My dad stopped by the stove-size, foil-covered box I used as a lost-and-found. “What’s a ‘Darn Lucky Box’?” I explained that if kids left their things lying around, into the box they went, and the kids were “darn lucky” to get them back—if they paid a twenty-five-cents fine.
My mother frowned. “But did you have to say ‘darn’?”
I decided to let that one go and hustled them out of the classroom. “Someone I want you to meet.” I hoped Avis was still in her office.
She was. I ushered my parents in and closed the door. “Ms. Johnson, these are my parents, Sid and Clara Jennings. Mom and Dad, this is the principal of our school—Avis Johnson.”
Avis, as usual, made a good first impression: professional and attractive. She shook my parents’ hands warmly. “Jodi is a great addition to our staff,” she said graciously. My parents beamed.
