by Neta Jackson
Florida poked her. “You said two things.”
This time Stu grinned. “I’ve got a praise report.” Her smile widened, as though she’d been sitting on good news that couldn’t wait any longer. “I got the job! With the DCFS office in Rogers Park! I—” An outburst of general whooping and handclapping cut her off. I was impressed; after all that talk, she’d finally done it.When the noise and high-fives died down, she said, “I start the first of February. I need to take some classes to renew my social work license, but . . . it’s exactly the job I wanted!” Then she made a face. “Big cut in pay, though, from selling real estate.”
“You go, girl!” said Florida. “If you ask me, DCFS needs a burr under their saddle like Leslie Stuart.”
That got a laugh. Yes, I thought wryly, Stu could definitely be a burr under someone’s saddle.
“But I really don’t want to commute from Oak Park every day, so I’d like to relocate by the end of the month—in Rogers Park would be ideal. That’s only three weeks, so, please, if you know of any apartments for rent, let me know, okay?”
Adele spoke for the first time. “I don’t know, Stu—people don’t usually move this time of year. It’d have to be a sublet or something. Hard to find.”
Sublet . . . Suddenly I squirmed inside. My upstairs neighbors were moving and needed to sublet. But— maybe they’d already found a renter. Probably had. I better not say anything till I know for sure.Wouldn’t want to get Stu’s hopes up, raise false expectations—
Oh, right, Jodi Baxter. Get real. You don’t want Leslie Stuart to move into your house because she’d drive you nuts. Admit it.
I swallowed and looked around the room, wondering if anyone else had heard the words in my head. Yet the sharing had already moved to Nony, who was saying, “—to pray for the families of murder victims, who are having a difficult time with Governor Ryan’s decision to commute the sentences of those on death row.”
“Why?” said Yo-Yo. “Killing the perp won’t bring the murdered person back.What do they want?”
For half a second—like the instant before you know your car is going to crash or a fuse is going to blow—there was a deathly silence. And then the room erupted. Everyone, it seemed, had an opinion—a strong opinion—about what the Illinois governor had done in his last few days in office.
“Why they making criminals’ rights more important these days than victims’ rights?” . . . “So? That’s what democracy’s all about—everyone’s rights.” . . . “Now you know you more likely to die in the ’lectric chair or how-ever they kill ya these days if you black than if you white.” . . . “Look at those guys who spent ten years on death row and they were innocent!” . . . “Well, they got out, didn’t they? The system works!” . . . “Huh. Not always.”
This was going nowhere. I half-expected Avis to interrupt and tell us the best thing we could do is pray about it. Though oddly enough, Avis was staring at the wall as if she wasn’t even listening.
During a brief pause, Delores said quietly, “To me the issue is not only taking a life, but what solving problems by killing does to us.”
Her observation seemed to plug the gushing comments. Something clicked for me. “Oh, Delores! I’ve thought the same thing about abortion—wondering what it does to our collective spirit as women, that so many women are aborting their babies.”
“Oh, good grief!” Stu’s angry outburst shot me down like a heat-seeking missile. “Easy for you to say. Most women who have an abortion aren’t thinking about ‘our collective spirit’—they’re . . . they’re frantic, don’t know what to do.”
I pressed my lips into a thin line. It was the only time I’d opened my mouth during the entire discussion—if you could call it that—and Delores’s comment had made me think.
“Sisters! Sisters!” Nony spoke up. “Please. I did not mean to begin an argument. I only wanted to ask us to pray for the families of murder victims—I did not mean that we should not also pray for the men and women on death row.”
Quiet Hoshi spoke up. “Do you know a family for whom this is true, Nony?”
Nony hesitated, then shook her head. “Not here in the States. But these are troubled times all over the world, and God has laid it on my heart to include the newspaper headlines in my prayers.” She looked at Avis. “Should we begin our prayer time, Avis?”
Avis slowly pulled her gaze away from the wall. “Of course. Go ahead and lead us out, Nony.”
And so Nony began to pray. “Oh, Lord God! You have told us in Your Word that even when we are troubled on every side, we do not have to be distressed. We may be perplexed, but we do not have to despair. Yet it is not for ourselves only that we pray. You have comforted us in our afflictions, so that we might be able to comfort others in their troubles . . . ”
The prayer itself was comforting, promises from Scripture to help us focus beyond our own opinions. “Thank ya, Jesus!” came from Florida’s corner, and “Ven, Dios Santo!” from Delores. I peeked through my eyelids. Most everyone had their eyes closed, a few hands were lifted, and several murmured in agreement as Nony prayed. Stu, however, was busily digging in her purse for a tissue, the muscles in her face tight. And Avis just sat quietly with her head bowed, her forehead resting on her hands, her eyes hidden from view.
This wasn’t like Avis. Not like Avis at all.
9
What is it about Mondays? You’d think that after a weekend to get all the kinks out, the kids would be ready to settle down at school and learn something. Yet it seemed like every Monday I had to “reeducate” my entire third-grade class about the rules and break up at least three fights—okay, scuffles. At least I was still bigger than they were. Denny told me that last fall at West Rogers High, a student attacked one of the English teachers and broke her nose for telling him to “shut up and sit down.”
The student got a one-day suspension. The teacher got reprimanded for not keeping her class under control. She quit.
But I was learning—learning to cover my classroom in prayer every Monday before the kids even got there. Which is what I was doing the next morning after our Yada Yada meeting at Nony’s house. God, I can’t believe I ever thought I could do this job by myself. I dumped my tote bags on my desk, pulled off my walking shoes and thick socks, and slipped my stocking feet into a pair of comfy leather clogs that I kept at school.
The new year has barely begun, Lord, and already I feel like I’m playing catch-up with the kids. I have no idea what some of the family situations are like or what happened at their homes this weekend . . . but You do! Oh God . . . I started walking around the room, touching each desk in turn. I pray for Kaya and her struggles with reading. I need some new ideas, Lord! . . . and Jade. Thank You for her sweet spirit . . . Ramón—he’s got a long way to go controlling that temper, but he’s made some progress, so thank You, Lord . . . LeTisha . . . D’Angelo . . . Hakim . . .
I stopped by Hakim’s desk. A long, jagged line, like a lightning bolt, had been scratched into the top of the wooden desk. When had he done that? With what? Had he smuggled a knife into school? How? We had metal detectors at the school doors, for heaven’s sake!
A dozen angry questions piled up in my brain, like so many cars colliding in a fog bank. But as I stood there looking at the disfigured desk, the most important question of all rose to the top.
Why?
I SOMEHOW MADE IT through Monday, with only relative chaos reigning after lunch when Cornell yelled—right in the middle of our science lesson on renewable and nonrenewable energy sources—“Hey! It’s snowing!” The entire class rushed to the windows, and a few even climbed up onto the wide windowsills, tipping over the sweet-potato plants we’d started in Styrofoam cups.
I picked up the still-whirring table fan—“wind power”—that had been knocked over in the mad dash to the windows and wondered feebly how I could turn January’s first snow into a lesson on the different forms of H2O. Maybe tomorrow, I thought, peeking over the heads of nearly thirty bouncing
short people at the snow flurry blowing outside. See if enough accumulates to bring some inside.
So far, I’d said nothing to Hakim about vandalizing his desk. If it was a ploy to gain attention from the class or get a rise out of me, I determined not to fall into his little trap—though I was sorely tempted to screech at him like the Wicked Witch of the North to put a little terror into the hearts of any other would-be desk carvers. When the final bell rang at 2:50, though, I simply pulled Hakim aside and leaned close to his ear. “Wait in your seat a few minutes. I need to talk to you.”
Immediately the dark eyes grew wary, but he sat, glaring out the window.
When we were alone, I came to his desk and pointed to the jagged scar. “What’s this?” No answer. “Why did you damage your desk?” No answer. That was a dumb question, Jodi. Did you really expect an answer? “What do you think we should do about it?” Still no answer.
I suddenly felt incredibly awkward. Was anybody watching me? What if Hakim’s mother came to pick him up and walked in? I was not only a white grown-up standing over a black child, but I was the grown-up who’d robbed this boy of his only big brother.What right did I have to—
Stop it, Jodi! You’re a teacher. Hakim’s teacher. He needs you to be firm and clear about acceptable behavior.
I held out my hand. “Give me your knife.” He mumbled something. “What did you say?”
“Ain’t got no knife.” The back of his hand brushed across his eyes and came off wet, but his face remained closed, distant.
Don’t be fooled by the tears, I told myself. “Then how did you do this?”
His pause was so long I thought he was again refusing to answer. Then I heard, “Paper clip.” To my surprise, Hakim put his head down on his arms and began to sob.
Baffled, I reached out and rested my hand on his back until his body stopped shaking. Then I said, “Hakim, I don’t know why you scratched your desk. That was wrong. It ruins your desk for you and for the next child who uses it. I’m going to have to tell your mother and work out some way to—”
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I knew them for a lie.No way was I going to call Geraldine Wilkins-Porter and tell her she had to pay for this desk!—or whatever the school policy was. I’d pay for it myself before I’d voluntarily get into it with the woman who already hated me.
But my words acted like an electric prod on Hakim’s body. He jerked upright and stared at me. “No! Don’t tell my mama! She be sure an’ take me outta this school then.” He sniffed, and I handed him a tissue from the pocket of my denim skirt. “I’m sorry, Miz B. I jus’ felt mad an’ . . . di’nt mean to ruin the desk. Please don’t tell my mom.”
My own eyes threatened to puddle. “Thank you, Hakim. All right. Maybe we’ll talk later—you and me, okay?”
He nodded, then grabbed his coat and knit hat and ran out of the room.
For some reason I felt strangely encouraged. Hakim had said, “I’m sorry.” That was a breakthrough, wasn’t it? But, he said he did it because he “felt mad.” Mad at me? Mad about schoolwork? Did he even know?
I changed my shoes, gathered my tote bags, and headed for the school office, determined to ask Avis about some counseling for Hakim—could we do that without his mother’s permission?—for posttraumatic stress or whatever it was Avis thought accounted for Hakim’s behavior.
Avis was in her office, but the school secretary informed me I had to wait because another teacher was already in there. Finally, she waved me through the door that said Ms. Johnson, Principal.
Avis usually enjoyed wearing bright colors, though today she had on a black blazer, black trousers, and white silk blouse. Then again, she didn’t seem her usual cheery self. I stuck to business, telling her about the damaged desk and what had happened when I confronted Hakim. “He needs help, Avis. He’s up, down, all over the place. You know I can’t talk to him about . . . about what’s bothering him. Not if it’s related to the death”—I swallowed—“of his brother. But he’s wound so tight, I’m afraid one of these days he’s going to explode.”
Avis sighed. She looked distracted. Had she even been listening to me? Finally she said, “All right. I’ll talk to the school social worker and have her talk with Hakim. Do you mind if I fill her in on the background?—confidentially, of course.”
Oh, great. Of course, anybody who read the papers last summer probably already knew about the accident in which thirteen-year-old Jamal Wilkins—Hakim’s brother—had been killed running across Clark Street during a thunderstorm. And that Jodi Baxter of Rogers Park had been behind the wheel. The charges . . . the indictment . . . the dismissal. All public record, if anybody cared.
I cared.
“Is that it?” Avis rose. “I have some work—”
“Uh, one more thing,” I blurted.
Avis looked at me, her eyes heavy-lidded like she hadn’t slept much last night. “Yes?”
“Avis, I know this is personal, but . . . what was going on last night? When Yada Yada spun out with this death-penalty thing, you kinda faded away and never came back.”
I saw her flinch, as if I’d pinched a nerve. Then she sighed and sat back down. “Close the door.”
Uh-oh. Did I just open a can of worms? Should I apologize? Back out? But I was more curious than I was chicken.
“I’m sorry, Jodi. You’re right. I checked out—that particular topic is a hard one for me. I was hoping it wouldn’t come up. Of course it’s all over the news.” She paused and stared at the wall, just as she had last night.
I waited.
She blew out a breath. “I have a cousin on death row—his name’s Boyd. Not here; in South Carolina. Though I wish to God he were here. The governor’s action would be the answer to my prayers, because Boyd was framed. He didn’t do it; I’m sure of it.”
My insides kind of collapsed. “Why didn’t you just tell us? Sheesh—all the stuff people said . . .”
Avis shook her head. “Didn’t trust myself. I can get very angry about it. And to tell you the truth, Jodi, I’m tired of praying about it. I’ve prayed and prayed for years that justice would be done, that someone would tell the truth, but it’s like all my prayers hit the ceiling. Bam, bam! They fall back flat on my face.”
My jaw nearly dropped. I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. Avis was always encouraging the rest of us to “press on through” in prayer, regardless of the circumstances.
“I . . . wasn’t going to say anything, but you asked.”
I didn’t know what to say. “Maybe other states will follow suit and put a moratorium on executions . . .”
Avis flinched, and I wished I could rewind my thoughtless word. Executions.
“I’m not holding my breath,” she said flatly. “In fact, I don’t even pray about it any more, because I expect God to answer—some way, somehow—and when He doesn’t . . .” She smiled ruefully. “My whole life would fall apart if I gave in to doubt.”
I reached across the desk and laid my hand over hers. “Avis, I’m so sorry. Sorry we were so insensitive last night.”
She shook her head. “You didn’t know. No one did.”
“But you should tell Yada Yada! Don’t carry it by yourself. You’re always telling us to bear one another’s burdens. Let us help carry yours.”
She leaned her elbows on the desk and massaged her forehead with her fingers. “I don’t know . . . Some things are just private.”
I thought about her last words as I trudged home through the snow, which was sticking to the sidewalks, trees, and rooftops like a thin layer of vanilla frosting. Private? What did she mean by that? True, Avis didn’t talk about her personal business very easily. Yet she’d told us about the death of her husband from prostate cancer . . . and even the hilarious story about the scar from her lumpectomy looking like an old man with no teeth and a protruding red nose.We’d all howled till we couldn’t laugh anymore. It was so unlike Avis to be telling jokes about breasts, but she’d been laughing too.
So what wa
s so private about her cousin being in prison, even on death row? Yo-Yo had been in prison—for forgery, admittedly, nothing violent. Still . . .
And then it hit me like a snowball in the face.What was private wasn’t the fact that her cousin was in prison.
Avis had doubts about God.
10
We didn’t get that much snow after all, but at least it stuck to the ground, looking like a group of cosmic third graders had smeared the sidewalks, cars, and rooftops with a thin coat of white paste. Knowing Chicago, we’ll probably have the Big Blizzard in March, I thought, waiting for Willie Wonka to finish watering the snow in the backyard after I got home from school. Glancing up the outside stairs to the second-floor apartment, I saw several stacks of empty boxes on the landing.
The Bennetts are moving . . . Stu needs an apartment . . .
I sighed. I probably should run upstairs right now and ask if they’d found someone to sublet yet, but it wasn’t like they’d asked me to look for a renter. In fact, it wasn’t really my business to make sure they found some-one to sublet—not even my business to find Stu an apartment, was it?
You’re stalling, Jodi Baxter. Just ask.
By that time,Willie Wonka was done with his business and waiting eagerly with his nose to the back door, begging to be let in. I shivered inside my thin sweater. Better get my coat before I run upstairs.
No sooner had I dried off Willie’s cold toes and grabbed my jacket, however, than the phone rang. I picked it up.
“Jodi? Delores. Got your message yesterday, but I had to work. Can you talk now?”
“Sure, Delores.” I tossed my jacket onto a dining room chair and wandered into the living room to sit in the recliner near the front windows. “Nobody’s home from school yet—Amanda joined the Spanish club, and Josh has discovered the debate team. Don’t really like them get-ting home after dark, but guess it’ll work out as long as Josh can walk her home from the bus.”
