by Neta Jackson
Denny washed down a spicy mouthful with the last of his beer and signaled the waiter for another. Okay, two, I told myself. Don’t get your tail in a knot, Jodi. Two beers in how many months? Not a big—“He wants to go to college,” Denny said.
“College!”
“Uh-huh. Said playing together in the mariachi band has been great for him and his dad lately—they’d never been close before. But he doesn’t want to end up driving trucks. He asked if I thought he could get into U of I.”
Had to admit I was surprised. “Ironic, isn’t it? Josh gets accepted at U of I and blows it off. José’s only fifteen and he’s already hot to go. Go figure.” But I squinted at my husband. “So how does this add up to José sleeping over last night?”
Denny allowed a rueful grin. “We talked so long, suddenly I realized it was eleven o’clock, and Josh wasn’t back yet with the car. José said he’d catch the el, but my conscience wouldn’t let me send a fifteen-year-old out of my house at that hour—even a street-smart fifteen-year-old—so I called Delores, said I was keeping him overnight and would send him back in the morning. I put him in Josh’s room and made Josh sleep on the couch when he came in. Amanda just said okay and went to bed.”
“Oh.Why didn’t you just say so this morning?”
Denny leaned toward me. “Because you need to learn to trust, Jodi Marie. Me, God, your friends, your kids—for your own sake. You can’t be Mama of the World all the time. The job’s too big.” He leaned back. “You were where you were supposed to be last night, and so was I. So . . . can you tell me what’s going on with Stu?”
The loaded corn chip on its way to my mouth paused in midair. Denny was right. He had trusted me. Stepped in and covered for me last night, didn’t ask questions, just believed me when I said I needed to be with Stu, even though it meant abandoning my errands, my chores, my house—even his bed. Trust.
I FILLED DENNY IN as best I could on everything that had happened yesterday. As we walked home hand in hand, hunched in our jackets against the damp end-of-March chill, I said, “Maybe Stu comes across so Ms. Perfect all the time because she needs to—to prove to herself and to God and everybody around her that she’s really okay.” Like you, Jodi, said the Voice in my head. That Spirit of God Voice that made me get honest with myself. “Like me,” I confessed. “Trying to keep it all under control. Except, you’re right. I can’t. It’s God who’s got it all under control.”
Denny put his arm around me and gave me a squeeze. We were almost at our front door when Denny stopped. “Okay, announcement. I know how I want to celebrate my birthday.”
“Birthday?” I faked. “What birthday?”
“Uh-huh, I know. April Fool’s. But I’m serious. It’s kinda last minute, but talking with José last night triggered something in me. You and Florida were there for Stu yesterday when she needed you—and you have the Yada Yada thing that’s been going on all year with the sisters. Yet circling Yada Yada are a lot of young men—like José, and Yo-Yo’s brothers, and Florida’s boys, and even Chanda’s oldest—what’s his name?”
“Thomas—she says it ‘To-mas.’ ”
“Yeah. And Josh. And Nony’s boys.”
We stood out on our front sidewalk. I had no idea where Denny was going with this, but I could read the intense lines in his face in the dim streetlight.
“Okay, don’t laugh. For my birthday, I’d like to have a Guys’ Day Out—maybe next Saturday—and invite all the other Yada Yada husbands, and include the boys, say twelve on up. ’Cause I was thinking, I’m turning forty-four, and do I just go along, doing the same-old same-old? But talking to José last night, I realized these teen guys need encouragement. And we dads—‘Yada Yada guys,’ through no fault of our own—we need encouragement too. So, I dunno, just thought a day together, playing, eating, talking—whatever. Mentioned it to Peter Douglass this morning. He thought it sounded like a great idea.”
“He’s not a Yada Yada husband.”
Denny threw back his head and guffawed, his dimples deep. “Not yet!”
36
Didn’t know why I was so tired. I knew the emotional marathon with Stu took the starch out of me, but I thought that long Sunday afternoon nap would fix me up. But I barely dragged through Monday—not as prepared as I should have been either. The kids sensed it and bounced haphazardly through the day, like pinballs knocking into each other and missing the scoring holes.
“Uh, tough day at school?” Denny stood in the living room doorway when he got home, gym bag in hand. He had ample clues. No supper on the table; nothing in the oven; Madame Baxter sprawled in the recliner with her feet up—way up.
I let the recliner down with a thump, sending Willie Wonka scrabbling before he got pinned by the footrest. “Sorry. Just pooped is all. Kids home yet? Maybe we could just have waffles or something.” Frozen waffles, I’m thinking.
“Jodi.” Denny loomed beside the chair, hands on his hips. “Make an appointment with Dr. Lewinski this week. Understood?”
I nodded meekly. I didn’t feel sick this time, just tired, but I could probably use a checkup. What I was really worried about was Denny’s birthday—tomorrow! The business with Stu had derailed my shopping over the weekend, leaving me totally unprepared. To pull something together now would take energy that had skipped town.
I splashed water on my face, made a cup of strong coffee, and set the table while Denny whipped up waffles—from scratch. “Show-off,” I muttered at his back. He waved me off. The kids were late—debate team and Spanish club—but at least the days were stretching longer, and they got home while daylight still visited the city.
A knock at the back door made me jump. “Stu!” I said, opening the door. “You okay?”
She looked me up and down with a practiced eye. “Could ask you the same thing, girlfriend.” Girlfriend. First time Stu had ever called me that. “Uh, I came down to get my meds,” she said. “Don’t want to bother you in the morning.”
I held up a finger and disappeared to my bedroom. When I came back, I put one pill into her hand. She frowned. “Humor me,” I said. “One week, then you can have ’em back.”
Her eyes sparked for a brief second, and then she shrugged. “Okay, if it keeps you happy. But I really am okay.” She smiled, but her eyes held sadness. “God is good . . .”
“. . . all the time.” I gave her a hug. For some odd reason, I actually believed it. And if God was good, all the time . . .
“Uh, Stu? Maybe you should go ahead and write to the parole board and say Becky Wallace does have an address she can be paroled to. This one.”
Stu’s eyebrows shot up like McDonald’s golden arches. Even Denny turned from the waffle iron and stared at me.
“What? It’s all about redemption, isn’t it? God giving us second chances? And redemption involves some risk—did for Jesus, anyway. Okay, I know I’m not very good at it, but I am trying to live like Jesus.”
Stu eyed me warily. “I thought . . . well, after this weekend, I thought you’d think I was too touchy about little Andy to be any good to Becky.”
I had thought that very thing. But I shrugged. “Maybe just the opposite. Now that God is healing that part of your past, maybe you are the perfect person to do some good for Becky. And Andy.”
Tears welled up in Stu’s eyes. “Oh, Jodi.” She hugged me long and tight. “Thank you.”
I knew I’d probably get cold feet about my rash righteousness, but as Stu said bye and backed out the door, I went after her. “Oh! Stu! One more thing . . .”
DENNY SPENT MOST OF the evening on the phone lining up his Guys’ Day Out. Weatherman said temps would hit the eighties on Tuesday—unless he was pulling an April Fool’s joke—so maybe, Denny figured, it’d still be warm enough by Saturday for an afternoon of basket-ball on one of the outdoor courts. “Geezers” versus the “Young Bloods.” Followed by lots of Giordano’s pizza delivered to Uptown Community and some “guy talk.”
“Dad, Dad.” Josh laid a patronizing
hand on his father’s shoulder. “You got your health insurance paid up?” He grinned wickedly. “We’re gonna eat you alive.”
Denny’s ear was red, but he looked positively beatific when he finally got off the phone around nine. “They said yes! Carl . . . Mark . . . even Ricardo! Bringing their boys. Oh yeah, Ben Garfield too. Said he’d root for the Geezers from the sidelines, and he’ll bring Pete and Jerry.No answer at Peter Douglass’s place. Maybe I’ll try Avis.” He started to dial.
I snatched the phone from him. “If he’s not at Avis’s, you’re being presumptuous. If he is at Avis’s, he sure isn’t there to get ‘guy’ phone calls.”
“Oh.” Denny grinned. “Guess you’re right.”
I’d perked up enough after waffles and ice cream—Denny’s menu—to plan an actual dinner for his birthday tomorrow, but all the oomph was gone now. I headed for the bedroom. “You might want to ask DeShawn, too, if you’re gonna ask Chanda’s Thomas,” I called back over my shoulder.
THE WEATHERMAN WAS NOT fooling! April 1 hit the magic eighty degrees, sending schoolkids across Chicago into spasms of premature summer bliss. I walked home, grinning at the jump ropes, roller blades, scooters, and bikes that suddenly appeared, like Christmas in April. I made myself some strong coffee to keep me out of the recliner and cut up vegetables for one of Denny’s favorite meals: marinated shishkabobs. I’d managed to find a pot roast with only a little freezer burn in the freezer last night, and the beef chunks had been marinating all day. The rest was a snap:mushrooms, pineapple chunks, hunks of onions, and green peppers.
Stu smuggled a couple of prearranged bags into the house and helped Amanda string crepe paper in the din-ing room, while I blew on the damp coals in the grill out back. If Denny was surprised to see Stu at his birthday supper, which we ate outside on the back porch, he hid it behind a welcoming grin. Denny and Josh managed to find something to compete about, like how many food items they could string on the shishkabob skewers before stuff fell off into the coals. Men. Sheesh.
Birthday dessert was an ice-cream cake from Baskin-Robbins—thanks to Stu, who picked it up for me—and a lumpy, brown paper grocery bag stapled shut with a glut of curlicue ribbon. “What’s this?” Denny said suspiciously, eyeing it as if trying to see through the tough brown paper. He pulled open the stapled top, pawed his way through the ribbon, and peered inside. “What in the—?” He pulled out a bottle of champagne, entwined with a fat carrot, stalk of celery, a small zucchini, a few fresh green beans, and a rutabaga, all tied to the bottle with curly ribbon.
I pointed at the rutabaga. “Nice touch, Stu.”
“Okay. I give up.” Denny turned the bottle around and around, eyeing the raw vegetables. “I know it’s April Fool’s Day, but I don’t get it.”
“That’s you!” I crowed. “Denny—real name Dennis—derived from Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and vegetation.”
Josh hooted. Amanda and Stu were both laughing. I grinned at the quirky look on Denny’s face. “I looked up the meaning of your name last night, and Stu, thank you very much”—I gave her a poke—“picked up the champagne and veggies.”
“Oh.” Denny shrugged. “Well, then. Let’s break out the bubbly!” He held the bottle aloft. “But, uh, what am I supposed to do with these raw veggies?”
“Stew,” I said, pointing at the few leftover hunks of beef, onion, and three mushrooms left from the shish kebobs. “You’re cooking tomorrow.”
DENNY’S BIRTHDAY TURNED OUT low-key and fun, but the rest of the week really dragged. Correction: I really dragged through the rest of the week. Just couldn’t seem to get on top of the tiredness I felt. Plus my ears itched, and a low-grade headache hugged my head like a too-tight baseball cap. At least Dr. Lewinski had a cancellation Friday afternoon. Spring break was only a week away, and I wanted to feel chipper for our trip to New York. Last thing Denny’s folks needed was ammo to cluck about “poor Denny’s” lackluster wife from Iowa.
Got back in the car after my appointment and sat for a while. Humph. I could quit worrying. The New York Baxters wouldn’t be seeing anything of Jodi Marie. But what was I going to tell Denny?
Didn’t have to worry about that either—not for a day or two anyway. Denny was so cranked up about his Guys’ Day Out that he didn’t even remember that I’d had an appointment with Dr. Lewinski. At least I had time to figure out what to do.
“Can you do your grocery shopping in the morning, Jodi? I need the Caravan all afternoon and evening.Told Chanda I’d pick up Thomas and her boyfriend—what’s his name again?”
“DeShawn.”
“Yeah, him too, if he’d like to join us. She said she’d ask, but I haven’t heard back. Looks like we lost our warm weather, though. Shoot. Maybe I could get per-mission to use the small gym at West Rogers High—yeah, that’s it. No sweat. Hm, better double-check with Giordano’s about those pizzas. Don’t want ten hungry teenagers on my hands and no food.” Denny rolled his eyes in mock horror, not especially aware that he’d mostly been talking to himself.
I did a basic grocery shop and picked up the prescription for the ear infection doc said I was working on and probably explained why I’d been feeling so run down. The antibiotic would take care of it in a few days. But that wasn’t what I dreaded telling Denny. Still, I had the afternoon to figure it out. Amanda was babysitting; Willie Wonka and I had the house to ourselves—a perfect time to finish working on my quilt square for Avis. denny and josh didn’t get home till after nine that evening. I’d zonked out on the couch watching Dick Clark host The Best of the Bloopers, but I sat up when I heard my own “Geezer” and “Young Blood” raiding the refrigerator, wiped the drool off my face, and tried to look halfway intelligent by the time they tromped into the living room.
“Hi, guys.” I clicked off the TV. “How was—”
“Wait, Mom! Turn it back on.Was that CSI: Miami?” Josh hunkered down on the other end of the couch and stuffed a sandwich into his mouth.
I stuck the TV remote behind me. “Not on your life, buster. Not till I hear about your Guys’ Day Out.”
“It was great, wasn’t it, Dad?” Josh said, chewing and talking at the same time. “Okay, now turn it on. Never mind, I’ll get it.” And the scoundrel got up and turned on the TV the old-fashioned way, with the on button.
I gave up on Josh, but I hauled Denny back into the kitchen just before he sank into the recliner. “Denny! C’mon. Tell me about it. Did DeShawn show up?”
“Nope. Chanda made some lame excuse, though Thomas said he never came home last night.”Now Denny was chewing and talking. “Frankly, Thomas didn’t seem to mind—kinda latched on to Peter Douglass since they were both solo.”
“Peter! Really?”
“Uh-huh.” Another mouthful of sandwich. “Oh, yeah. Thomas said he wants to be called Tom now.”
To hear Denny tell it, the Geezers whupped the Young Bloods—for about thirty minutes of play at West Rogers High’s small gym. Then the Young Bloods took the lead and stayed there—for two games. “Even with all those shorties!” Denny groaned in mock despair. “Tell you what, Jodi. I was proud of Josh and Pete and José—Chris Hickman too. They kept cycling the younger guys in on a regular basis, so everybody got to play.”
Denny made himself another sandwich. “Didn’t you guys get pizza?” I asked, eyeing the Dagwood-size creation.
“Yep. Got two pieces, I think. That was hours ago.” The second sandwich seemed to fuel Denny’s willingness to re-create the Guys’Day Out, because he launched into the “guy talk” after the pizza. “I was thinking Mark Smith would be the man to get the guys talking—you know, being a teacher and all that. Yet I think the boys were intimidated by all that education and fancy title. Turned out Peter Douglass—sans suit and tie and soaked in sweat—was da man. He just kept asking questions: what video games they liked to play, what they liked—and didn’t like—about school, what teachers were good, what teachers were lousy. Pretty soon the kids were so eager to talk they kept interrupting ea
ch other. But then Peter asked each of the Geezers—sheesh, we’ll never live that name down now—to just tell the guys our own stories. What’s been tough, what’s been important, what we’d do different. Man!” Denny’s eyes got a bit wet. “It was powerful stuff.”
“Even Ricardo Enriquez? I mean, did he actually talk?”
“Yeah, he did. He seemed powerfully moved that the rest of us wanted to listen. And Mark . . .” Denny stopped chewing. “Dunno. I might have gone out on a limb there.”
“Limb? What limb?”
“Well, Mark actually told the guys—kinda half-joking about it—to think twice before marrying a girl from outside the U.S, or they’d be arguing about where to live the rest of their lives.”
Ah. “And you said . . . ?”
Denny swallowed his last bite and licked mustard off his fingers. “Well, nothing right then. But later, while Mark and I were taking out the garbage, I opened my big mouth and said, ‘Know what, Mark? When I see Nony, I see a woman who’s dying inside by inches. Have you ever thought about taking a sabbatical from Northwestern and taking the family to South Africa for a year or two? God put that fire in her for a reason.’”
My mouth dropped. “You didn’t! I mean, you did? What in the world did he say to that?”
Denny shrugged. “Not much. Just gave me a funny look and muttered something like, ‘Not that easy.’ Still, glad I said it. Been thinking it for some time.” My husband stretched his shoulder muscles and groaned. “Bet I’m going to be sore tomorrow.” He stood up. “Mind if I finish up CSI with Josh?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” Though I still hadn’t told him what Dr. Lewinski said. “Uh, one more thing.”
He turned at the hallway. “Yeah?”
