by Neta Jackson
PENNY WISE
Book 3 in the Windy City Neighbors Series
Neta Jackson
Dave Jackson
Evanston, Illinois 60202
© 2014 by Dave and Neta Jackson
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Evanston, Illinois. Castle Rock Creative.
Scripture quotations are taken from the following:
The Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
The New American Standard Bible®, Copyright 1960, 1962, 1962, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockerman Foundation. Used by permission.
“Auld Lang Syne,” a poem by Robert Burns in 1788 and set to the tune of a traditional folk song. Public domain.
“Precious Lord, Take My Hand,” by Thomas A. Dorsey in response to the death of his wife and infant son in 1932. Inspired by the tune, “Maitland” (original composer unknown).
“He Giveth More Grace,” a poem by Annie J. Flint (1866-1932), set to music by Hubert Mitchell. Public domain.
“Your Grace and Mercy,” as sung by the Mississippi Mass Choir, credited to Franklin D. Williams, arrangement 2000. Other arrangements by Marvin Sapp and Percy Bady.
“Grace, Grace, God’s Grace,” words by Julia H. Johnston, music by Daniel B. Towner. Published in Hymns Tried and True (Chicago, Illinois: The Bible Institute Colportage Association, 1911), number 2. Public domain.
“There Is a Name I Love to Hear,” by Frederick Whitfield, 1855. Public Domain.
“’Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus,” William J. Kirkpatrick and Louisa M. R. Stead, 1881. Public Domain.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9820544-6-8
Printed in the United States of America
Windy City Stories
by Dave and Neta Jackson
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Series
The Yada Yada Prayer Group, Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2003).
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down, Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2004).
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real, Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2005).
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough, Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2005).
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught, Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2006).
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling, Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2007).
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out, Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2007).
Yada Yada House of Hope Series
Where Do I Go? Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2008).
Who Do I Talk To? Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2009).
Who Do I Lean On? Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2010).
Who Is My Shelter? Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2011).
Lucy Come Home, Dave and Neta Jackson (Castle Rock Creative, 2012).
Yada Yada Brothers Series
Harry Bentley’s Second Chance, Dave Jackson (Castle Rock Creative, 2008).
Harry Bentley’s Second Sight, Dave Jackson (Castle Rock Creative, 2010).
Souled Out Sisters Series
Stand by Me, Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2012).
Come to the Table, Neta Jackson (Thomas Nelson, 2012).
Windy City Neighbors
Grounded, Neta Jackson, Dave Jackson (Castle Rock Creative, 2013)
Derailed, Neta Jackson, Dave Jackson (Castle Rock Creative, 2013)
Pennywise, Neta Jackson, Dave Jackson (Castle Rock Creative, 2013)
For a complete listing of
books by Dave and Neta Jackson visit
www.daveneta.com and www.trailblazerbooks.com
Prologue
Candy stood beside the playpen sitting smack-dab in the middle of the room, dangling a rattle in front of her baby brother’s scrunched-up face, willing his wails to stop. “See, Pookey? See the rattle? Here, here . . . you can play with it.” She tried to push it into the nine-month-old’s hand, but he just batted it away and kept on crying.
“Can’t you make that kid stop cryin’? Why don’ he want that toy?”
Candy narrowed her eyes at the big man sprawled throne-like on the broken-down couch on the other side of the playpen, one arm flung along the back, the other hand holding a beer, one big foot perched on the opposite knee. “He hungry,” she said. “He don’t wanna play right now.”
“Well, see, that what your mama an’ I gonna do, go buy some milk for the kid.” Raising his voice he hollered, “Renatta! How come it takin’ you so long? Let’s go, woman!”
“Shut up, Otto! I’ll be there in a minnit!”
The baby kept wailing.
Giving up, Candy threw the rattle into the playpen and plopped down in a chair as far away as possible from Big Otto, her arms crossed. Mama was going out again. She always said they’d be back “in a minute,” but Candy knew better.
“How old are you, girl?” Otto growled.
“Seven an’ a half.”
“Oh. Seven an’ a half.” He laughed. “Makes you a big girl, don’ it. Well, big girl, go get me another one o’ these beers. Long as your mama takes ta get ready, might as well have somethin’ ta keep me company.”
Candy flounced out of the room, into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator door. Leftover pizza box from Domino’s, half package of hot dogs, opened can of refried beans, bag of carrots, grapes in a bowl, an inch of milk in the bottom of a gallon jug, and two more cans of beer from the six-pack.
“Mama?” Candy yelled. “Can I give Pookey the rest of the milk? He hungry!”
Renatta Blackwell showed up in the kitchen doorway, trying to slide big, dangly earrings into her earlobe. “Sure, baby. I’ll bring some more when Otto an’ I get back.”
“Where’s that beer you was gettin’ me, girl?” Otto bawled from the other room.
“You don’ need another beer,” Candy’s mother called back, disappearing from the kitchen doorway. “Just need to get my purse.”
“’Bout time.”
Candy quickly fished in the sink for a baby bottle, stood on tiptoe to reach the spigot handles, rinsed it out with cold water, and poured the last of the milk into it. Screwing on the cap and nipple, she ran back into the living room, leaned over the playpen railing, and handed him the bottle. “There ya go, Pookey . . .”
Pookey tipped over onto a scrunched-up blanket in the corner of the pen and sucked noisily on the bottle, his cries silenced.
Renatta showed up in the living room doorway, purse slung over one shoulder, still fussing with an earring. “Thanks, baby. I’ll bring some more milk when we get back. He probably gonna fall asleep now. Jus’ leave him in the playpen. You okay?”
Candy nodded sullenly. “When you comin’ back?”
Her mother glanced at Otto. “In a little while, baby. I’ll bring you somethin’ nice, okay?”
Candy’s head jerked up. “Mama! If you go to Walmart, look at the princess bike. That’s the one I want for my birthday.”
“A bike!” Otto snorted. “Well, ain’t you the fancy schmancy one. What you think, girl, money grow on trees?”
Candy ignored h
im. “Please, Mama! You said when I get eight I can maybe get a bike. That’s the one I want!”
“Sure, sure, baby. Next time I go to Walmart, I’ll look at it.” Renatta headed for the front door. “C’mon, Otto. We ain’t got all day. I gotta get back here to my kids.”
Pookey was already sucking air bubbles from his bottle as the door closed behind them. Candy ran to the window and pulled aside the sheet that acted as a curtain, knowing it would take a few minutes for them to go down the two flights from third floor. But then she saw them appear on the walk below, laughing and talking as they headed for Otto’s car parked across the street.
Running back to the couch, Candy pulled at the square couch cushions and flung them onto the floor. Yes! Several pennies, even a nickel and a dime, sat among the crumbs, pull-tops twisted off cans, rubber bands, and other small trash that collected under the couch cushions. Especially after Otto was here.
Pulling the couch away from the wall, Candy retrieved a glass jar half full of pennies. Unscrewing the lid, she dropped her new finds into the jar, then screwed the lid back on.
Pookey had pulled himself up to a standing position and was holding onto the side of the playpen. Whimpering, he threw out the empty bottle. Kneeling down until she was nose-to-nose with her little brother, Candy shook the jar of pennies. “Can you keep a secret, Pookey? I’m savin’ up these pennies to buy me a bike if Mama don’ get it for me. But here . . .” She leaned over and set the jar down in the middle of the playpen. “There. You can play with it for a little while. See? It makes a pretty noise.” She shook the jar until the pennies tinkled and clattered.
Pookey dropped to his knees and reached for the jar, momentarily distracted. Huffing, Candy replaced the unwieldy cushions, then flopped onto the couch and sighed. So. How long was it going to be this time?
Chapter 1
Michelle Jasper stood in the middle of the living room, eye-to-eye with her thirteen-year-old daughter, trying not to look impatient. They should be going out the door. Why did teenagers always pick the most inopportune times to ask these questions, acting like they’re gonna die if they don’t get an answer right now?
“Tabby, it doesn’t make sense to go to cheerleading camp this summer. Stone Scholastic doesn’t even have a cheer squad. Why don’t you wait until next year when you’re ready for high school? You could try out for the freshman squad.”
“But Mo-om! All the girls are gonna want to try out for the cheer squad. If I go to camp this summer, I’ll already know a lot of the good moves and—”
“Honey, can we talk about this later? We’re supposed to get over to the Bentleys before Mrs. Krakowski arrives. And we’d need to talk to your dad about any camp plans, anyway. It’s getting cool . . . you’ll need a sweater. But then let’s go.”
“Oh, all right.” Tabitha flounced off toward her bedroom.
Where were those boys? Where was her husband, for that matter? They’d just talked about this at supper, joining the other neighbors on Beecham Street to welcome back old Mrs. Krakowski, who’d fallen last winter and broke her hip. The two-flat she’d owned had been in foreclosure. But when the new owners heard the sad tale, they’d had a better idea . . .
Her other thirteen-year-old thundered up the stairs from the basement family room and into the living room. “Can I go over, Mom? DaShawn told me to come early.”
“Just wait a minute, Tavis. Have you seen your dad? Where’s Destin?”
Tavis jerked a thumb. “Kitchen, I think. Dad’s downstairs on the phone.”
“Well, tell Destin to get himself in here. Let’s go over together.”
Tavis headed for the kitchen. A moment later she heard, “Hey! That’s Dad’s pop. Mo-om! Destin’s drinkin’ a Dr. Pepper! How come he gets one? Can I have one too?”
“Boys!” Michelle headed for the kitchen.
Her oldest was sprawled in a chair at the tiny kitchen table, right hand wrapped around a can of pop. “Little brother’s gonna have to learn not to rat,” he muttered. “Not if he hopes to stay alive until high school.”
Patience, Michelle, patience. “No, you can’t have one, Tavis. Too much caffeine. Besides, you both know we save those for Dad to take to work. He does need to stay awake on the job. Destin, you know better than that.”
Destin lifted the can. “It’s the last one. We have to get some more anyway before Dad goes back to work Monday, right?”
The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it!” Tavis darted out of the kitchen.
Michelle eyed her oldest. What was going on? He seemed more touchy than usual. “You don’t need all that caffeine either, kiddo.”
Destin rolled his eyes. “Mom, I’m seventeen. Guys on the basketball team drink energy drinks all the time before a game.”
“Hmm. Don’t know what I think about that. Anyway, it’s time to go over to the Bentleys.” She turned to go. “You coming?”
Destin shrugged and pushed the empty can away. “I guess. Sorry I took the last one.” He grinned as he stood up. “But at least I saved it from getting pinched by the babies.”
“I ain’t no baby!” Tavis yelled from the next room. “Hey, DaShawn’s here! Time to go!”
Destin followed his mother into the small living room of the brick bungalow. Thirteen-year-old DaShawn Bentley leaned into the open doorway, sounding breathless. Looked like the kid was growing his hair, already a short Afro. “Hey, Pops says they’re on their way. If you gonna help me light those whatchamacallits, Tavis, we gotta hurry.”
“Wait for me!” Tabitha yelled, heading for the front door with her twin brother and his friend. “I wanna help too.” But pausing in the doorway she said, “Promise you’ll think about it, Mom! And talk to Dad, okay?” The door slammed behind her.
Destin frowned. “What’s that about?”
“Oh, she wants to go to cheerleading camp.” Where was her husband? Michelle raised her voice. “Jared? You coming?”
No answer.
“Jared! It’s time to go!”
“You guys go on without me.” Her husband’s voice floated up from the basement study. “I’ll come as soon as I’m done with this call.”
Michelle felt frustrated. “Hmph. Pastor Quentin always seems to know the wrong time to call your father . . . Sorry. Forget I said that. Let’s just go.” She took her shawl from the coatrack. “Don’t you need a jacket?”
Destin grabbed a jacket and followed her across the porch and down the steps. “Mom, don’t forget I asked first about that Five-Star Basketball Camp at supper. It’s really important—college scouts come to the camp and everything. If I don’t register soon, it’s gonna be too late! So if you and Dad are gonna talk about summer camps, I get first dibs.”
“I know, hon. I’m sorry. We were just in such a hurry at supper . . . oh, look! The kids are lighting those pretty paper bag luminaries along the sidewalk. Looks like a good turnout too.”
Neighbors from their block on Beecham Street milled around the sidewalk and small front lawn in front of the Bentleys’ two-flat—which used to be known as “the old lady’s house” before she fell down the basement stairs last winter, broke her hip, and spent months in rehab. The bank had foreclosed on the two-flat and the Bentleys had bought it. Which was nice for Tavis, since DaShawn lived with his grandparents in the second floor apartment and was in the twins’ class at school.
“Don’tcha think the ol’ lady’s gonna feel kinda weird,” Destin muttered as they crossed the street, “movin’ back into her own house after somebody else bought it? ’Specially her bein’ white an’ all and the Bentleys bein’ black? Don’t remember her bein’ all that friendly to us before she lost the house.”
“She’s elderly, Destin. Didn’t get out much,” Michelle said. “I think it’s very kind of the Bentleys to offer to rent her the first floor apartment after they got it remodeled. And I don’t want to hear you call her ‘the ol’ lady.’ Her name is Mrs. Krakowski, which you will do well to remember, young man.”
Destin
shrugged. “At least the Bentleys put up a basketball hoop over the garage. Ol’ lady . . . sorry. Mrs. K better not mind.”
“Sister Michelle! Destin!” Estelle Bentley, wearing one of those big roomy caftans she was so fond of, swooped between the glowing paper bags lining the sidewalk carrying a tray with a pitcher and steaming hot cups. “So glad you’re here for Miss Mattie’s homecoming. Hot chocolate?” Beaming, she held out the tray, then glanced around. “Is Jared coming?”
Michelle sighed as Destin helped himself to a paper cup of hot chocolate and sidled away. “Hope so, soon as the pastor lets him off the phone. You know how it is when you’re a deacon.”
“Oh, honey, tell me about it.” With a chuckle, Estelle Bentley moved away with her tray, offering hot chocolate to Farid Jallili and his scarf-wearing wife, who lived next door to the two-flat, as well as the Jewish couple from down the street. The gay couple who lived next to the Jallilis was talking to the man who’d built that huge house on the cul-de-sac at this end of the block. Interesting.
Michelle sipped her own hot chocolate. Beecham Street certainly had turned into a mini–United Nations over the years. Hadn’t she read someplace that this whole north end of Chicago was one of the most diverse in the nation? Not exactly a melting pot, though. She barely knew most of the neighbors.
Michelle noticed that DaShawn’s grandpa, Harry Bentley, had recruited Destin to pass out half sheets of paper with the words to “Auld Lang Syne” to all the neighbors . . . including his father, who was finally coming across the street in the deepening dusk. Destin—still two inches shorter than his dad’s six-one—ran up and shoved a song sheet into his hands. “Hey, Dad. Mom’ll be glad Pastor let you go.”
