The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out

by Neta Jackson

  “Mm! Lord, have mercy!” Adele murmured.

  We all stirred and looked up. The prayers had moved from praise to prayer requests. Avis, sensing the need to shift, went with the flow. “It sounds like Becky and Yo-Yo—and maybe others—need some time to share, and then we can pray with them. Becky? Do you want to start?”

  Becky shrugged. “Well, y’all know I got me a full-time job now at UPS, an’ Little Andy’s in preschool. I’m grateful the way y’all have supported me while I got on my feet after prison—’specially you, Stu, for takin’ me in those first six months, and the Hickmans lettin’ me sublet they upstairs on the cheap. But Little Andy an’ me, we on top of each other every minute, an’ I’m thinkin’ it’d be a good thing if we got us a bigger place.”

  “You sure about that, Becky?” Stu said. “Who’s taking care of Little Andy right now? He’s downstairs at the Hickmans’, right? Times like this, you’ve got built-in babysitters.”

  Becky nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, know what you sayin’. Still, I’m thinkin’ Little Andy needs his own bedroom, a place to play, stuff like that. I’ve been lookin’ around an’ hopin’ I can get somethin’ in the neighborhood, so we can still be close to the Hickmans an’ Baxters an’ Stu.”

  “Come live wit’ mi, Becky,” Chanda said. “De kids an’ me rat-tlin’ round in dat big house since Rochelle an’ Conny got dey own place. Tom still got a bunk bed in his room an’ nobody usin’ de guest room. Give you all de space you ever need!”

  Becky grinned. “Thanks, Chanda. I ’preciate it. But I think it’s time I quit lettin’ you all take care of me an’ Little Andy an’ do what I need to do to make a home for me an’ my kid.”

  Heads nodded in understanding. Even Florida. “But you can throw us into that prayer pot,” she added. “’Cause we need to find someone else to rent Becky’s place to help us make our own rent.”

  “Ain’t never seen the righteous forsaken yet,” Adele murmured. “Don’t you worry, Flo. God’s gonna provide for you too.”

  Whew. Not exactly the poetic flow of Nonyameko’s “Scripture prayers,” but I knew Adele’s encouragement came right from Psalm 37.

  “Yo-Yo?” Avis asked. “Tell us about Pete.”

  Yo-Yo blew her nose and stuffed the tissue back into the bib pocket of her faded denim overalls. “Ain’t much to tell. He’s finishing basic training at Fort Benning, then he’ll be deployed some-where. He ain’t sayin’ where, which makes me think . . . ” Her features drew together in angry lines. “The army got that Saddam Hussein! An’ the Iraqis are gonna have elections soon, ain’t they? Why are we still sendin’ troops over there, is what I want ta know!” She fished for her tissue again, but Ruth handed her a fresh one. “Pete drove me nuts sometimes, but he’s still just a kid.”

  Which was true. Yo-Yo’s half brothers had been her responsibility ever since I’d known her, and for several years before that. Jerry was still in high school, but Pete had joined the army the day after he graduated last spring. Yo-Yo had been relieved at first. The army seemed just the thing for a kid who had never known a father. Not even a mother, for that matter, other than “big sis” Yo-Yo, since their mother spent most of the time strung out on drugs. But the news from Iraq these days seemed to be getting worse rather than better. Suicide bombings, Shiite versus Sunni, American troops still coming home in body bags . . .

  “Best thing we can do for Pete is—” Avis started to say.

  But Edesa held up her hand. “Before we pray, I want to ask prayer for Carmelita. Jodi and Denny ran into her out on the street after the dedication yesterday and brought her into the shelter. She’s nineteen, single, and has a little baby, Gracie, only three months old. But Carmelita is an addict, and she has basically run out of options. We can get her into a detox program, if she’ll let us. But she’s afraid they’ll take the baby away from her and . . . well, we don’t want to scare her away. But she needs a lot of prayer.”

  Gracie . . . My heart tugged. I could see the squalling infant in the girl’s arms, the way she quieted when Edesa held her. Why did that young woman—Carmelita—name her baby Gracie? Was it a family name?

  Or a cry for mercy?

  3

  Thanks for the ride, Stu.” I unlocked our back door and stepped into the kitchen as Stu and Estelle climbed the outside stairs to their T second-floor apartment. Even though Willie Wonka had been gone the last year and a half, I still half expected to hear the click of the old dog’s nails on the tile and feel his cold nose nuzzling my hand when I came in the house. But the kitchen was dark, silent, and empty. Even the TV blathering away in the living room seemed to come from another dimension.

  Empty nest. Did it have to happen so suddenly? First Wonka died after growing up with the kids, like a “blankie” that finally lost the last of its comforting, silky binding. Then Josh got an apartment with a couple of roommates near UIC’s Chicago campus. And now Amanda was three hours away at the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana.

  Denny and I simply didn’t make enough hubbub to fill the empty spaces. I sighed and flipped on the kitchen light—

  “SURPRISE!”

  My keys flew out of my hand, bounced off a cupboard, and landed in the sink. Two heads poked into sight from either side of the doorway leading into the dining room, grinning like puppets.

  “Amanda!” I screeched. “When did . . . why didn’t you tell me you were coming home tonight!” And who is this total stranger in our house? I wanted to add. Male.

  Amanda bopped into the kitchen and gave me a big hug. Her thick, butterscotch-colored hair was caught at the back of her head with an oversize clip, tendrils dangling carelessly front and sides. “Had to catch a ride when I could get one, Mom. And this is Neil. You said I could bring a friend home from school for Thanks-giving, remember?”

  Well, yes. But I’d imagined her roommate, or a darling international student from Norway or Kenya. Not this overgrown football player with a neck as thick as Denny’s thigh. “Hey there,” he said, flipping his finger off his forehead as if he were tipping a hat.

  Denny showed up in the kitchen doorway, grinning so wide you could probably lose a quarter inside his dimples. “She called after you left for Yada Yada. She wanted to surprise you.”

  Amanda giggled. “Yeah. We scared her so bad, she won’t get hiccups for the next ten years.”

  Neil, we learned over popcorn and soft drinks, was at U of I on a football scholarship from Tallahassee and didn’t have the bucks to go home for Thanksgiving. When he found out that Amanda’s dad was a high school athletic director, he’d practically invited himself home with her, probably imagining nonstop TV football over Thanksgiving. Amanda, who was a pushover for strays of all species, had agreed to let him tag along.

  At least Josh’s bed was available. “But I didn’t realize she had all week for Thanksgiving vacation,” I hissed to Denny behind our bedroom door when we’d said goodnight to Amanda and her guest. “We’ve still got three more days of school . . . which leaves them alone at the house all day.”

  “Hm.” Denny crawled into bed and turned on his reading light. “What about our rule about not being alone in the house with the opposite sex?”

  Denny sighed. “Yeah. But we can’t exactly kick them out from eight to five, can we? She’s eighteen now, Jodi. We have to trust our daughter.”

  “Humph.” I crawled into bed. “I trust Amanda. Can’t say the same for Mr. Tallahassee.”

  BOTH COLLEGE STUDENTS were still hibernating in their respective dens when Denny and I left the house the next morning. “I know!” I told Denny, who’d offered to drop me off at Bethune Elementary on his way to West Rogers High. “If Amanda has the whole week for Thanksgiving, Josh probably does too. They’re both U of I campuses. Where’s the cell? I’ll call and see if he can drop in today to see his sister.”

  Denny surrendered the cell phone without rolling his eyes, but I could tell he wanted to. I got Josh on the third ring. “Hi, hon. Hope I didn’t wake you .
. . . Oh. Okay . . . No, just wanted to tell you Amanda’s home. Talk to you later.” I handed the phone back to Denny.

  “What?” He was grinning at me.

  “Said he was on his way to his eight o’clock class.” I shrugged. “Guess UIC isn’t on break yet. Oh, well.” I’d just have to leave the whole thing to God. But I was going to talk to Amanda about the awkward situation.

  I scurried past the school office without stopping, wanting to slip into my classroom and enjoy the next thirty minutes of peace before I had to go out on the playground and round up my third graders. I dumped the bag of items I’d brought from home for our unit on renewable/nonrenewable sources of energy and shed my coat. With an eye on the clock, I started my Monday routine—praying for each of the kids in my class by name as I walked up and down the rows of desks.

  “Lord, show me how to keep loving on Portia. She always comes back to school after a weekend looking like a scared rabbit . . . Thank You, God, that Bernie has settled down and is showing some interest in science . . . Hm, bless the twins, Lord, Selena and Saleem. Give me more understanding of the culture they’re coming from . . . But it’s patience I need for Randy, Lord. What is it with his constant chatter? . . . Bless sweet Sophia, Lord. She’s got such a kind heart. Protect her heart, Lord; don’t let it get calloused . . . ”

  The bell rang just as I finished the prayers for my students, sending the day into its usual nonstop orbit—taking attendance, collecting take-home folders, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance led by a fifth grader over the school intercom, squashing skirmishes before they escalated into actual fights, trying to supervise the language arts worksheet on synonyms while bringing different read-ing groups to the Story Rug . . .

  Lunch break for third and fourth grade arrived too soon in terms of work not accomplished that morning, and not soon enough in terms of my energy level. At least I wasn’t on lunchroom supervision. I took the opportunity to stop by the school office and peek in on Avis. “You got a minute?”

  Trim and professional in a black pantsuit with a red, silky blouse, Avis looked up from the stack of papers she was signing and waved me in. “What’s up?”

  I closed the door. “Nothing school related. What are you mak-ing for Thanksgiving dinner at Manna House? I saw your name on the list.”

  She made a face. “Macaroni and cheese, what else? I know they’ll have turkey. But I don’t trust anyone else to make mac ’n cheese the way my family likes it. Besides . . . ” She let slip an impish grin. “It’s the only thing I know how to make without a recipe. You?”

  “Pies, I guess. Hope I’m not the only one. Four’s my limit before going crazy.”

  “Great. Is that it?” She indicated the stack of papers she’d been working on.

  “Sorry. I’m going.” I opened the door. “Oh, just wanted to tell you Amanda’s home, brought a friend from U of I. He’s from Tallahassee. I don’t like him, and for the life of me I can’t give you a good reason.”

  Avis laughed. “Mm. Been there. Talk to you later.”

  I HUSTLED HOME after school, the rod in my left leg aching with the dipping temperatures. That rod, and needing to take extra vitamins to keep my immune system well padded because of my missing spleen, were the only side effects I still experienced from the car accident I’d had a few years ago. But the ache in my heart for the mother of the teenager I’d killed was still fresh every time I thought about the startling sequence of events that had put his little brother in my classroom the next school year. Hakim had worked his way into my heart—much to his mother’s fury—and I often wondered where he was and how he was doing. By now Hakim would be—I mentally counted years as I dragged up our front steps and took the mail out of the box—in sixth grade. Ouch. Almost a teenager. I sent up an extra prayer. Middle school could be tough even without the trauma he’d faced after losing his older brother.

  “Amanda?” I called from the front hall as I let myself in. No answer. The house was empty. A note on the dining room table said: Went downtown to show Neil around. Josh called. Coming for supper.

  Hey. That would be nice. Extra nice that Josh thought of it himself without me asking. I pulled out some chicken pieces from the freezer . . . and had crusty, oven-baked chicken in the oven by the time Amanda and Neil came in, red-nosed and hungry. Josh and Denny arrived within minutes of each other and the house was suddenly, gloriously full of everyone talking at once.

  I grinned at Denny as we gathered around the dining room table. This was more like it. The kids home, a guest at our table . . . who stuck a fork in a piece of chicken on the platter in front of him and hefted it onto his plate. “Looks good, Mrs. Baxter.”

  “Yes it does,” Denny said smoothly, and added, “but let’s take a moment to give thanks.” He held out his hands to Josh on one side of him and a puzzled Neil on the other, and we all joined hands and bowed heads as Denny gave a short prayer of thanks. Good thing he prayed. I would have been tempted to pray for all the missionaries and trouble spots around the world and keep Mr. Tallahassee waiting.

  But the awkwardness passed and Amanda and Neil chatted back and forth about riding the el train (a first for Neil), seeing the city from the top of Sears Tower, and wandering around the artsy shops along Rush Street. “We might take in one of the museums tomorrow—do you know how many years it’s been since I’ve been to the Museum of Natural History? And I live in Chicago!” she said, waving her fork. “But Wednesday I’m going to be working with some of the girls at church, choreographing a candle-lighting dance for the first Sunday of Advent. Neil’s going to have to entertain himself.”

  “Whoa.” Denny’s eyebrows went up. “Is it Advent already? We haven’t even had Thanksgiving!”

  “Da-ad. It’s always the first Sunday after Thanksgiving. Well, usually. Pastor Clark called me and asked if I’d be willing to re-create the candle dance I did at Uptown a few years ago.”

  “So. Josh,” said Neil, his mouth full of mashed potatoes. “What’s your major?”

  “International Studies.”

  “Really? Huh.” Neil digested that for a whole nanosecond. “Who ya think’s gonna go to the Rose Bowl this year?”

  4

  I wasn’t sure I was going to survive a whole week with the football player from Tallahassee. “Take it easy, Jodi,” Denny soothed when I grumbled about his rude-ness I at the table. “Maybe God has a reason for bringing him to our home.”

  I glared at him as I pulled on my warm pajamas. “Yeah, well, that reason better not have anything to do with our daughter.”

  Denny laughed. “I doubt it. A week with Super Jock underfoot ought to get on Amanda’s nerves too.”

  A giggle threatened to undo my crankiness. “Hm. Dunno about that. You’ve been underfoot for twenty-three years and we still—”

  “Hey!” Denny swatted my shoulder. “I can hold up my end of a conversation.”

  “Yeah, and you’ve got cute dimples going for you too.” I pinched his cheek like an obnoxious great-aunt.

  “Ha. So it’s a pinching free-for-all, is it?” Denny made a grab for my pajama-clad bottom, but I squealed and leaped across the bed to the far side—only to realize he’d darted around the end of the bed and cornered me.

  Squealing like a stuck pig, I scrambled back across the bed just out of his reach, rumpling our wedding-ring quilt into messy lumps. I grabbed a pillow and held it for protection. “I give! I give! No pinching!”

  Sudden banging on our bedroom door stopped us both in mid-laughter. “Dad! Mom!What’s going on in there?”

  We both clamped hands over our mouths. Denny waited a beat, then opened the door a crack. “Playing. None of your business.”

  “Well, it’s embarrassing,” Amanda hissed through the crack. “Neil and I can hear you clear in the living room!” Her footsteps tromped back down the hall.

  I collapsed on the bed, muffling my giggles with a pillow. Denny waggled his eyebrows at me. “Guess we better behave,” he growled in a loud whisper. “Do
n’t want to give our guest any ideas.”

  IT SNOWED WEDNESDAY, our first snow of the season. “Yeaaa!” yelled my students, flying out the door when the last bell rang, jackets askew and backpacks bumping. The weatherman had only predicted an inch, but it covered the concrete city prettily,muffling my footsteps as I walked home on the unshoveled walks. Might as well enjoy it now. It would probably be gone tomorrow.

  Four wonderful vacation days stretched out before me. Amanda’s home . . . Thanksgiving dinner will be a cinch, since all I have to do is make a few pies . . . maybe we’ll hear from the Sisulu-Smiths and can start planning for our Yada Yada reunion . . .

  Neil was alone in our living room, watching a game show on TV. He looked up when I came in the front door. “You guys don’t get ESPN?”

  “Sorry. We don’t have cable.” Be sweet, Jodi. “Is Amanda here?”

  He shook his head, eyes glued to the TV. “Nah. She’s over at your church, doing that . . . whatever she’s doing.”

  “You decided not to go along? There are some funky shops along Howard Street.” I felt double-minded, half irritated that he let her walk by herself all the way to Howard Street, half glad they weren’t together every minute.

  “Yeah, she asked. But it’s a blizzard out there.” He shivered. “No thanks.”

  Blizzard.Mr. Tallahassee had no idea.

  I left our guest to the TV and headed for the kitchen. I had pies to make. Tying on an apron, I hauled out the canister of flour, can of shortening, box of salt, and measuring spoons. “So, Wonka, what shall I make first? Pumpkin? Apple?” I stopped myself. The talking-to-Willie-Wonka-while-I-cooked habit was hard to break.

  Hm. Maybe it’s time to get Amanda a new dog. I smiled as I mixed four batches of pie dough, cutting the shortening into the flour until it looked like floury peas, then sprinkling ice water over the mixture just until it clung together. A puppy for Christmas—what fun!