by Neta Jackson
“Wait!” I sniffled, fumbling in my jacket pockets until I found my car keys. “There’s a bunch more empty boxes in the back of my car. Can you bring ’em in, Chris? They’re for Becky.”
Florida came back with a plastic bag full of ice cubes wrapped in a dishtowel and packed my foot, muttering the whole time. “You’re a stubborn woman, Jodi Baxter. You need to get this x-rayed. What if it’s broken? An’ if you don’t report a purse snatchin’ to the police, then I’m goin’ to. Don’t want no thief workin’ my block. Whatchu got in that purse, anyway—credit cards? You gotta call the credit card companies and put a stop on ’em, else that thief gonna rack up several hundred bucks tonight ’fore you can blink.”
“Thieves,” I said.
“What?”
“There were three of them. One came back to help me.”
Florida stared at me. “What do you mean, came back?”
I tried to explain what happened. “I’m not positive the person who found my phone was one of the thieves, except somebody kept yelling at him to run. But he found my phone and dialed 9-1-1.”
“What? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. You should be on your way to the hospital. Wait—if he called for an ambulance, how come I don’t hear no sirens out there?”
“Um . . . I ended the call. Called you instead.”
Florida threw up her hands. “Lord, help me here ’fore I slap this girl upside the head. I have half a mind to throw you right back outside on the street.”
WELL, I GOT to hang out with the Hickmans that evening, all right. Carl wouldn’t hear of taking me home and leaving me alone, even though I was anxious to find our credit card numbers and get the cards cancelled. He finally got through to Denny, who’d had his cell phone shut off while he was inside the juvenile detention center; Oscar Frost dropped him off at the Hickmans’ around nine-thirty.
Tight-lipped, my husband agreed with Florida, called the police to report a purse-snatching-with-injury, and told the dis-patcher we’d meet them at the emergency room of St. Francis Hospital. “What about the credit cards?” I winced as he and Carl helped me out to our minivan. “Shouldn’t we go home first, make some calls?”
“Did it already. I have my cards, remember? And Oscar was driving.”
“Oh.” Something told me Denny was in no mood to be questioned right now.
We didn’t get home until almost midnight. “Told you it was just a sprain,” I mumbled as he helped me into the house. “How much is this going to cost us?”
“Jodi Marie Baxter. I don’t care! It’s a bad sprain, you’ve got a torn ligament, it could’ve been worse, and now we both know you have to stay off it totally for at least two days, and on crutches for a week.” He rattled the discharge papers at me. “I’ve got it all here in black and white. Besides . . . ” He picked me up and carried me into the bedroom, and started helping me out of my clothes. “Just say you did it for my sake.”
He leaned forward and fixed me with his gray eyes. His voice gentled. “You scared me half to death, Jodi. You didn’t just fall down. You were mugged. It’s a violent crime! I just thank God that you’re . . . ” He stopped. And then grinned.
“What?”
“Um, did anyone at the Hickmans’ tell you that your mascara is all smudged? You look like a raccoon.”
DENNY CALLED BETHUNE Elementary first thing Friday morning to say I was “laid up,” and was going to take a sick day himself to stay home with me. “I know you. You’d be up and down all day, trying to get stuff done. Ain’t gonna happen, babe. That recliner is your throne until further notice.” But Florida must have tattled to Yada Yada while we were at the hospital, because Estelle came downstairs and offered to “Jodi-sit.” Her most recent elder care patient had passed away, and she didn’t start a new assignment until Monday.
“Leave her to me, Denny,” she said, waving him out the door. “I’ve got experience with ornery patients.”
Except for the dull throb in my ankle and aching all over from the fall, it was kind of nice being waited on hand and foot. Estelle seemed to anticipate when I needed another cup of coffee, brought me pain medicines when I needed them, and chatted with me just enough to be companionable, but she didn’t hover over me every minute. In fact, she lugged Stu’s sewing machine downstairs, set it up on our dining room table, and sewed away on one of her sewing projects while I read.
Dozing in the recliner after lunch—homemade corn chowder and hot biscuits—my mind drifted to what had happened the night before. Being jerked off my feet . . . falling . . . muffled footsteps running away . . . then the shadowy figure bending over me . . . some-one yelling in the distance, “Boomer, you idiot! Run!”—
I opened my eyes. Boomer. That must be the name of the per-son who came back! Why didn’t I remember that last night when the police officer asked me if I could identify the thieves in any way? Should I call him back? The officer had given me his card in case I remembered anything else.
But something inside me checked. Maybe there had been three thieves. But the person who came back wasn’t the one who’d grabbed my purse. My gut was sure of that. And he’d come back. And tried to help. No, I wasn’t going to call . . .
But you can pray, Jodi. Pray for Boomer. Like you did for Sara, even before you knew her name . . .
“Estelle? Can you come here a sec?”
The whirring in the other room stopped. Estelle appeared in the living room archway. “What you need, baby?”
“Nothing. I just wondered . . . would you help me pray for Boomer?”
ESTELLE MADE SUPPER from stuff she found in our kitchen—smothered pork chops and corn pudding—and Stu joined us when Denny got home; it felt almost like a party. But by Saturday, I was plenty tired of just sitting in the front room recliner with my foot in the air and answering phone calls from well-meaning friends.
“Keep that foot elevated at least another day, Jodi,” Delores cautioned. “Keep icing it, too, but only ten minutes at a time, and then rewrap.”
Avis called. “Don’t worry about school on Monday, Jodi. We’ve already got a sub lined up for you.”
“Never wear de purse over just one shoulder, Sista Jodee,” Chanda scolded. “Over your head and inside de coat, next time.”
“Who needs a purse?” Yo-Yo snorted. “Just stuff what you need in your pockets. Works for me.” Right. Yo-Yo always wore overalls.
“Boxes, schmoxes,” Ruth sputtered in my ear. “Half your age, Becky is. Let her get her own boxes. I’m coming over with chicken soup.” . . . “I’m not sick, Ruth.” . . . “So? You need to be sick to eat chicken soup?”
When the phone rang for the tenth time that day, I hollered at Denny, “If that’s Becky again”—she’d already called twice, saying it was all her fault—“tell her I’m on my way to Colorado to go skiing!”
Denny brought me the phone. “It’s Josh.”
“Oh . . . Hi, honey.”
“Sorry about your fall, Mom. And getting your purse snatched. Must have been scary.”
“Yes, I—”
“I called to ask you and Dad to pray. And feel free to pass it on to Yada Yada.”
So much for being fawned over by one’s offspring. “Sure, honey. What’s wrong?”
“Carmelita’s missing again.”
I WOKE IN the middle of the night, my ankle throbbing, and got up to take some pain meds, using the crutches we still had from when I broke my femur. Heating a mug of milk in the microwave, I peeked out the window in the back door. Snowing again. So much for going to church in the morning. Walking on crutches indoors was one thing; crutches on snow and ice was another.
Settling in the recliner with my foot up, swathed in an afghan, I tried to go to sleep again . . . but all I could think about was Carmelita. Was she out somewhere in this snow? Drugged out, messed up, in grave danger of losing her baby? Oh God! Help them find her, Lord! Who was taking care of the baby, anyway? Edesa probably. Couldn’t be easy for her. She was going to school, had homework a
nd classes and papers to write.
Huh. Sure put my sprained ankle—even having my purse stolen—into perspective.
Oh God! Thank You for Your blessings, even in the midst of this situation! Forgive me for complaining about all the phone calls. I’m truly blessed to have so many friends and family who care about me. Thank You for Estelle, who took care of me Friday. For Ruth’s chicken soup. For Florida and Carl . . . even for Boomer, whoever he is, who stopped to find my phone. Bless him for that, Lord. But God, Josh and Edesa and everyone at Manna House are worried about Carmelita . . . I don’t know her story, Lord, but You do. You know where she is now. Even if she’s in a dark place, You are there . . .
I grabbed my Bible. Psalm 139. Yes, I would pray Psalm 139 for Carmelita.
I STAYED HOME from church, which meant missing the second Advent service at SouledOut, but by Sunday evening I was going stir-crazy. I think I was starting to drive Denny crazy, too, because he gave in and drove me to the Hickmans’, where Yada Yada was meeting. The snow had only added another inch or two, and by then even most of the side streets had been plowed.
After getting me into the house and settled on the couch, Denny coaxed Carl to go out with him for pizza; at the last minute, they took Chris, Cedric, and Carla too. I noticed Florida had a new hairstyle since I saw her three days ago—little sections of hair twisted into knots all over her head. “What do you call that?” I ran my finger in tiny circles. “It’s cute.”
“Zulu knots. Like it?” Florida simpered as she ran to answer the doorbell.
Ruth arrived sans twins—but Delores and Edesa arrived with a bundle in a baby carrier. My heart lurched. “Oh, Edesa, does that mean Carmelita hasn’t come back yet?”
“Not yet.We are very worried.” Edesa took off her own winter wraps, then gently unsnapped the safety strap of the carrier and picked up the baby, blankets and all. “Do you want to hold la bebé, Jodi?”
“Me? Um . . . sure.” I peeked into the warm, fleece blankets Edesa put into my arms. The baby’s dark lashes lay against her fat cheeks, damp, dark curls wisping around her face. “The baby” . . . why did I always refer to her that way? She had a name—Gracie. For some reason, a lump tightened in my throat.
As the Yada Yadas arrived, they oohed and ahhed over the baby in my arms, plying Edesa for details. But Avis interrupted. “I’m sure Edesa doesn’t want to have to repeat herself. Let’s go ahead and begin, and then we’ll hear from Edesa first thing.”
After Avis’s brief prayer, Edesa brought the group up to date about Carmelita showing up at Manna House the day of the dedication, her disappearance on Thanksgiving and return, her tears and promises to stick with the detox program she’d started last Monday . . . and now, gone again. She’d been missing more than twenty-four hours.
“We went through the things in her room, hoping to find some clue to where she might have gone. But”—Edesa’s voice wavered—“all we found was this.” She took an envelope out of her pocket and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Her lip trembled.
“Here.” Delores gently took the paper from Edesa’s hand. “I will read. It is written in Spanish.” The older woman frowned as she translated. “‘Por favor, if anything should happen to me, I give the care of my baby, Gracie Francesca Alfaro, to Edesa Reyes at Manna House.’” Delores looked up. “It is signed, ‘Carmelita Francesca Alfaro.’”
8
Whoa.” Stu’s eyes went wide. “Did you know about this, Edesa?”
Edesa shook her head. She reached over and tenderly W stroked the baby’s cheek with the back of her fingers. “I just hope we find your mama, niñita,” she whispered.
The sisters gathered around Edesa and the baby I was holding and prayed, pouring out their hearts for the young, lost mother and her abandoned baby. By the end of the prayers, we’d used up half a box of Florida’s tissues.
The group also prayed for rapid healing of my sprained ankle, and for Becky and Little Andy as they prepared to move from the cocoon of the Hickman household to their own apartment. “Thanks for the boxes, everybody,” Becky said sheepishly. “Though I wish Jodi hadn’t—”
“Give it a rest, Becky!”
“Okay, okay. Um, I hate to ask, but I’m movin’ a week from Saturday if anyone has a couple of hours to help. Ah, except Jodi.”
“Becky Wallace!” I rolled my eyes. “Will someone stuff a sock in her mouth?”
Becky sniffed self-righteously. “Well, you can’t help, even if you wanted to.”
Florida leaned my way. “That’s the men’s breakfast Saturday,” she murmured in my ear. “Think we can volunteer them?”
Before the meeting ended, we talked about Nony’s e-mail, bemoaning the short visit but agreeing it’d be best to have our reunion celebration after Christmas. “What about New Year’s Day—that’s a Sunday,” Stu suggested. “That’s our regular Yada Yada time, first Sunday of the month. Weekend would be best for everybody anyway.”
“Just we sistas? Or invite de ’usbands and de kids?” Chanda stuck out her lip in an exaggerated pout. “Dem wit’ ’usbands, anyway.”
We laughed, but agreed on husbands and kids, lots of food, lots of music, time to share, time to worship and pray . . . exact time and place still to be decided.
“Humph. You know dat Nonyameko going to be all decked out, wit’ dem blue-an’-gold outfits from Sout’ Africa and dose head-dresses she wear,” Chanda said. “Well, mi too. Going to dress like de Jamaicans dress when we party.”
Yo-Yo snickered. “Uh-huh. Only problem, Chanda. Your snowboots gonna look mighty funny with those sleeveless beach dresses you brought back last time.”
I STAYED HOME on Monday, since Avis had already arranged for a substitute, but I told Denny I wanted to go to school on Tuesday if he’d give me a ride. “I’ll get Avis or somebody to give me a ride home . . . I promise,” I added.
When I arrived at school, hobbling into my classroom on crutches, a stack of handmade get-well cards from my students sat on my desk. How sweet. Another teacher brought my students from the gym when the bell rang, and the kids seemed excited to see me, examining the soft “boot” with Velcro straps I was wearing on my left foot and wanting to know, “Didja like my card?” and, “Can I try your crutches?”
But the novelty of having me back wore off soon enough, and I found myself raising my voice more than I wanted to, simply because it was too much effort to walk around the classroom supervising their desk work as I usually did. Avis, bless her, showed up unannounced and just hung out in my classroom for ten minutes before lunchtime, walking between the clusters of desks, giving smiles and nods—and a few frowns when needed. And after lunch, she sent Ms. Ivy from the school office to do the same thing.
But by the time the last bell rang, my foot was throbbing and I was pooped. Avis said she’d give me a ride home, but it’d be four o’clock before she could leave. Fine with me. I tanked up on ibuprofen, propped my foot on an upturned wastebasket, and used the time to grade papers and plan for the next day . . .
The next day? Sheesh. I’d barely made it through this one.
But I enjoyed the five minutes I had Avis all to myself as she drove me home in her toasty warm Camry. “How’s Rochelle doing?”
She glanced sideways at me. “You saw her the last time I did, at the dedication for Manna House. I think she’s tired of being ‘poor Rochelle’ . . . out to prove she’s not going to let HIV stop her from living a full life. And she’s doing a pretty good job of it too. She loves her job working retail at one of the boutiques in downtown Chicago. All glamour and upscale.” She slipped me a wry grin. “Can’t afford the clothes myself.” The grin faded. “I just wish she’d find a good church and settle down.”
“She was coming to SouledOut for a while. Conny seemed to love it.”
“Yes, he did. And it was a nice way to see them both every week without being in each other’s hair.” Avis sighed, but kept her eyes on the street as she turned into Lunt Avenue, which was one-way. “To tell y
ou the truth, Jodi, I think my other daughters feel neglected ever since Rochelle was diagnosed. Peter and I are thinking of driving to Cincinnati to see Charette and Bobby and the twins for Christmas. Tabitha and Toby are in first grade now! They’ve invited Rochelle and Conny to come, and Natasha too—though she’s living in New York since she graduated. We’ll see.”
“Christmas! When are you coming back? In time for our Yada Yada reunion, I hope.”
“Don’t worry. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Avis double-parked in front of my house and kept the car running as she got out. “Stay there, Jodi. I’m coming around to get you.”
There wasn’t much Avis could do except hold my tote bag as I used my crutches to boost me up the porch steps, one at a time. “Thanks. I’ll be fine now.”
“No problem. I’ll wait till you get inside.”
I opened the storm door and started to insert my keys in the lock, when I noticed something had been wedged between the two doors. “What’s this?”
“I’ll get it.”Avis bent down and picked it up. We both stared at it. Avis was holding my stolen purse.
WE STILL HAD leftovers from the food various Yada Yada sisters had dropped off that weekend. Denny dished out individual plates when he got home, and while waiting for them to reheat in the microwave, I showed him the purse Avis and I had found on our doorstep.
“How weird is that? Everything’s here—my wallet, ID, insurance card, lipstick, address book, coupons . . . except for the cash and credit cards, of course.”
“Huh. Of course.” The microwave beeped and Denny carried the two plates to the dining room table.
“But why bother to return the purse? I mean, I’m glad to have it back, and my other stuff, but don’t purse snatchers just take what they want and toss the purse?”
Denny grinned. “I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I’ve snatched any purses. I forget the drill.”
“Denny! Be serious! . . . Anyway, let’s say thanks and eat. I’m hungry.” I leaned my crutches against the table, sank into a chair, and closed my eyes. “Lord, thank You for this food and for the friends who brought it, and thanks I didn’t have to cook it. And Lord, thanks that thief returned my purse . . .” My eyes flew open. “Wait a minute! Why am I assuming the thief returned it? The thieves probably tossed it in the bushes, but some Good Samaritan found it, saw my wallet and ID with my name and address, and dropped it off. That has to be it!” I closed my eyes again, grinning. “So . . . yes, Lord, bless the Good Samaritan who found my purse and returned it. You know who he or she is. Return their kindness many times over—”
