by Neta Jackson
Apparently, though, that was B.J. Before José.
Delores opened her mouth, then shut it and wrinkled her brow. She looked genuinely puzzled. Suddenly she laughed and clutched me in a big hug. “Oh, Jodi, Jodi. You think too much!” She let go of me and grabbed one of Denny’s arms and one of José’s, like they were going to do the cancan. “We love Amanda too—Amanda the ‘lovable,’ ” she teased, playing on the meaning of Amanda’s name. “You must share her with us, not keep her all to yourself! She is becoming a young woman—that is the purpose of a quinceañera. Like a . . . what do you say in English?”
“Like a debutante ball or ‘sweet sixteen’ party?” Denny said helpfully. I stared at my husband.What did he know about debutante balls? Not in our income bracket.
“Sí! That is it.” Delores beamed again.
Over Delores’s shoulder I saw Amanda coming out of the women’s bathroom, her butterscotch hair twisted up in a butterfly clip. “Just tell me,” I hissed, “have you mentioned this to Amanda yet?” If not, no harm done if we said no.
“No, I don’t think so,” Delores said. “José?”
José shuffled. “Well, kind of.”
Great. I turned to Denny. Now what?
Delores was unperturbed. “Jodi, just think about it, okay? It could be fun. We could do it together.” She beamed. “Another Yada Yada party—Mexican, this time.”
“Sure,” Denny said. Denny the Amiable. “We’ll think about it. But it depends—how much it costs, things like that.We couldn’t let you pay for something like that.”
Amanda headed for us like an arrow toward a bull’s-eye.
“Yes, yes, we’ll think about it,” I said hastily. “And . . . it’s sweet of you to think of her. Just don’t say any-thing more to her right now, all right?”
“Hey! What are you guys talking about?” Amanda eyed her father and me suspiciously, then darted a questioning look at José.
“How long you señoritas take to change clothes, is what!” José joked. “I am being a gentleman, waiting till you are finished to get some food—but I am starving! Come on.” He grabbed Amanda by the hand and headed for the kitchen pass-through.
I heard Denny chuckle. “Nice save, José.”
3
We stayed to help clean up after the Warm-Up Party, so it was nearly four by the time we pulled into the garage behind our two-flat.The kids scrambled out of the minivan and hustled toward the house. “Josh! Take Willie Wonka out, okay?” I yelled after him. “He hasn’t had a walk today.”
Josh’s stride stuttered just long enough to tell me he’d gotten the message—long enough to probably roll his eyes too. “What’s his problem?” I muttered, hauling the damp towels and blankets out of the back of the Caravan. “It’s his job to walk the dog.”
“Rose Bowl,” Denny said, grabbing the sport bags with the wadded-up clothes and making his own shot put for the house.
Sure enough, the TV was on by the time I got inside, and both Josh and Denny were engrossed in the pre-kickoff interviews and commentary. “So what do you think Oklahoma’s chances are of taking home a win today?” . . . “Well, Bud, we’ve had a great season, the team has worked hard, and we’re ready. Don’t tell Washington State, but we plan on taking home that trophy.” Mutual grins and laughter.
Sheesh. Do they bag that stuff and sell it by the pound? I stood in the archway between the front hall and living room, debating whether to put my foot down and send Josh out with the dog or give up and take the dog myself. Josh looked up. “Mom! I promise to walk Wonka at half-time, okay? Just let him out in the yard for a few minutes—he’ll be okay till then.”
“Well . . . all right.” As long as he wasn’t ignoring me. I shed my own winter wraps, let Willie Wonka out, gathered up the damp towels and blankets, and headed for the basement to toss them into the washing machine. Josh seemed different lately. Not bad or anything, but less predictable. Like shaving his head last fall and leaving a long topknot—dyed orange!—just before his grandparents came to visit. My parents at that. We all survived, and the topknot, thank goodness, had eventually gone the way of all his other hair. But the bald head had stayed like a permanent light fixture.
And then there was the college application to the University of Illinois in Champaign—due January 1. Yet when I checked on it after the Christmas hustle-bustle, Josh hadn’t even started! He barely got it in yesterday’s mail so it’d be postmarked December 31.What was that all about? Last year he’d been so eager about going to college.
I set the washing machine temp to Hot, let it start filling, and filled the cap of the detergent bottle with blue liquid. At least he’s not into drugs or pierced body parts—thank You, Jesus! I opened the lid of the washing machine to toss in the detergent—and realized with a start that the machine was already full of washed clothes. My upstairs neighbors’! Oh God, don’t let them come down here till I spin the water out of there. I quickly hit Stop, reset the machine to Spin, and bundled my armload of towels and blankets back up the basement stairs. Didn’t want them to know I’d even been down there!
Back in our first-floor apartment, I dumped the laundry on the kitchen floor and collapsed on a stool. Saved! What if I’d dumped that detergent on top of all their clothes? I’d be in deep suds then. But as my thud-ding heart slowed, I thought, This is so stupid! We’ve lived in this two-flat for a year and a half, and we still barely talk to our upstairs neighbors. Rose and Lamar Bennett, an attractive African-American couple, held professional jobs, and we hardly ever saw them unless the furnace went on the fritz or Willie Wonka accidentally left a pile on the sidewalk. DINKS, Denny called them—Double Income, No Kids.
It bothered me that we had so little interaction with the Bennetts. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected when we’d moved into the city from Downers Grove, but I’d imagined we might become friends, or at least friendly neighbors. Didn’t happen.We were more like cold sides of beef hanging side by side in a frozen-food locker.
I got up from the stool and turned on the teakettle. That was one reason it had meant so much to me when Avis Johnson—my African-American principal at Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary, where I taught third grade—had invited me to that Chicago Women’s Conference last May. Avis was also a member of Uptown Community Church, even before we started attending, so I knew her two ways: “Ms. Johnson” Monday through Friday, and “Avis” on Sunday.
I’d been in awe of her at first, never imagining we’d become friends as well as coworkers. Avis was so classy. She had a calming, upbeat presence, both at school and at church—and she looked mighty good for fifty-something too. Yet we’d gone to that women’s conference together—urbane Avis Johnson and hick-chick Jodi Baxter from Des Moines, Iowa—neither one of us dreaming we’d come home with a prayer group as jumbled as a drawer full of mismatched socks. Not only Florida Hickman (“five years saved and five years sober—thank ya, Jesus!”) and Ruth Garfield, a Messianic Jew; but Hoshi Takahashi, brought up by Shinto parents in Japan, who’d met Jesus at the home of Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith when Nony’s very American husband—a professor at Northwestern University—invited his students for an authentic South African meal.
And that was only the beginning. There were twelve of us in the prayer group, though for several months last fall we were only eleven when Adele Skuggs, owner of Adele’s Hair and Nails on Clark Street, boycotted the group because—
The teakettle whistled.
I shut off the flame on the stove, batting back sud-den tears. Oh God, we’ve been through so much mess this past year. I could really use some peace in this new year—even dull and boring would be nice!
I grabbed a dishtowel, overwhelmed as fresh memories flushed out along with the tears. Denny on his knees at Adele’s salon, asking forgiveness of poor, confused MaDear Skuggs for a crime he didn’t commit, yet owning the legacy of sin that had created so much rift between us . . . the heroin-crazed woman who had robbed the prayer group at knifepoint in this very house . . . and the face
of the young teen boy, caught in my headlights just before my car hit him, that still haunted my dreams. I gave up, slid down the kitchen cabinets until I was sitting on the floor, and had a good bawl.
With that sixth sense of dogs, Willie Wonka wandered into the kitchen and tried to lick my face. “And that,” I said, blowing my nose into the now-damp dish-towel, “is why I didn’t even try to write the annual Baxter Christmas letter this year,Wonka.Not that you care.” Or could even hear me, for that matter. Yet in spite of being almost stone-deaf,Willie Wonka was a patient listener.
I got off the floor, splashed water on my face, made a big mug of hot tea, and grabbed the phone out of its cradle. I had a sudden urge to talk to Avis. She hadn’t been at Uptown last Sunday, and with this being a school break, it felt like a month of Sundays since I’d even seen her, much less had a good talk with her.
The most comfy chairs were in the living room, but it was obvious that only football aficionados were likely to enjoy them until January 2. After peeking in on my family—even Amanda was sprawled on the couch, her feet on her daddy’s lap, yelling for Oklahoma—I headed back down the hallway to our bedroom at the back of the house, punching in Avis’s home number as I went.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Avis! It’s Jodi.” I kicked off my shoes and flopped down on the wedding-ring quilt covering our bed. I could hear a TV in the background—sounded like the football game. Stereo football—my house, her house.
“Hi, Jodi. Just a minute.” I heard the phone muffle but could still hear her say, “Turn the TV down a little, will you?” Then she was back. “What’s up? How was the Polar Bear Plunge?”
Turn the TV down? Who in the world was at Avis’s apartment? No one was ever at Avis’s apartment when I called. She was a widow and lived alone. Had a married daughter on the south side, another in Cincinnati, a third in college. Maybe Natasha was home for the holidays. “Got company?” I asked casually.
“Oh, Peter Douglass came over to watch the bowl games. Apparently that’s a tradition for him, but he doesn’t have any football buddies here in Chicago yet.”
And you are a football buddy? I wanted to say. Avis had never shown the slightest interest in football since I’d known her. “Hey,” I said lightly, “we should’ve invited you guys over here. Denny and Josh and Amanda are glued to the tube.”
“Oh.Well, he wanted to see the Cotton Bowl, then the Orange Bowl, now the Rose Bowl.” She laughed—and didn’t seem the least bit annoyed at all that football. “Now tell me how the Polar Bear Plunge went! Did you go in?”
“You know better, Avis Johnson! But Denny did—along with Josh, Amanda, and a bunch of other teenagers. Oh yes, and Stu and Yo-Yo!” I ticked off the Yada Yada sisters who had come to the beach, bringing their kids—or kid brothers, in Yo-Yo’s case. “We went back to the church for hot chocolate and chili—it was kinda neat to have Ruth and Ben there. Ruth didn’t come when Yada Yada visited Uptown that time.”
“Well, you wouldn’t get me out on the beach in the middle of winter!” Avis said. “It’s wonderful that Josh and Amanda keep including Yada Yada’s kids in Uptown’s youth activities. Especially Yo-Yo’s brothers, since they don’t go to any church. Real missionaries, your kids are.”
“You think? They’ve both been a little weird this fall—we had to ground Amanda for two weeks, remember? For sneaking off to the Mexican Independence Day parade with José and lying to us.”
“Well, they’re kids, Jodi. Good kids, though. You ought to be thankful.”
Well, I am—most of the time.
“You gonna be at church this Sunday? Didn’t see you last week, so I wasn’t sure if you’d gone out of town . . .” I was fishing shamelessly, and I knew it. Avis never missed church, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about going away for the holidays.
“Oh, sure. I’m leading worship. Peter’s been church hunting and wanted to visit some churches in the area. So I took him to First Church of God up in Evanston. I used to go there before I came to Uptown.”
I had a slow, sinking feeling in my gut, like a blob of mercury sliding back down to zero in the meat thermo-meter after pulling it from the roast turkey. It had never occurred to me that Avis might go to some other church—though I sometimes wondered why she came to Uptown in the first place. For all Pastor Clark’s good intentions of growing a diverse congregation, we were still pretty WASPish and rather slow to warm up to Avis’s free style of worship and prayer. Florida showing up—and staying—had been a lot of support in that department, at least.
I heard Peter yelling in the background—and the Baxter trio yelling in stereo down the hall. Must’ve made a touchdown. “Oh, stop,” I heard Avis say, and she laughed. “You’re nuts! Stop it.” And she giggled. “Peter is doing his own version of the end-zone dance. At his age!” She laughed again.
I couldn’t imagine the distinguished black man Avis had brought to Uptown a month ago—clean-shaven except for a neat moustache, comfortable in a suit and tie, dark hair with only a hint of gray on both sides above his ears—doing the “touchdown stomp.” There was no doubt about it, though—a male voice was woo-hooing in Avis’s living room, and Avis was giggling like a sixth-grader.
“Well, guess I better let you go since you’ve got company.” Oh, grow up, Jodi! You sound like a kid who has to share your mommy’s attention.
“You all right, Jodi? Didn’t ask why you called.”
“Yeah, I’m okay. Had a good bawl a little while ago, just thinking about the trauma we weathered this past year. Glad I didn’t know last New Year’s Day what God was going to take us through. And I was kinda missing you. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“It has been a while, hasn’t it? When did Yada Yada last meet? Before Christmas anyway. I’m so glad you called, Jodi. It was a tough year but a good year. God gave us the Yada Yada Prayer Group—who would’ve thought? And we’ve all learned a lot about God’s faithfulness to us in the midst of all the . . . stuff that went down.”
A feel-sorry-for-myself lump gathered in my throat. “Yeah. I was just telling God I wouldn’t mind a few months of ‘dull and boring’ right about now.”
Avis laughed. “I’ll stand in agreement with that! Let’s all pray for ‘dull and boring—’”
Blaaaaaaaaaat.
“What was that, Jodi?”
I sighed. “Back door buzzer. Front doorbell has a nice ding-dong to it—you know.” I clambered off the bed and headed toward the kitchen. “Guess I better get it. Talk to you later, okay?”
I hung up the phone in the kitchen and peered out the glass window in the top half of the back door. Good grief. It was my upstairs neighbor—Rose Bennett. Had she figured out that I almost rewashed her clothes in the machine? She couldn’t have! I’d covered my tracks . . .
I put on a smile and opened the door. “Hi, Rose.” Her slim shoulders were hunched inside a sleek white jogging suit, her hair tied back with a black silk scarf—not her usual dressed-for-success attire. On a gentler day, I would have stepped out and just talked to her on the back porch. But that wind was nasty. “Come in before you freeze.”
The woman hesitated then stepped inside. “Jodi, isn’t it?”
To my credit, I did not roll my eyes.We had only lived in the same two-flat for a year and a half. “Uh-huh. Jodi Baxter.What’s up?” Did I really want to know?
“Lamar is being transferred to Atlanta.We’ll be moving as soon as we find someone to sublet the apartment.”
“Oh.” I blinked a couple of times. “Okay. Thanks for letting us know. At least it’s warmer in Atlanta.” I smiled helpfully.
Rose Bennett didn’t even say good-bye. She just nodded, slipped out the door, and walked up the back stairs.
I shut the door after her and leaned against it. The Bennetts were moving! Was that good news or bad news? They certainly hadn’t been very friendly. On the other hand, they hadn’t been any trouble either—except for that late party last night. Maybe it’d been a good-
bye celebration with their friends.
My brain was suddenly crowded with awful possibilities. What if a family with five noisy kids moved in upstairs? Or members of a heavy metal band who needed space to practice? I groaned aloud, imagining green spiked hair, black leather, and metal chains. “Okay, God, what’s up with this?” I ranted. “What part of ‘dull and boring’ don’t You understand?”
4
The last few days of winter break, my kids acted like caged monkeys with bellyaches. Every time I asked Amanda to do something around the house, she wailed, “But I only have three more days till school starts!”—making it sound like these were her last days on earth. And Josh found some reason to be out every night till midnight, his non-school-night curfew. Funny how popular he was now that he had his driver’s license.
“Can’t we set a limit on how many midnights per week?” I fussed at Denny. “I never go to sleep till Josh gets home, and this is getting ridiculous!”
Frankly, I was glad when Amanda was invited to spend Friday and Saturday with her best friend in Downers Grove, taking the Metra train out to the south-west suburbs. Patti Sanders and Amanda had gone through elementary and middle school together, Awana Club and summer camp too. But the hour-plus drive on traffic-glutted highways between our Chicago neighbor-hood and Downers Grove meant that the girls hadn’t seen each other that often since we moved. “Have fun, honey,” I said, giving Amanda a kiss at the Rogers Park Metra station Friday morning. Go, go, I thought. Drive somebody else’s mother crazy. And then I immediately had an anxiety attack when the train pulled out. She had to change trains at the Metra hub downtown. What if she got on the wrong train? What if Patti’s mom wasn’t at the station to pick her up? What if some maniac saw she was alone and . . .