by Neta Jackson
Get a grip, Jodi, I scolded myself as I drove back to Lunt Avenue. Haven’t you learned anything about trust this past year? Didn’t God protect Amanda and you and Denny and all the Yada Yadas when we got robbed last fall? Didn’t God bring Hakim back to your classroom after his mom yanked him out?
I grabbed one of the worship CDs we kept in the car, stuck it into the narrow slot, and punched through the selections till I found the song I wanted: “God is in control! This is no time for fear . . .” By the time I turned into our alley and clicked the garage opener, I was belting it out with Twila Paris: “God is in control! We believe that His children will not be forsaken!”
I came in the back door still singing—“He has never let you down; why start to worry now?”—but was immediately drowned out by an awful racket blaring from the stereo in the living room. Josh was in the dining room playing games on the computer but looked up when I tapped him on the shoulder.
“Oh good, you’re back.” He headed for the living room, yelling, “Dad! Mom’s back!” And suddenly the racket went dead. I shook my head to stop the ringing in my ears. Blessed tranquility.
Denny appeared in the dining room archway, shrugging into his winter jacket and carrying his sport bag. “Where’s the car?”
“Oh. I put it away. Sorry.” I knew Denny had to coach a basketball practice today at West Rogers High, just forgot in the heady praise trying to drown out my anxiety about Amanda. “Uh . . . what was that on the stereo?”
Denny grinned and pecked me on the cheek. “A CD Josh wanted me to hear—a demo of a punk rock group called Head Noise.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Jesus People. You wouldn’t like it.” He yelled down the hall toward the bedrooms, “Josh? You coming?”
I already knew I didn’t like it. I mean, gospel groups like Radical for Christ or Kirk Franklin were one thing—loud, but at least you could hear the words—but heavy metal? punk? It might be Christian, but it didn’t qualify as real music.
Josh appeared, jingling his own set of car keys. “I’ll drive.”
I raised an eyebrow at Denny. “Josh going to work with you?”
“Nah. He’s going to drop me off, then pick up some of the guys and go down to Jesus People to hear this band. They’ve got a couple of gigs today.” Denny winked at me and followed Josh out the back door.
I looked down at Willie Wonka, who was sniffing the back door as though checking for positive ID of who’d just gone out. “Well, looks like it’s just you and me,Willie,” I said and headed for the computer. I had a few things I needed to do, and a quiet house with nobody needing clean socks or help with homework was an unexpected bonus.
I checked e-mail first, deleted half of the new ones, scrolled past messages addressed to Josh or Amanda, and opened one from Hoshi Takahashi.
To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Re: Mark and Nony
Dear Sisters,
Just got an e-mail from Dr. Mark and Nony. They are leaving Johannesburg today and will be arriving home tomorrow, Saturday, Jan. 4. Nony says hi and she’s missed everyone so much and has lots to tell us.
I am also so happy to see them again! This house is not the same without Marcus and Michael.
Love, Hoshi
Bless Hoshi! Mark Smith had asked if she’d be willing to house-sit the fish tank, geckos, and houseplants when he left to join his wife and sons in South Africa a month ago. It actually worked out for Hoshi, since the dorms at Northwestern University closed for winter break. But it’d been pretty lonely too. Most Northwestern students went home for the holidays; “home” for Hoshi was Tokyo—and Hoshi’s parents hadn’t called or written since their disastrous visit last September.
My heart squeezed. A lot had happened since that crazy woman—now in prison at Lincoln Correctional Center—had sliced Mrs. Takahashi’s hand during a robbery at our house. The doctor who stitched Mrs.T’s hand had assured Hoshi that her mother’s wound would heal quickly. Yet the deeper wound to Hoshi’s family was still open and raw. “This is what happens when a daughter is dis-obedient and forsakes her religion!” her father had fumed.
I made a note to call Hoshi. What time were the Sisulu-Smiths flying in? Was anyone picking them up? That’d be fun—maybe Denny and I could do it. We’d still have room for their family of four in the Caravan, though luggage might be a problem.
I called up Google and typed “quinceanera” into the search line.Wow! Lots of hits. I poured myself a cup of the coffee still sitting in the coffeemaker—ugh! Too bitter. I made some fresh coffee and settled down to read up on the party José wanted to give Amanda.
I was not happy at what I found. I mean, it sounded practically like a wedding, with a fancy gown, a special mass—which was a problem, since we weren’t Catholic, and neither was the Enriquez family, for that matter—and maids of honor and chambelánes, for Pete’s sake. Not to mention food, favors, a live mariachi band, and a huge birthday cake for the “hundreds of guests.”
Good grief! What is Delores thinking, encouraging José in this crazy idea? Well, there was no way Denny and I could afford such a celebration. Sometimes this multi-cultural stuff went too far.
I printed out some articles to show Denny, then I went back to Google to search for information on learning styles. Hakim Porter might be back in my classroom, but his mother was still opposed to testing him for a learning disability. And maybe the problems he was having weren’t a learning disability at all. Avis seemed to think it could be related to posttraumatic stress after his big brother was killed . . .
A familiar wave of nausea sent me to the bathroom. I rarely threw up, but the feeling was so strong I sat on the side of the tub for a few minutes just in case. It still seemed like a cruel cosmic joke that the little brother of the boy I’d hit with my car last June ended up in my third-grade classroom—unknown to either his angry, grieving mother or me.Not till that awful day we’d faced each other at the first parent-teacher conference.
No, no! I know You’re not into cruel jokes, God! God had to have His reasons, didn’t He? God is merciful, full of grace and truth . . .
Trust. “This is where trust comes in, Jodi,” Avis had said. “Trust that God has your good at heart—and Hakim’s good, and his mother’s too. Even if you don’t understand it right now. Or ever.” Which was certainly true; I didn’t understand it.
I splashed cold water on my face and returned to the computer. Avis had promised to see if she could arrange counseling for Hakim with a school social worker. The loss of a sibling was reason enough, but Avis suspected that having no father in the home compounded Hakim’s loss. And I was following a hunch. Hakim was obviously no dummy—he’d proved that with his math skills when we’d used a balance scale to find the missing addend. But he absolutely bogged down when it came to reading and writing. Not to mention his defiance and lack of cooperation when it came to group work.
Whatever was blocking him, I needed to find a key to teaching this kid. I wanted to see the triumph in his eyes again, like when he’d put the exact number of weights needed on the scale and said scornfully, “Didn’t you know that?”
BY THE TIME DENNY got dropped off by one of the other coaches, I’d printed out a bunch of articles to help me brush up on various learning styles. One phrase leaped out at me about “the logical learner,” described as capable of abstract thinking at an early age, able to compute math problems quickly. That sounded like Hakim. I needed to read more about that.
“Hi, babe.” Denny kissed me on the back of the neck. “Did Amanda get out to Patti’s house okay?”
Amanda! She’d never called—and I’d been so en-grossed in my searches, I didn’t call her either. I nearly fell over Willie Wonka in my haste to get to the phone, but a quick call to the Sanders home assured me that she’d arrived safe and sound and the girls were now hanging out at Yorktown Shopping Center. “Want me to have her call you when they come in? Though I don’t expect them for an hour or two. They wanted to see that Tim Alle
n movie. Santa Clause 2, I think. Hope that’s all right.”
“Oh. Okay, thanks. Yes, have her call.” Grrr. Amanda was supposed to check out any movies before she saw them, not after. She’d argue that she knew this one would be okay, but still.
When Denny got out of the shower, I followed him into the bedroom, reading from my printouts about the Mexican quinceañera while he got dressed. “See? It is the Mexican version of a debutante ball, except it’s focused on just one fifteen-year-old. A huge fiesta, with a fancy dress, gifts, food, musicians, dancing . . .”
“Sounds like fun.” Denny was splashing on some aftershave.
“Denny! There’s no way we can afford something like this for just a birthday party! Maybe when she gets married in ten years, Lord help us.”
“I thought José wanted to throw this party. Let him pay for it.”
I stared open-mouthed at my husband, who must’ve gotten beaned on the head by a wild basketball today. “Denny! We can’t do that! That’s like . . . like admitting they’re a serious couple. Besides, José is only fifteen him-self. Where’s he going to get money to do something like this?” I stopped, suddenly realizing that Denny had dressed in black slacks, a teal shirt, and black cardigan sweater instead of his usual around-the-house jeans and sweatshirt. “Why are you so dressed up?”
He grinned. “Because. Both kids are gone. The house is empty. We are going out to dinner. And then . . .” He waggled his eyebrows.
Had he listened to anything I’d been saying? But his grin was irresistible—and going out would be nice. It’d been a couple of weeks since we’d had any time together. “Wait a minute. Amanda’s supposed to call. And doesn’t Josh have the car? When is he going to be back?”
Denny shrugged. “By his curfew, I guess. He said don’t wait up.We can take the el up to Evanston. They’ve got a lot of good restaurants. And Jodi . . .” Denny leveled his gaze at me. “Amanda can leave a message.”
“Well, okay.” I headed for the shower. I’d be stupid to turn down a dinner date with my husband. It seemed weird that our teenager had the car and his parents had to take public transportation, but it didn’t seem to bother Denny. Okay, it might even be fun. Still, I didn’t care how good he looked and smelled—we were going to talk about this Mexican fiesta thing.
5
I totally forgot to call Hoshi Friday night to find out when Mark and Nony were arriving at the airport. Just as well. Denny would not have been happy with me making Yada Yada phone calls after we got home last night, because after a great dinner at Thai Soukdee in downtown Evanston, we were definitely “in the mood”—though riding the el home with the temperature in the teens almost put a chill on it, along with the fact that Josh would be coming home sometime before midnight.
Before? Dream on, Jodi. More like five minutes after. By then Denny was snoring softly, but I was still half-awake, with one ear tuned to the noise of a key or foot-steps in the hall. Josh knocked on our bedroom door to say, “I’m home,” but I could almost bet he’d be asleep before I would.
The next morning I dialed the Sisulu-Smiths’ home near Northwestern’s campus around eight o’clock, hoping it wasn’t too early. Hoshi answered on the second ring.
“Yes, Jodi? . . . Oh, Dr. Mark and Nony arrive at 11:52, South African Airways . . . No, they plan to take a taxi.”
That sounded like Professor Mark Smith. Not the type to ask somebody to pick them up.Yet Hoshi thought the idea of going to the airport sounded like great fun. “We’ll surprise them! Yes, I’d love to go. You can pick me up?”
I wished the entire Yada Yada Prayer Group could go to the airport to give them a welcome home, but that wasn’t practical on such short notice. Hoshi and I would have to do—and Denny, too, if I could sweet-talk him into it.
He emerged bleary-eyed but still looking yummy at about nine o’clock. It took a few chugs of coffee to get his brain cells moving before he answered my query about the airport. “Why not let them just take a taxi home, if that’s what they usually do?” he reasoned, refilling his coffee mug. “Mark can afford it on his salary.”
“That’s not the point. Nony’s been gone over two months! I’m sure they’d be pleased if we showed up to meet them, even if they’d never ask.”
Denny drained his mug and shuffled toward the front door to get the newspaper. “But if Hoshi’s going, you don’t really need me,” he called back over his shoulder.
I followed him toward the foyer. “I know. I just think Mark would feel more comfortable if there was another man.” I batted my eyes at him. “I’ll make cheese omelets for breakfast if you say yes.”
He swatted me with the newspaper. “That’s shame-less bribery. And it’s my last free day before school starts on Monday.”
Yet the cheese omelets worked, and Denny pulled into the parking garage at O’Hare Airport at 11:45, close to Terminal 3. I thought they’d be coming into the international terminal and have to go through customs, but it turned out they’d landed in Atlanta that morning and had done all that. The last leg on South African Airways was a domestic flight, operated by Delta.
The three of us made our way to the baggage claim area, carrying the winter coats they’d left behind—Hoshi’s idea. “Wish we could meet them at the gate,” I said, remembering how much fun it used to be to meet people as they spilled out of the jetway from the plane. But a world full of terrorist threats had changed that forever. There wasn’t even a place to sit down while we waited.
We saw them before they saw us. Ours weren’t the only heads that turned as the Sisulu-Smith family made their way through the press of people searching for their baggage carousels. Mark Smith came first, wearing a royal blue dashiki with gold stitching around the neck and wide sleeves, and carrying two small carry-on bags. In the wake he created, Nony moved right behind him, holding both Marcus and Michael by the hand, the boys looking like clones of their father, including the royal blue dashikis. A stunning black and yellow dress of geometric patterns wrapped around Nony’s body down to her ankles, stopping just above the gold strap sandals that cradled her slim, brown feet. A head wrap in the same African print covered her hair, except for the two large hoop earrings that dangled on either side. Definitely dressed for a South African summer.
“Uh-oh. They’re going to get a rude shock when they step outside,” I murmured, following Denny as we pushed our way toward the bright splashes of colorful dress brightening up the drab baggage claim.
Denny reached them first. “Can I help you with those bags, mister?”
Distracted, Mark Smith shook his head. “No, thank you . . . what?” His mouth broke into a wide grin, spreading his thin moustache that dropped down and outlined his chin in a carefully sculpted goatee. “Denny Baxter! Jodi . . . and Hoshi! You too?”
A sudden flurry of squeals and hugs took over the conversation as the seven of us greeted each other. The boys hung back, as though not sure they remembered these people after their two-and-a-half-month absence. I hugged them anyway.
“You look very African for a man born and bred in Georgia,” I teased Mark as we waited for the carousel to start spitting out luggage.
He actually blushed. “Well, you know Nony—we all came home with at least three new outfits, all traditional South African something. Had to buy another suitcase just to bring home all the extra stuff.”
“Oh, stop.” Nony rolled her eyes. She leaned toward me. “He bought his share of souvenirs—carved wood, brasswork, stuff for the walls.”
“Well, sure. It was my first trip to Africa.”
“Hopefully not the last,” Nony murmured.
I eyed Hoshi with the slightest lift of my eyebrow. Well, Mark and Nony were back, along with the on-going diplomatic standoff: “Your country or my country?”
Mark was right about one thing—they had a lot of luggage. Even with a cart, we all had to carry something, and we filled up an entire elevator, what with seven people plus cart plus stray bags.We got out on “Da Bulls” level—Marcu
s and Michael wanted to stop at all the parking-garage floors so they could hear all the different sports theme songs, but their father threatened bodily harm if they hit the buttons—and Denny trotted off to get the car since Nony was practically barefoot in her thin sandals. But even the short dash to the car from the elevator foyer must have been a shock to the system by the time we slammed all the doors after cramming every-body plus luggage into the Caravan.
I was glad Hoshi climbed into the third seat with the two boys so I could sit with Nony in the middle—Hoshi, after all, would get to visit with them once they got back to the house. I asked the top-of-the-head questions: Did you have a good flight? How is your mother doing? Are the boys glad to be home? “There’s not enough time!” I moaned. “We’ll have to invite you guys over for dinner so we can hear everything about your trip.”
Nony nodded wearily. “Yes. Maybe later. I need some time to reflect, to ask God what it all means before we tell you about it.”
“And develop our pictures,” Mark tossed from the front seat.
The sky was spitting snow, and Denny had to turn on the windshield wipers. Lake effect? Or a big storm? I’d forgotten to check the weather.
“Jodi?” Nony’s low voice seemed meant for my ears only. I leaned closer. “How is Denny—after MaDear’s terrible accusation, I mean? While I was in South Africa, seeing the still-painful struggle my country is going through after the end of apartheid . . . I kept thinking about Denny and MaDear, aching for them both. And praying for them, praying for all my brothers and sisters, black and white, weeping for all the hurts still quivering in a million hearts as we take stumbling steps forward—praying that forgiveness and God’s love will one day prevail.”
A lump gathered in my throat. Nony doesn’t know. She’d still been here when Denny had walked into Adele’s beauty shop to pick me up on our anniversary, provoking a tirade from Adele’s confused mother, who thought my husband was one of the men who’d lynched her brother when she was only a girl of ten. Denny had wanted to clear things up—he wasn’t even born then! He’d grown up in New York, for Pete’s sake! Yet the incident had thrown up a wall between Adele and us. Citing a lot of painful stuff her family had had to deal with over the years, Adele had dropped out of Yada Yada, leaving us feeling guilty and not knowing what to do.