by Neta Jackson
The room filled up with Uptown youth and their curious parents, youth leaders, a few of Amanda’s friends from Lane Tech, Patti Sanders and her family from Downers Grove, and every single member of Yada Yada—including Adele, who must have gotten someone to cover the shop and take care of MaDear. I shot her a grateful smile just as Chanda George charged up the stairs at the last minute with Dia, Cheree, and Thomas—and a man in tow.
I tried to keep my mouth from dropping open, but I noticed that Florida, leaning out the pass-through window in the kitchen, made no such effort. The man, some-where in his early thirties, had braided twists that stuck out all over his head, gold chains beneath an open-necked shirt that plunged halfway down his chest, black leather vest, and leather pants. His eyes took in the room with a quick glance before he hunkered down in the last row.
Florida’s eyes met mine. “Who is that?” she mouthed at me. I shook my head.
But the real showstopper was Chanda herself. Shrugging off a long wool coat with a fur collar—real or faux, it was stunning—out popped Chanda in a bright red suit, lips red, fingertips red, grinning nonstop beneath a gorgeous black pageboy. It had to be a wig; Chanda’s hair had never been that long or straight.
Every Yada Yada sister in the room probably had the same thought: Chanda must’ve finally gotten her “winnings.”
“I wanna sit up front with Carla and Cheree!” wailed five-year-old Dia, refusing to sit in the back row.
Chanda rolled her eyes. “Don’ you make no trouble,” she hissed, but kept her own seat anchored next to the mystery man. I tried to catch Denny’s eye, hoping he’d go over and meet Mr. Leather Vest. Just then the door to the ladies’ room opened and Amanda stepped out. A collective gasp rippled around the room.
Amanda, cheeks flushed, shimmered from head to toe under the fluorescent lights. The filmy off-white dress was breathtaking—simple scoop neckline, little cap sleeves, but the skirt floated in layers to just below her knees, picking up pale blue highlights as it moved. Spontaneously everyone broke out in applause, sending Amanda’s face color into the beet-red zone.
“I think,” Delores spoke up authoritatively, “it is time to begin.” She lined us up, Amanda and parents, followed by José, her chambelán de honor, then pairs of chambelanes and damas: Josh Baxter and Edesa Reyes, Pete Spencer and Patti Sanders, Chris Hickman and Emerald Enriquez. The teen escorts sported white dress shirts, black bow ties, and black pants; the young women each wore a pastel party dress, Amanda’s choice. They were simple but lovely—nothing like the fancy tuxedoes and off-the-shoulder floor-length dresses I’d seen in pictures.
Denny and I stood on either side of Amanda, waiting for the recorded music we’d practiced with the previous Saturday. Denny caught my eye behind Amanda’s head. “Nice dress,” he murmured.
“I know. It’s lovely,” I whispered back.
“Not hers. Yours,” he deadpanned.
I simpered at him. It was the first time I’d had a chance to wear the slinky black number he’d given me for my birthday last fall. But I promptly forgot his compliment when the music started. Instead of the recording, the deep notes of a solo guitar began picking out the familiar hymn Amanda had chosen: “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.”
Was that Ricardo? Downsized from his trucking job, still unemployed after six months, drinking too much, uncommunicative (according to Delores) . . . making sweet music at my daughter’s quinceañera? I didn’t dare look anywhere but straight ahead at Pastor Clark, now sure I would never make it to the front with-out bursting into tears.
But I did.We did. Somehow.
The music ended, and Denny and I sat down on the front row along with the young attendants—young men on one side, young ladies on the other. As Amanda stood alone before Pastor Clark, he personalized a verse from First Timothy: “Amanda, don’t let anyone think less of you because you are young. Be an example to all believers in what you teach, in the way you live, in your love, your faith, and your purity.” Our pastor then gave a mini-sermon on each part of the verse: “Amanda, guard the words you speak . . . the life choices you make also affect those around you . . . grow in Christlike love . . . keep a childlike faith in God . . . treasure purity of mind and body.”
I was mesmerized. What a wonderful thing for all these young people to hear.
At the end of the sermonette, Pastor Clark glanced our way. “Denny?” And our tall, gangly pastor sat down.
Denny stood up and walked to Amanda’s side. She turned and gave her daddy a brilliant smile as he took her left hand. This must be what they’ve been plotting the last couple of weeks. For a few moments, Denny couldn’t speak. He kept swallowing, and the corners of his mouth twitched. Finally he said, “Amanda, I look forward to walking you down the aisle someday and giving up this hand I’m holding to a very lucky man who wants you to be his wife. But that day’s not today—”
Laughter tittered around the room, and I heard Florida’s voice, “Hallelujah! Ya got that right!” which sparked more laughter. I wished I had the guts to shout, “Amen to that!” but I’m sure Amanda was glad I didn’t.
Amanda was giggling yet trying to regain a serious look. Denny cleared his throat. “Though today, Amanda, is an important day. You are on the verge of womanhood. And I have to admit, you are”—he swallowed again and blinked rapidly—“lovely.”
“Say it, Denny!” a masculine voice cried—was that Peter Douglass?—and suddenly everyone was clapping and grinning, even Amanda’s Corte de honor. My eyes blurred, but I couldn’t steal Denny’s handkerchief as I usually did when I cried in public.Why in the world didn’t I bring some tissues? Suddenly Stu’s hand reached over my shoulder and dropped a pack into my lap.
The clapping gave Denny a moment to recover. Now he was smiling big. “Because I want all God’s best for you, Amanda, I am giving you a promise ring to wear.” He dug into his suit coat pocket and drew out a silver ring with a stone in it. He glanced sheepishly at the crowded room that now seemed to be holding its breath. “Don’t worry—I’m not putting Amanda on the spot. This is something she wants to do.” More laughter.
Denny slid the ring onto Amanda’s ring finger of her left hand. “This is a peridot, the ‘evening emerald,’ your birthstone. One day you will wear a diamond on this hand. But today, do you accept this promise ring, a symbol of your promise to God to keep yourself pure—okay, let’s say it, a virgin—as a gift to God and to your future husband?”
For a long second, no one breathed. “I do,” Amanda said clearly—then threw her arms around her father’s neck.
The entire room erupted around me. I gave up all pretense of holding back tears and dabbed frantically at my now-running nose. Cheers and clapping went on for what seemed like a long, long time. I glanced at Amanda’s young male escorts and saw both Josh and José grinning and clapping madly. My heart seemed to flop like a bass on a hook and landed in my throat. Oh thank You, Lord Jesus, thank You, thank You, I cried inside, even though I knew good and well it wasn’t time to stop praying about the temptations that faced my children—all these children.
After Denny sat down, Edesa read from Psalm 121: “I lift up my eyes to the hills; where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord”—after which Josh went up to pray a blessing over his sister. Suddenly I had an awful thought. Their grandparents ought to be here! Did I even send them an invitation? But I knew the problem was my own resistance: I’d had no idea how meaningful this quinceañera would be.
After the prayer, Pastor Clark put a padded chair in the center of the six-inch-high platform at the front of the room and motioned for Amanda to sit there. He arched his eyebrows at Denny and me expectantly.
What? My mind scrambled. What comes next? I’d completely forgotten.
Amanda mouthed the word “Shoes!” at us. Oh, right! The shoes!
I dug under my chair for the shoebox I’d put there earlier, and Denny and I approached Amanda in the chair. Kneeling down like a subject before the queen, Denny too
k off the flats Amanda had been wearing, while I opened the box and lifted out the sling-back high heels Amanda had chosen—the traditional symbol, we’d been told, of taking off childhood and putting on young womanhood.
High heels securely in place,Amanda stood with only the slightest wobble and gave Denny and me each a hug before we turned to face the rows of our friends beaming back at us. Avis and Peter, standing side by side, looking for all the world like a couple straight out of Ebony . . . Hoshi, all smiles, holding Marcus and Michael Sisulu-Smith by the hand . . . the Hickman family still all in one piece, at least today . . . Adele nodding her approval . . .
Good thing the mariachi band struck up a rousing recessional, because I couldn’t say a word.
THE PLATTERS OF CHICKEN, coleslaw, carnitas wrapped in corn tortillas, rice and beans, chopped salad, and Adele’s greens with smoky ham hocks disappeared in alarming amounts at the table seating Amanda’s Corte de honor, but there seemed to be enough for everybody. The cake was cut to cheers and sticky fingers, then the tables were pushed aside so the dancing could begin.
The chambelanes and damas lined up facing each other for the traditional waltz as Amanda and José took a turn down the middle. All over the room, younger children watched their big brothers and sisters throw arms up, clasp hands, turn, and swirl to the guitars and trumpet music. Edesa was such a good sport to join Amanda’s “court” of teenagers. Hmm. Had she had a quinceañera when she’d turned fifteen in Honduras?
The traditional waltz was followed by Denny dancing with his daughter, and I thought my face might crack open if I smiled any bigger. José picked up a small Mexican drum and added some smart percussion as the mariachi music got more raucous. Josh came and pulled me to my feet, but I lasted about five minutes before the rod in my leg started aching, so I fell into a chair, laughing.
Carla appeared at my side and tugged on my skirt. “Ms. Jodi?” She crooked her finger as if wanting to tell me a secret. I bent down till my ear was even with her lips. “I want to be queen when I’m fifteen—like Amanda.”
I grinned and gave her a hug. “You’re already a princess, Carla.”
The music stopped long enough for the younger set to be blindfolded and take turns swinging at the piñata with a broomstick amid screams of encouragement. Cedric Hickman whacked it good, and the rain of can-dies from the broken piñata caused a near riot, but eventually each child had a fist and cheek full of candy.
As the music resumed, I sat off to the side, giving my aching leg a rest, trying to take it all in. Ricardo Enriquez played his huge guitar with a big smile and dancing eyes. The man was a musician, not a trucker! . . . Peter Douglass, Mark Smith, and Denny seemed to be in a serious discussion with Carl Hickman in one corner. Hmm. Wonder what that’s all about? . . . Amanda was dancing—again—with José . . .
I massaged my leg, wishing the pain would go away, but Geraldine Wilkins-Porter’s face intruded into my thoughts, as if she had just come up the stairs, taking in our party. The noise around me dimmed, and I imagined standing in her place, watching the party through her eyes. My own heart was full of joy; what was in her heart?
Pain. A hundred times greater than my stupid leg. Her Jamal would never dress up and dance with abandon like these teenage boys, never flirt with his sweetheart. She would never watch him get his high school diploma or start his first job . . . never lecture him about drugs . . . never give away her heart at his wedding or kiss his babies . . .
I sat very still, as if time had stopped in the space around my chair. I expected to feel the familiar fear tighten inside of me whenever I thought of Jamal and Hakim’s mother, but it didn’t come. Why was I afraid of her? Because she was angry—angry at me because I had killed her oldest son. My fear kept me at a distance, protected me from being consumed by her anger. But wouldn’t I be angry too? As a mother I should know! Anger masked our private fears, our sorrows. Beneath her anger, Geraldine Wilkins-Porter was grieving her loss, a loss no parent should have to bear. More than that, I suddenly understood that the armor of her anger made her sorrow somehow bearable, enabled her to get through each day.
I watched Amanda dancing with José . . . watched Josh, his shaved head bobbing side by side with Chris and Pete as they danced to the music. My heart was bursting with gratitude . . . and yet full of sorrow. Geraldine’s sorrow—
“Sista Jodee!” Chanda plopped down in the chair beside me. “Mi mon—he’s one good dancer! See? Dancin’ with Stu.”
Startled out of my thoughts, I glanced at Mr. Leather Vest gyrating in the center of the floor. Stu, laughing, was trying to imitate his steps.
“I see.Where did you meet him, Chanda?”
“Meet ’im?” She laughed, her spirit light, as though she might just float off the chair. “Dat’s my baby’s daddy! He’s back!”
24
Dia’s daddy? Back? “Uh, I thought . . . but you said . . .” Didn’t Chanda say her “baby’s daddy” had a new girlfriend and they’d gone off on a cruise or something? She’d been livid, because he was always telling her he had no money for child support.
Chanda tilted her nose up and sniffed. “Oh, that. He got tired of her, saw what he was missin’. Says he’s home for good now.”
Oh, please. The guy probably heard about Chanda winning the lottery and came running. “Chanda, are you sure? I mean, money can do funny things to people.”
Her eyes flashed. “This ain’t about no money, Sista Jodee! De mon is Dia’s daddy, after all. Ain’t you happy about that?”
“Yes, of course, Chanda! But . . .” I let it drop and instead leaned over and gave her a hug. “I hope it all works out, Chanda.” I wanted to be happy for her, but I smelled a rat.
The official quinceañera broke up around five o’clock, but the kids still wanted to party. Josh was the only one with a driver’s license, so Denny gave him back his car keys—it’d been seven days anyway. The Quinceañera and her Corte de honor all piled into our minivan and went out for pizza. Minus Edesa, that is, who begged off, laughing, saying she was done being a teenager for a day, Muchas gracias.
Adele had stayed for a while, but I’d seen her leaving just after the piñata rained candy all over the floor. “Adele!” I’d scurried over and caught her at the top of the stairs. “I was supposed to ask you when I made Amanda’s appointment—and forgot, of course. Since your sister’s out of town, could Yada Yada meet at your place tomorrow? You know, bring the prayer group to you since it’s hard for you to get care for MaDear right now.”
Adele nodded, pulling a snug fake fur hat down over her short ’fro, which was growing out to its natural black and silver color. “Stu already told me. Nice party, Jodi. You and Denny have a right to be proud of that girl.”
My smile tightened. Good ol’ Stu, covering for me again. “Oh. Okay. See you tomorrow then.”
But I could hardly complain. Stu and Florida and Delores and Edesa—everybody, really—stayed to help clean up after the kids left. But as Avis put on her coat she murmured, “I won’t be at Yada Yada tomorrow night, Jodi. Peter, he, well . . .” She looked a little flustered.
“What? You’re going to miss Yada Yada for Peter? Hey, this is getting serious.”
“Oh, stop.” Avis batted a hand at me, like a pesky fly. “He’s giving a dinner for new employees at the Palmer House tomorrow night and asked me to attend with him. Doesn’t mean anything.” She lowered her voice. “Peter hates social gatherings, doesn’t know how to do small talk. He asked me to come for moral support.”
I grinned. “Like I said.”
WHEN WE ARRIVED FOR worship the next morning at Uptown, all traces of Amanda’s quinceañera had disappeared. Chairs were lined up in neat rows, bent in a half circle; Josh was behind the soundboard; and Amanda was wearing jeans again, like most of the other teenagers. Avis was there, but not Peter; Florida and Carla were there, but not Carl and the boys; the music was definitely words-on-an-overhead contemporary; and the temperature outside had dropped a good twenty-five
degrees from last week’s high of fifty.
Life had returned to normal.
I was so wrung out after our big day that I had considered not going to Yada Yada that evening. But with Avis not coming and the group meeting at Adele’s after so many months, it seemed important to get off my duff. Stu offered to drive. Just as well; that meant Josh could drive himself and Amanda to youth group.
“Poor Denny,” I murmured, giving him a kiss on top of his head as I left the house. “Home all alone.”
“Shh.” He clicked the remote volume up a few notches. “Did you hear about that nightclub fire yesterday in Rhode Island?”
I beat a hasty retreat. One look at the pictures of bodies stacked two and three deep in front of a chained exit had already threatened to give me a new nightmare— only days after a similar nightclub stampede had killed nearly two dozen right here in Chicago.
Another good reason to keep my kids’ curfew on lockdown.
On the way to Adele’s apartment, Stu was abnormally quiet. “Thanks for all your help with Amanda’s party,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “The piñata idea was great.”
“Oh. Sure.” More silence.
I tried again. “What happened when you tried to get reassigned to Becky Wallace’s little boy’s foster case? Any luck?”
Her face twitched. “Haven’t heard yet. Lots of red tape. I don’t know—I’m thinking of withdrawing the request.”
I stared at Stu as she nosed into a parking space on Adele’s block just in front of a fire hydrant. That didn’t sound like Stu! When had she ever backed away from a fight—especially with DCFS? I eyed the space behind the Celica as we got out. Looked less than the required eight feet from a hydrant, if you asked me.Which she hadn’t.
Adele’s first-floor apartment had the blinds drawn in every window, just like the last time we were there. Made me feel claustrophobic. MaDear was parked in a large overstuffed chair with a light blanket tucked tightly over her lap and into the cushions, seemingly oblivious to the stream of Yada Yada sisters collecting in Adele’s compact living room.