by Neta Jackson
The coffee smelled wonderful, but I was still on tea, still nursing my week-old cold. The sky was heavy with gray clouds, ready to dump its load of snow or rain.Who cared? A perfect day to . . .
I groaned. A perfect day to get started on my quilt square, that’s what. I had no excuse. So what was I going to do? I got out the square of muslin and the skeins of embroidery thread and stared at them. Nothing. Not a single idea.
I picked up the phone and dialed the Enriquezes’ number. “Delores! I can’t think of anything to embroider on this quilt square.What am I supposed to do?”
Delores sounded rushed. “Sorry, Jodi. I’m heading out the door to work. And pray for Ricardo. The band has been asked to play—how do you say it?—a regular ‘gig’ at La Fiesta, one of the biggest Mexican-American restaurants in the city. Just on weekends, but I haven’t seen him so happy in a long time. It’s a start anyway.”
“That’s wonderful, Delores.” I remembered the look on her husband’s face as he stroked that big guitarrón at Amanda’s party. Tender, mesmerizing . . . “Wait! Delores! About my quilt square—”
“You’ll think of something, mi amiga. Just work your family names into the design so she’ll know who it’s from—and don’t say ‘Avis and Peter’ on it. We’ll save a square for their names and the date when they make an announcement. Have to run. Bye, Jodi.”
“When”? More like “if.” Delores seemed awfully sure about Avis and Peter.
I heard the shower start up in the bathroom. Probably Denny, creating a sauna that would steam the mirror and peel the wallpaper. But Delores’s comment about family names rang a bell. I turned on the computer and waited impatiently for it to boot up. Called up the Internet and clicked on “Favorites.”When the name page came up, I typed in the name “Avis.”
There it was. “Refuge in battle.”
I sat and looked at the meaning of her name for a long time . . . and an idea began to percolate. If only my embroidery skills weren’t so lacking!
THE LONG WEEKEND HAD BEEN GOOD for me. I felt nearly recovered from my cold and encouraged that I had an idea for my quilt square. I knew drawing was out—unless I did stick figures. Now that’d be a hoot! But words . . .
Stu dropped in that evening with a big pot of carbonara pasta. “Too much for just me,” she said. “Thought I’d bring it down to you guys.”
Uh-huh. Now that I’m recovered. Go figure. “Thanks. The kids will love it.”
She sat down on the kitchen stool and hooked a foot on one of the rungs. “So you had the day off? I should’ve been a teacher. No such luck for social workers.”
She didn’t make any move to leave, so I counted out five plates and handed them to her. “Why don’t you stay and eat with us?”
“Okay.” She got up, added five water glasses to the stack of plates, and took them into the dining room.
“What’s happening with Andy Wallace’s foster case?” I called after her, wondering how to keep the carbonara warm till we actually ate it.
She appeared back in the doorway. “Oh.Guess I didn’t tell you.Yeah, they transferred Andy to my caseload. Good news, I guess.” She busied herself counting out five sets of knives, forks, and spoons. “Did find out something interesting. The foster parent is Andy Sr.’s mother—a real tiger, they say. Black and proud. She’s filing to adopt and wants Becky to lose her parental rights, especially now that she’s in prison. Guess the woman has a pretty good case since she’s a family member.”
“You’re kidding. Becky didn’t know Andy had been placed with the grandmother? Sheesh.”
“Of course, her case would be weakened if Becky got paroled. Even DCFS tries to keep children with a natural parent if possible.”
Stu disappeared into the dining room. I sank down on the stool. Oh God. Forgive me for dragging my feet. Guess Stu was right to hurry up that petition. Might be Becky Wallace’s only chance at keeping her son—
“Know what, Jodi?” Stu was back, looking around my kitchen with a gleam in her studious eye. “Some color would really brighten up this kitchen—something tangerine and yellow with blue trim. What do you think? I could help you paint.”
28
Now that my head didn’t feel like a lump of cold oatmeal, I tried to do some planning for March—and Stu painting my kitchen was not on my priority list. Denny was still talking about driving to New York during spring break, but that wasn’t till April. That left March wide open. Good. I needed some extra time to update my lesson plans.We were starting several new units in math, science, and social studies. But, different year, different kids—I needed some different approaches.
Still, maybe I could do something with MaDear this coming Saturday. I checked the calendar to be sure the date was clear and noticed the month of March had two Yada Yada birthdays—Ruth and Stu. Hm. Makes sense to celebrate them both at the next Yada Yada, which is meeting at . . . I checked the calendar again. Ha! Ruth’s house. That would be a hoot. Knowing Ruth, she’d say, “Birthdays, smirthdays.Who needs them!”
I sent an e-mail to Yada Yada—minus Ruth and Stu—suggesting we bring cards for both sisters and offering to make a cake. I even phoned Chanda and Yo-Yo to give them the heads-up, since they didn’t have e-mail, though all I got was a busy signal for Yo-Yo. Sent a separate e-mail to Stu saying it was Ruth’s birthday, and I was making a cake. Couldn’t tell Ruth we were celebrating Stu’s birthday, though, since Ruth’s came first—she’d know something was up.
Felt proud of myself being so organized after dragging around like an old shoe all last week.
As usual, the school week consumed my time, making it hard to remember my commitment to “pray the head-lines.” I tried, though, even if I sometimes did it on the run trying to get to school on time. I felt a surge of hope when I heard Iraq had begun to destroy its missiles. Pundits called it too little, too late. Our troops were still gathering in the Middle East, preparing for war. I thought about all those mothers and fathers who were sending their sons and daughters into harm’s way—and Josh was eighteen. Not likely he would volunteer, given that protest march. But what if they reinstituted the draft, like Vietnam? “Oh God! Please don’t let—”
This isn’t just about you, Jodi—or Josh either. Centuries of hatred and violence in the Middle East have left generations of hurting families in their wake.
I hardly needed the Voice in my head to know my prayer was self-centered. It was just too overwhelming. How could I know what to pray? Oh God, teach me how to pray! I cried silently, pulling open the front door of Bethune Elementary for the zillionth time and heading for my classroom. Wait a minute. The disciples said exactly that to Jesus—and He taught them what to pray!
I’d repeated the Lord’s Prayer—King James Version—since I was in the Sunbeam Sunday school class back in Des Moines. Hadn’t said it for years, though, mostly because it became rote, and I was into spontaneous prayers. But what if I prayed it like Nony prayed Scripture, personalizing it, applying it to everyday life?
“OUR FATHER, WHO ART in heaven, hallowed be Thy name . . .”
“Class, please write your name at the top of the sheet I’m handing out and work the five problems on your own.” Oh God, Your name is above every name in heaven and on earth—but You also know each child in this class by name! Draw them to You, Lord! I pray they will feel Your love through me. “Good job, Ramón! Would you like to show the class how you did that on the board?”
“THY KINGDOM COME, THY will be done, on earth as it is in heaven . . .”
Another suicide bombing in Jerusalem dominated the evening news. Oh God! I pray that Your kingdom would triumph over all Satan’s dirty tricks in Israel and Palestine—and everywhere in the Middle East. Denny’s eyebrow lifted in surprise when I sat down beside him on the couch to watch the rest of the news.
“GIVE US THIS DAY our daily bread . . .”
On Saturday, I pushed open the door to Adele’s Hair and Nails, glad to get inside, out of the spitting sleet. Adele looked up s
uspiciously from behind the counter. “You don’t have an appointment, Jodi Baxter. And you’re the third Yada Yada who has been here this week.”
I grinned. “Do you think MaDear would like some-one to read to her?” I dumped a stack of books out of my tote bag. “What do you think—Bible? Maya Angelou? The Cat in the Hat?”
Adele chuckled. “A little of each, I think. Can’t promise she’ll stay awake, though.”
Sure enough, MaDear fell asleep during the Twenty-Third Psalm. I stopped reading, and she promptly woke up. “You ain’t finished, girl! Got two more verses. Go on! Go on!”
Oh God, let Your Word be MaDear’s daily bread and feed her spirit. Somewhere deep in MaDear’s mind, her memory was clear as fresh spring water.
She caught me skipping a page in The Cat in the Hat too.
“FORGIVE US OUR SINS, as we forgive those who sin against us . . .”
The light on the answering machine was blinking when I got home Saturday afternoon, lugging bags of groceries—later than usual because I ended up reading to MaDear for an hour. (Every time I’d tried to stop, she’d said, “Read it agin,” or “Tha’s good, tha’s good.What’s the next one?” ) I punched the play button as I unloaded milk, frozen OJ, and a package of chicken quarters. The machine announced, “One new message,” then Stu’s voice popped out. “Jodi! Guess what came in the mail today?”
I stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding the package of chicken parts, wondering whether to toss it in the freezer or use it to make something for Second Sunday Potluck at church tomorrow.
“A letter from the parole board at Lincoln!” Stu’s voice continued. “They’re giving us a hearing—two weeks from today! Can you and Denny make it? Good thing Yada Yada meets tomorrow; we can pin this thing down.”
The answering machine clicked off, but I just stood there with the package of chicken. The parole board was giving us a hearing? I sank down on the kitchen stool. Forgive me, Jesus, for having such weak faith. Even wishing the parole board would say no. But . . . what exactly are we getting ourselves into? We’ve already forgiven Becky Wallace, haven’t we? Well, yeah, kinda, sorta—but I wasn’t sure I knew what the implications were. What did it mean to completely forgive?
There were still consequences, weren’t there?
“LEAD US NOT INTO temptation, but deliver us from evil . . .”
I got up shivering in the middle of the night to put another blanket on our bed—and nearly jumped out of my skin when the phone rang. The glowing digital alarm clock said 4:11. I snatched up the bedside extension, my heart racing. Had to be bad news—my parents? Denny’s?
“Jodi?” Yo-Yo’s voice was high-pitched, scared. “Hey. Sorry to wake you up, but is Pete over there?”
“Pete? No . . . wait a minute, Yo-Yo.”
Denny had risen up on one elbow, but I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Yo-Yo. Go back to sleep.” I hustled the phone out of the bedroom and down the hall into the dim shadows of the living room.Willie Wonka’s nails clicked on the wooden floor behind me. “What’s the matter, Yo-Yo?”
“He never came home last night. That homeboy been comin’ in later an’ later, givin’ me fits. Tonight he never came back at all. I was wonderin’ if maybe he stayed over with Josh.”
“Haven’t seen him. I’ll double-check Josh’s room.” Not a chance. I’d know if we had an extra body in the house. I padded back down the hallway, Willie Wonka at my heels, and peered into Josh’s bedroom. One lump in the bed. I opened the door wider and scanned the floor. Just the usual mess. I pulled the door shut again. “Sorry, Yo-Yo.”
Silence at the other end. Then, “I don’t know what ta do, Jodi. Kinda worried.”
Kinda? I’d be a total wreck if Josh wasn’t home at four in the morning! “Who was Pete out with? Did you try calling his friends?”
“I don’t know where he was. He just went out. That”—Yo-Yo blistered my ear with a few choice names in Pete’s absence—“thinks he can do anything he wanna do since he turned seventeen. He ain’t even a senior yet.”
“Oh, Yo-Yo.” I wanted to hug her. She was just a kid herself, only twenty-three, trying to raise two teenage brothers. And from stuff she’d said, she’d never had much parenting herself. I felt helpless to comfort her. “Want to pray for him right now, Yo-Yo? God knows where he is.”
“You pray, Jodi. I don’t . . . I mean, I don’t know if God listens to me.”
“Of course He listens to you! Why wouldn’t He?”
“ ’Cause I’m not . . . I dunno. Not even sure I’m a Christian. I mean, how can you know when you’ve made it? Haven’t done that baptism thing yet.”
Oh, Yo-Yo. “Don’t worry about baptism right now, Yo-Yo.” After all, it was four in the morning. “Just take my word for it—God listens to you. But if you want, I’ll pray for us both, okay?”
Huddled in the darkness and the old afghan on the couch, I prayed aloud, phone clamped to my ear, seeing Yo-Yo in my mind—scared, sleepless, saddled with worries beyond her age. As I prayed, my heart began to lighten. “Steer Pete away from temptation tonight, Jesus, and protect him from all harm and danger. Don’t let the evil one snatch him away.We claim Pete for You, Lord . . .”
I’m not sure how long I prayed, but Yo-Yo said, “Thanks, Jodi,” when I wrapped it up “in the mighty name of Jesus.” “He’s prob’ly okay—sleepin’ off too many beers at some kid’s house or somethin’.”
The clock said 4:55 when I crawled back under the covers and pressed my cold feet against Denny’s warm ones. Given the possibilities, sleeping off too many beers sounded downright wholesome.
“FOR THINE IS THE kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever! Amen.”
The Lord’s Prayer was still at the forefront of my mind as I dropped off my Crock-Pot of chicken marengo in the church kitchen the next morning. I was glad to see Avis preparing to lead worship this Sunday. I could use some out-of-our-seats praise this morning, because Yo-Yo had called just as we were making our usual mad dash out the door. Pete had dragged in at five thirty and said he’d been playing pool and hanging out—“Smelling like weed!” she’d yelled in my ear—and “forgot” to call. Oh, please. Still, the he’s-dead-in-an-alley-somewhere scare was over, and she was mad as a wet cat. Hallelujah! Praise Jesus!
I craned my neck. Huh. Didn’t see Peter Douglass . . .
I gave Avis a hug after service. “Peter didn’t come? Thought you might bring him to Uptown’s infamous Second Sunday Potluck.” I grinned sheepishly. “Especially since I made you guys miss it last month with my lunch invitation.”
Avis got a funny look on her face. “No, he didn’t come. Actually, Peter and I . . . um, we’re kind of cooling things right now.”
I stared at her, speechless.
“Don’t say anything, Jodi. I’ll . . . we can talk later, okay?”
Don’t say anything? The whole Yada Yada Prayer Group was making a friendship quilt for the two of them, for crying out loud!
29
I managed to not say anything to Florida or Stu, even though Stu rode home with us after the potluck, but I called Delores the minute I got home. “They’re cooling it, Delores! Does that mean I don’t have to embroider this quilt square?”
“What are you talking about, Jodi!”
“Avis and Peter—she said they’re cooling it.”
I heard Delores chuckle. “Oh. Do not worry, mi amiga. That is to be expected. How do you say it?—cold feet. Did she say why?”
No, she hadn’t said why, and I tried to call Avis after I hung up with Delores, but all I got was her voice mail. Humph. She better tell us at Yada Yada tonight—so we could pray, of course.
Yeah, right.
Amanda was hunched over the computer doing schoolwork while I made a birthday cake, but she gave it up for an hour—actually, I bribed her with the mixing bowl and beaters; anything for chocolate—so I managed to make two computer cards for the birthday Yadas, doing the “name” thing.Took me longer than I thou
ght, though, because I had a sneezing fit right in the middle of accessing the Internet and waded through a pile of tissues before I got my runny nose and weepy eyes under control. Dumb cold better not be making a comeback. I took a decongestant and a couple of pain relievers for good measure.
Back on the computer, I checked out the meaning of Stu’s first name—Leslie—and it came up meaning, “From the gray fortress.” Huh? What could I do with that? So I looked up her last name—Stuart, which meant “Caretaker.” Hm. That seemed appropriate, maybe to a fault. But I stuck with the positive and printed out a card that said, Stuart: Old English for Caretaker. God bless you, Stu, as you make sure that foster kids are taken care of!
Ruth’s name was sweet: “Friend of beauty.” In spite of her brusque exterior, Ruth was intensely loyal, just like her counterpart in the Bible. Like the way she’d taken Yo-Yo and her half brothers under her wing. To Ruth, my computer card said, Friend of beauty. A beautiful friend ~ Happy Birthday! Love, Jodi.
Our ranks were thin at Yada Yada that night—only eight of us. Nony and Florida both stayed home with sick kids, Delores had to work pediatrics at the county hospital, and Edesa was babysitting the Enriquez kids because Ricardo and José were playing their new week-end gig at La Fiesta. But Adele showed up—her sister was back in town and able to take MaDear on Sundays again—in Chanda’s new car. A champagne Lexus. The whole group was standing out by the curb gawking at it when Hoshi and I drove up with Stu.
“What? You didn’t bring Denny?” Ben Garfield fussed, giving me a peck on the cheek. “What am I supposed to do while you ladies get holy? I need a beer buddy.”
Oh, please. I wasn’t keen on Denny being Ben’s “beer buddy,” so just as well. But I laughed airily and was just about to ask Ben if he’d sneak the cake from Stu’s car into the house while we were praying, when he gave me a wink and motioned me to follow him. Ruth was busy taking coats in the living room, so he hustled me through the compact kitchen of their brick bungalow with its single sink and bright mustard counters and opened the door to a tiny utility room. A large bakery cake sat in all its sugary glory on top of the washing machine, boasting, Happy 39th Birthday, Ruth!