by Neta Jackson
I wanted to dance all the way home—except Denny was there in the parking lot to pick me up when I came out of the school building at nine o’clock. “Hey, babe. You okay?” He’d known how anxious I was about this parent-teacher conference.
For an answer, I gave him a long, sensuous kiss on the mouth that left him gasping.
Hakim was still in my classroom the next day, and the next. Well, I had released him if his mother thought it best. But in the meantime, I’d just plug along with my lesson plans for finding the perimeter of rectangles, taking a field trip to the Chicago Historical Society, and using prefixes to change the meaning of words.
Friday evening, Denny had to coach a baseball game at West Rogers High, so I didn’t feel guilty skipping out with Stu to do some shopping for Becky Wallace. Stu had decided to make a welcome basket of toiletries like shampoo, body lotion, razors, facial scrub, body mist—even a toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant—and we had a blast picking out the stuff.We decided to go with a melon scent for consistency, fruity rather than flowery. Becky Wallace didn’t exactly seem a “flowery” sort of woman.
Walking up and down the aisles of Target, Stu went nuts—adding a thick bath towel and washcloth to the cart, a pair of one-size-fits-all slippers, and even a small hair dryer. “Uh, Stu,” I said, as she paused by a display case of Timex watches, “you’re spending a lot of money here. I don’t think Becky expects all this. Giving her an address to come home to is a huge gift as it is.”
Stu pursed her lips, passed up the watches, and pushed the cart into the next available checkout lane. “Yeah.Guess you’re right. Except, I don’t think she’ll have much, just coming out of prison. Maybe just the clothes she was wearing that night when she . . . anyway. And don’t forget, Jodi. You have Denny and the kids to squander gifts on. Right now, Becky Wallace is the closest thing to family I’ve got.” She shrugged. “I figure, why not?”
WE HAD NO IDEA when Becky would arrive on Saturday. Some of the Yada Yadas said they’d like to be there to greet her, but Stu decided there’d be time for that later. Becky would probably appreciate a fairly anonymous reentry into society versus the big-band approach. Stu’s house was so clean, a hospital patient could eat off the floor. But she was so hyper, about four in the afternoon I made her put her feet up in our recliner with a big mug of valerian herb tea to calm her down.
After one sip, she made a nasty face. “Ugh! Jodi, what is this stuff?”
“It’s . . . an acquired taste. I put lots of honey in it.”
She held it out. “Put in lots more.”
“Mom.” Amanda appeared in the doorway to the living room. “There’s a strange gray car double-parked outside our house with its hazards on. Two guys in suits and sunglasses. And . . . that woman.”
43
The five of us—Stu, Denny, me, Josh, and Amanda—walked out and stood on the front porch of our two-flat as two men in suits and ties got out of the double-parked car. For some reason, I was acutely aware of the tiny yellow and purple crocuses nod-ding happily along the sidewalk up to our house, sparrows chirping in the trees, the afternoon sun filtering through a curtain of baby leaves sprouting overhead up and down Lunt Street. As the driver opened the back door, a slim figure wearing tight jeans and a jean jacket slid out of the backseat and stood up, clutching a plastic bag.
As his partner leaned against the car, the other man walked Becky Wallace toward the house, stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, and squinted up at us behind his sunglasses. “One of you folks Leslie Stuart?”
Stu stepped forward. “That’s me.”
He double-checked the address on his clipboard. “State Department of Corrections. We need to activate the electronic monitor through your phone line.” He held out a manila envelope. “And here’s a copy of the regulations that apply to a parolee on EM.”
We couldn’t help it. All eyes strayed to the slight bulge around the woman’s ankle under her pant leg. “Bound” . . . “tied.” That’s what her name meant. Becky looked off to the side, as if none of this was about her. Stu walked slowly down the steps, took the papers out of the envelope, and skimmed over them. The man pointed. “That’s the phone number of the parole agent. The parolee knows she must call to get permission to leave the premises for any reason.” He tapped his pen on the clipboard. “Which apartment?”
Stu led the way inside and up the stairs to her apartment. The four of us Baxters hung around on the porch till they returned about ten minutes later. To my surprise, the man politely extended his hand to Becky. “Ms.Wallace, best wishes. I don’t want to see you again.” The two men climbed back in the unmarked gray car and were gone.
“Okay,” Josh quipped, “breathe, everybody.” Laughing a bit nervously, we shook Becky’s hand, introduced Amanda and Josh, and made jokes about being “the noisy family downstairs.”
“But we’ll go back in our cave,” Denny joshed, “and let Stu get you settled. Maybe see you tomorrow.”
Becky nodded. She still had not said a word. But her dark eyes seemed to take in the whole house—porch, front door, bay window sticking out in front. “You dinnit tell me I been here b’fore.” Her tone was accusing.
Stu and I exchanged glances. Denny cleared his throat. “Yes. The night you were arrested.”
I WONDERED IF BECKY would go to church with Stu the next morning, but Stu caught a ride with us—alone. “She has to get permission from her parole agent to go anywhere,” Denny reminded me.
Stu shrugged. “Besides, she’s still asleep. Haven’t heard a peep this morning.”
Humph. Had Stu checked the bedroom? Maybe she’d split already. Sheesh, Jodi. The girl is probably sleeping in for the first time in months. In a real bed. Yet I did feel nervous pulling away from the house with a convicted thief locked inside.
Amanda pumped Stu for details all the way to church. “Did she like the gift basket you made for her? What did she say? What did you guys do all evening?”
“Uh, I think she liked it. She looked at all the stuff a long time and said, ‘Thanks.’ She’s probably over-whelmed, doesn’t know what to say.” Frankly, Stu seemed a little shell-shocked herself. “She did take a long bath last night, though.”
No wonder. I tried not to think about gang showers in prison.
On the way home from church, Stu’s demeanor had perked up. “Jodi! I’ve been thinking—what would you guys think about me making a case with DCFS for Andy to come live with his mom? Or at least allow regular visits to her here?”
I couldn’t believe it! Becky Wallace hadn’t been here even twenty-four hours, and Stu was already thinking about adding Becky’s kid to the mix. Four weeks ago she’d nearly lost it just seeing the little guy with the unfortunate matching birth date. My old Stu Alert went off, annoyed at her gotta-fix-everything urgency. Bless Denny, though. He matter-of-factly said, “Might be a great idea. I just wouldn’t put it forward till you see if this arrangement actually works out.”
Stu nodded. “Yeah. You’re probably right. She’s gotta be dying to see him, though.”
“Well, sure.Work on a visit. But one thing at a time.”
Stu actually seemed grateful for the advice, and my annoyance was kicked aside by a smidgeon of appreciation. Maybe all Stu’s “grand ideas” weren’t just about proving herself to God and everybody else. Had to admit she really did have a heart for redeeming lives.
I breathed a sigh of relief when we got home and the house was still standing, just as we’d left it. I decided against inviting Stu and Becky to have lunch with us, however, trying to respect the new housemates’ need to get used to each other and work out the details of living together. “But,” I whispered to Stu just before she headed up the back stairs, “why don’t you see if you can get her to come downstairs to Yada Yada tonight? She wouldn’t have to get permission, would she? Same house, right?”
I CALLED AROUND TO tell the sisters we might have a visitor at Yada Yada—emphasis on might. Half the group hadn’t seen Becky Wal
lace since the night of the robbery; a few hadn’t even been here that night. It would be weird at best to have her sitting with us in the very same room, but I didn’t want to shock anybody.
That’s how I found out from Edesa that Delores had had a birthday earlier in April and hadn’t told anybody. Well, we wouldn’t let her get away with that. It’d be a good distraction if Becky Wallace actually showed up.
Which she did. I was dribbling a sugar glaze on a lemon bundt cake when Stu and Becky came in the back door, ten minutes early. Becky had on her same jeans, tank top, and jean jacket. “Didn’t want to make any grand entrances,” Stu murmured to me as they passed through the kitchen.When I arrived in the living room with the tea and coffee, I saw that Becky had chosen a straight-backed dining room chair and edged it backward, just out of the circle. Stu sat on the end of the couch closest to Becky’s chair.
Nony and Hoshi were the next to arrive. Hoshi—bless her!—went straight to Becky, said hello softly with a small bow, and sat down in the chair next to her. Nony held out her hand from the folds of a roomy African-print caftan. “Becky Wallace? I am Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith.” She courteously poured some tea and offered it to Becky, acting for all the world as if this woman hadn’t stolen her wedding ring right off her finger.
So far, so good. But my stomach was still in a knot. Could only guess what Chanda might say. Or Ruth—heaven help us!
God must have been orchestrating the whole arrival, though, because Florida blew in next and hailed Becky from across the room. “Girl, sure am glad to see you. How ya doin’? . . . Where’s Avis at? I want to see that big ol’ ring of hers again. She and Peter didn’t elope, did they?”
I looked at Florida, stricken. “They’d better not!” I exclaimed, just as the rest of Yada Yada arrived in rapid succession—including Avis, who was mobbed by every-body who hadn’t been at Uptown on Easter Sunday. It was a good distraction—maybe too good, as Becky was basically ignored for a good five minutes. Yet I noticed that Yo-Yo greeted her and sat down on the floor near Becky’s feet.
Chanda was the last to arrive, and she beckoned me out on the porch. “Sista Jodee, I bring flowers for her! What you tink?”
“Oh, Chanda!” My mind scrambled. Flowers would be a disaster. “You are so thoughtful—but I think we’ll scare her off if we make a big fuss. But—oh! It’s Delores’s birthday! You could give them to her, do you mind?”
When Chanda and I came back into the living room—sans flowers, which we left on the porch—Avis was untangling herself from the mob and trying to get the prayer time started. As things got quiet, Ruth spoke up from her chair on the other side of the room, acknowledging our guest. “So, Becky. You have come.” She hesitated for the briefest moment, then added, “Shalom.”
“Yes, exactly, Ruth. Shalom. We want to welcome Becky Wallace, Stu’s new housemate. Becky, we’re glad you’re here and hope that you experience the peace of God.” Avis opened her Bible. “Let’s open our time together with some praise from the psalmist.”
Oh, smooth, Avis. No mention of the robbery, prison, or anything. Just “Stu’s new housemate.”
We moved into the meeting as though Becky were not there—reading Scripture, singing a couple of worship songs, opening with some prayer and praise. I could hardly imagine what Becky thought about all this, but when Avis asked for any praise reports, she leaned for-ward, listening intently. Or she was a good faker.
“Well, I got somethin’ to shout about,” Florida announced. “Peter Douglass—bless that man! Oh, hallelujah!—he done offered a job to my Carl as his mail-room supervisor.” The room erupted with shouts of glee. “Wait, wait, that ain’t all! He gets two weeks’ job train-ing, room for advancement, and—oh, Jesus! Don’t know if I can stand it!—full benefits!” Florida was on her feet, waving her hand in the air. “Thank ya! Thank ya, Jesus!”
Carl with a job? With benefits? We’d been praying for months—why was I so surprised? Did I have so little faith? Or had I just pegged Carl as “permanently jobless”?
Florida sat down again, fanning herself with her hand. “You gotta pray for me I don’t nag him ’bout this job, though. So afraid he gonna do somethin’ dumb and lose it. But job training starts tomorrow, so we’ll see.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll do great!” Stu beamed. “You should’ve seen Carl work the day of my move. Took someone like Peter Douglass to see his potential.”
I was so happy for Florida, I wanted to hug her. I wondered . . . maybe the Guys’ Day Out had started something.
Nony had the second praise report. Her contacts in Washington had assured her that Congress was set to pass an AIDS bill to fight AIDS globally—“with some of the money earmarked for abstinence education, praise Jesus,” she glowed. “Please pray with me, sisters, that this money actually reaches my country of South Africa, before we lose this next generation.” Her eyes filled with tears, a mixture of joy and sadness.
And for you, Nony, I added silently. I know your heart is still in your country. I would hate to lose Nony from my life, but I found myself praying, Oh God, if it’s in Your will, open the door for Nony to return home—with her whole family.
“Now you, Avis,” Adele ordered. “When this wed-ding gonna be?”
I thought Avis might be on the spot, but she seemed amused by the question. “Next week.”
We all laughed. “Yeah, right.” . . . “When, for real?”
“Like I said, next week—for real.”
Send a shock through a group of twelve women, and they all react a different way. It was pandemonium for about sixty seconds, but Adele said, “Will you all just shut up? Let the sister have her say.”
We shut up. “Thank you,” said Avis. “Well, neither Peter nor I want a long engagement or a big wedding. I think we both know it’s not the wedding but the marriage that’s important. We”—now she did get embarrassed—“want to get on with it.”
I cast an anxious eye at Delores, trying to project my thoughts: What about the quilt? But her round face was serene. No problemo . . . I hoped.
“. . . during worship next Sunday at Uptown,” Avis was saying. “You are all invited, of course. My daughters and the grandbabies are coming. Otherwise, that’s it.”
Sheesh. She’s actually serious!
Ruth frowned. “Your happiness we want, Avis! But isn’t next Sunday the day Yo-Yo wants to be baptized?”
Yo-Yo blinked, like she had just put two and two together. “Uh . . . don’t worry ’bout it, Avis. I can do that some other time. August, maybe. When it’s hot. Or next year.”
Avis laughed. “No, Yo-Yo. That’s the whole point! That’s why we chose next Sunday. Everybody wants to come to your baptism—right, sisters?” Heads bobbed around the room. “So if Peter and I get married during the service, then everyone will already be there for your baptism at the lake!”
“Oh.” Yo-Yo considered that. “So that means I probably gotta go to church with you all.”
We all cracked up. Yo-Yo had managed to miss all our Yada Yada visits to each other’s churches. “Gotcha!” Florida yelled.
When we’d all wiped our eyes and settled back down, Avis gave me a meaningful look. “Uh, Jodi and Edesa? Don’t you have something . . . ?”
Edesa and I split for the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with candles flaming on the lemon cake and singing “Happy Birthday.” I hadn’t had time to make a card, but after a flustered Delores had blown out the candles, I said, “Delores, do you know what your name means?”
She nodded, even rolled her eyes. “Sí. It means, ‘Sorrows.’ ”
“Exactly!” I crowed. “But do I have a song for you!” On our player I had cued an Israel and New Breed CD to the popular Darrell Evans gospel song and turned it up. “I’m trading my sorrows, I’m trading my shaame, I’m laying them down for the joy of the Lord!”
It was the perfect song for Delores. It got all of us to our feet as New Breed—supported by twelve Yada Yadas—belted out, “Yes Lord, yes Lord, y
es yes Lord! . . .”
In the chair just outside the circle of upraised arms and singing women, I noticed Becky quickly brush a hand across her eyes, as if afraid someone might see.
Maybe it was the perfect song for Becky Wallace too.
44
The answering machine light was blinking furiously when I got home from school the next day—mostly from Yada Yadas buzzing about Avis’s wedding. “Ain’t she takin’ the concept of ‘church wedding’ a bit too literal?” Florida fussed. Delores left a message that the “quilting lady” broke her wrist, so please pray that the quilt would get done in time, and could I send out an e-mail to that effect? Ruth wanted to incorporate an idea from traditional Jewish weddings “as a surprise for Avis and Peter.” Then another message from Ruth: “Cake? A cake she has to have! Should we get one from the Bagel Bakery?”
Sheesh, I thought, scribbling notes so I could erase the messages. This could get complicated. Didn’t Avis say she wanted to keep it simple?
A knock at the back door interrupted my reading a slew of e-mail messages along the same general thread, plus Yo-Yo’s baptism. (Who’s going to bring towels? A blanket? Should we give her flowers afterward? What if it rains?) Becky Wallace stood at my back door, still wear-ing the same jeans and tank top she’d arrived in.
“Hey, Becky. Come on in.”
She didn’t budge. “Nah. Just wanted to know if you want to do somethin’ ’bout them flowerbeds.” She jerked a thumb at the pathetic flowerbeds that ran the length of the small backyard along both sides. “I could dig ’em up for ya.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that!”
“Know that. But I’d kinda like to, if ya don’t mind.” She shrugged. “Need somethin’ to do, an’ I got myself on the garden-and-grounds crew at Lincoln a couple of months ago. Learned a few things—didn’t get to plant any flowers, though.” Her laugh was hollow. “Not that I wanted ta stay longer jus’ ta stick in a few marigolds.”