by Neta Jackson
“Uh-huh. Rattled. Uncomfortable.” Estelle yelled a few instructions at her kitchen helpers chopping vegetables for a lentil stew, then turned back. “Here’s what I think. I think that young lady’s got a heart in there somewhere, just hasn’t got connected to her brain yet, and it’s her brain that’s in overdrive. She’s concerned about people eating healthy. She wants to talk at ’em. Or dive into some Dumpster and hand out some food now and then . . . when what she really wants—needs—to do is feed the hungry. Even if she don’t know it yet.”
Chapter 8
The apartment seemed awfully quiet when Kat let herself in after her Friday afternoon shift at The Common Cup. “Hellooo?” No answer. Where was everybody? Brygitta was doing the evening shift at the coffee shop, but Kat had been hoping somebody would want to go to a movie or out for pizza or something. TGIF and all that.
But she’d been gone since eight thirty that morning, hadn’t really had a chance to talk plans with anyone before heading over to Bethune Elementary for her morning stint at STEP, and after that it’d been straight to the coffee shop.
Kat dumped her backpack and wandered toward the kitchen. It was her turn to cook supper, but how was she supposed to know how many to cook for? She headed for the refrigerator to check what was on hand—which was when she saw the note taped to the door.
Kat, gone clothes shopping for Conny with Mom, then meeting Peter for supper. See you later!—R
So much for Rochelle and Conny. A smile tipped her mouth. That left her and Nick. Good. He got off work at five, same as she did. Probably just wasn’t home yet. They could use doing something fun and mindless together. The past two days had been rather weird and, frankly, she wanted to get her relationship with Nick back on track. They just needed some time, that was all.
She pulled open the refrigerator door and studied the contents. Not much. They needed to grocery shop tomorrow. Should she cook? Or wait to see if Nick wanted to try one of the ethnic cafés dotting the Rogers Park neighborhood? That’d be fun. She shut the door. Maybe she’d have time to do some research online while she waited for Nick.
Kat got her laptop from the bedroom and settled down on the couch, waiting for it to boot up. Her conversation with Nick last night had been niggling at the back of her brain all day. Seemed like he’d pooh-poohed her concern about Rochelle’s HIV and needing to take precautions. What was that about? But she better do her research before bringing it up again.
She found a website with “Guidelines for Household Contacts of People Living with AIDS.” Well, Rochelle didn’t have AIDS, she’d only been infected with the immune-deficiency virus by that scum husband of hers. But they still had to be careful.
Kat skimmed the article. Hmm. So Nick was right. The only body fluids posing a risk were blood, semen, vaginal fluids, and breast milk. Not tears, sweat, saliva . . .
She tapped the Print key, sending the document to the inkjet printer in the study Nick was using as a bedroom. Okay, so HIV wasn’t spread by casual contact or even kissing. At home, the article said, normal precautions included hand washing before and after preparing food or using the bathroom—duh, people ought to do that anyway—not sharing personal items like toothbrushes or razors, and, of course, using disposable gloves to treat a wound if the infected person got a cut or had an open sore.
Well, whatever. They should talk about this openly with Rochelle anyway. Be matter-of-fact about it so she wouldn’t be offended if they reminded her to wash her hands before fixing food, stuff like that.
Still. Nick had been awfully quick to defend kissing when she’d brought it up. Maybe he’d enjoyed that kiss from Rochelle more than he was letting on. Not that it was any of her business. Why should she care? Except . . . she did. He was her best buddy, wasn’t he? After Bree, anyway. Friends cared about friends—and he’d made a big deal that the kiss from Rochelle didn’t mean anything more than a thank-you from a grateful single mom.
Really?
Humph. Where was he, anyway? Kat glanced at her watch. Almost six! It didn’t take him that long to walk home from Software Symphony. He hadn’t left a note, or called, or anything.
Unless . . .
Retrieving her backpack, Kat dug out her cell phone and checked her messages. Oops. Nick did leave a message while she was at work. She punched Voicemail on her options and listened.
“Hi, Kat! Hey, I won’t be home for supper—the guys here in the mail room asked me to hang out with them tonight. We’re going to get some pizza, then catch a movie. Thought it’d be a good chance to get to know them. Hope you get this before you prepare your usual banquet. Take care.”
Kat tossed the phone so hard it skittered across the floor and landed under the dining room table in the nook. Nothing was turning out like it was supposed to! Rochelle and Conny got home around eight, but Kat just poked her head out of her bedroom long enough to say hi and went back to writing in her journal. The journal was a mix of random thoughts and even prayers. She wasn’t very consistent writing in it—mostly when she was upset or frustrated or confused. Anyone reading it would think she was always in a funk, since she didn’t usually bother to write when life was clicking along happily.
Well, no one was going to read it. She’d burn it first.
Kat was in bed with the light off when Bree got home, and she never did hear Nick. How late had he stayed out anyway? She saw no sign of him when she got up the next morning either, eating a quick breakfast of granola and yogurt before heading out the door for her morning shift at the coffee shop, which started at seven.
The early morning walk did her good. So had writing out her thoughts and feelings last night about everything that had happened the past few days—including the weird fake shopping trip with Estelle Bentley and her cooking class. Somehow it had helped clear the cobwebs from her head and given her some perspective. She’d go ahead and talk with Edesa on Sunday, as she’d suggested, and see if they shared a similar vision for educating poor families about healthy eating habits. Then she’d ask for a house meeting to talk about sensible precautions living together with HIV, maybe print out the guidelines from that Web site she’d found. And she should take Nick’s assurances at face value—why wouldn’t she? He’d always been a straight-up guy. As for last night, he had every right to hang out with the guys, especially when they hadn’t made any plans ahead of time.
As for Rochelle, there were bound to be some bumps along the way as they adjusted to living together. To be honest, it was Kat’s first experience having a “woman of color” for a friend, much less sharing an apartment. There had to be some cultural differences. Maybe it was weird for Rochelle too.
Besides, reading a previous entry in her journal had reminded her that God had used her to find Rochelle, get her off the street, and reunited with her parents. That counted for something, didn’t it? She couldn’t back out now. She needed to give things time. Time and trust.
“Good morning!” Kat called out as a coworker let her in the door of the coffee shop at ten to seven. “Whoa! That coffee smells sooo good. Need a guinea pig to test the first batch before we open up? I’m your girl!”
The coffee guy grinned and filled a fat mug with the House Blend. Stashing her backpack and tying the short apron around her waist, Kat made a mental note to call Bree when she got a chance, offer to do some grocery shopping on her way home, and ask if anyone had something to add to the list.
“Spare a dollar, lady?” The panhandler seemed to appear out of nowhere as Kat walked up Clark toward Howard Street after her morning shift.
“Uh, sure.” Kat dug into one of the pockets of her backpack and pulled out her little zippered money purse. A dollar wouldn’t buy much. She handed the man a five. That would buy him a meal.
“Thanks, lady. ’Preciate it.” The rather scruffy man with at least two days of unshaven whiskers took off ahead of her, no doubt heading for the same destination—the large Dominick’s grocery store in the shopping center with SouledOut Community Church. She alm
ost called out to tell him to come back and she’d buy him some fruit or vegetables at the Rogers Park Fruit Market she’d just passed. But too late.
Turning into the parking lot of the shopping center, Kat slowed. She’d never checked out the Dumpster situation at this particular Dominick’s—which made no sense, since it was only fifty yards or so from the large storefront that housed the church. Well, now was as good a time as any.
Walking the long way around to the back of the store, Kat passed the busy loading dock, which was receiving deliveries from a Pepsi truck and another from Lay’s Potato Chips. Passing the last truck, she looked in vain for Dumpsters. Maybe she was on the wrong side of the building . . . but no. There they were. Not Dumpsters, but those evil compactors! Arrrgh! Just like that other store on Sheridan.
Stalking back to the parking lot, Kat briefly debated not giving the store her business—but frankly, she didn’t know where else to go. She could go back to the fruit market on Clark, but it didn’t have everything they needed.
Except, maybe the fruit market had Dumpsters! She’d check it out on her way home. And maybe she’d scout out the little mom-and-pop grocery stores in the area. She was sure they wouldn’t have those new-fangled compactors.
But for now she had no choice but to go ahead and do some of their shopping here. First thing she’d do was buy one of those collapsible wheeled shopping carts—Bree had said it was fine by her to take it out of their food budget. Good thing, ’cause there was no way she could lug home more than a couple of bags by herself, even if she carried some of the groceries in her backpack.
Just as she got to the revolving door at the front of the store, the panhandler she’d met earlier came out, a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a can of Coke and a candy bar in the other. “Hey!” she said. But the man took one furtive look at her and hustled away. The nerve! Kat had half a mind to yell at him for wasting her money.
Okay, so she was stupid to give the man money. From now on she’d stock up on some granola bars and carry them in her backpack. Next time a panhandler wanted money, he was going to get something to eat instead.
Chapter 9
The knocking drummed into Nick’s sleep-drugged consciousness like a woodpecker using his head for a tree. And then . . . “Nick? Hey, Nick. You awake?” Untangling himself from the sheet, he rolled over and squinted at the digital alarm clock: 10:22 . . .
10:22?! Man, he hadn’t slept in that long since moving into the apartment with the girls. He tried to find his voice. “Yeah?”
Brygitta opened the door of the study and stuck her head in. “Sorry to bother you. But Mrs. D stopped by a few minutes ago, wants you to call her. Thought you’d want to know.”
Oh, great. Now Mrs. Douglass was going to think he was a lazy slob. “Uh, did she say what for?”
Bree shrugged. “Nope . . . Oh, and Kat called awhile ago, wants to know if it’s okay to use our food money to buy a shopping cart—one of those collapsible things. She’s going to pick up groceries after her shift. I already told her I think it’s a good idea. All three of us can’t always go together to lug stuff back.”
Nick swung his feet off the futon and rubbed a hand over his short hair. “Sure. Whatever.” Then he cocked his head. “Hey, how come the apartment’s so quiet? Conny’s usually the first one I hear in the morning. And not after ten either.”
Bree laughed. “You must’ve been really dead to the world then, because I heard him. About seven thirty, I think. Not too bad. But when I got up at eight, Rochelle had left a note saying they’d gone to the park.” The pixie-haired brunette started to leave, then ducked her head back in. “She’s really trying to fit in, you know.”
True enough. Still, Nick didn’t like Rochelle thinking she had to take her kid to the park on the weekend just so the rest of them could sleep in . . . though he had to admit, after getting in after midnight last night, sleeping in felt mighty good.
But he’d better get moving and see what Mrs. D wanted.
Nick trudged out of the study and down the hall to the bathroom . . . then back again to fold up the futon and get dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. But as he straightened the little room, he noticed several pages sticking out of the ink-jet printer. What’s this?
He lifted out the sheets—about three of them. “Hmm,” he murmured, reading the heading. “Guidelines for Household Contacts of People Living with AIDS.” Where’d this come from?
Stupid question. Kat. She’d been all worried about it the other night.
He stood there skimming through the article. Well, he hoped she’d read it. Should put a lot of her worries to rest. But what was Kat planning to do with this? They shouldn’t make Rochelle feel the same way as when she’d applied for that nanny job: “People treat you like a leper . . .”
Folding up the pages, he stuck them in the back pocket of his jeans. Hopefully he could talk to Kat before she unloaded her anxiety on Rochelle. Now, where was his cell phone? He’d forgotten to plug it in when he came in last night . . . Oh, right. Still in the pocket of the cargo pants he’d worn yesterday. On his way to the kitchen, he called Avis Douglass. “Hi, Mrs.—uh, Sister Avis. It’s Nick Taylor. You wanted to see me?”
“Oh, hello, Nick. Pastor Cobbs would like us to help plan the worship service for tomorrow. Do you have some time this morning?”
“Sure. I can come now if you’d like.”
Grabbing the last banana from the fruit bowl—a rather overripe one—he took the stairs to the third floor two at a time. This would be the first time he stood in front of the SouledOut congregation—or any congregation, for that matter—as a pastoral intern. He felt like letting out a loud Wahoo! But at the Douglasses’ door he turned around and ran back to the apartment to get his Bible and the folder Pastor Cobbs had given him the other night. Better show up with more than just a banana!
Avis Douglass closed her Bible and notebook and smiled at Nick. “That should do it. I like your suggestions.” She got up from the table and brought back the coffeepot. “Warm up your coffee?”
“Sure.” Nick held out his mug. “I can hardly believe this is happening. Have to admit I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be. It’s not about you, anyway.” She gave him a teasing smile. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m always nervous too when I’m scheduled to lead worship. I have to remind myself that the whole point of worship is focusing on God—who He is, what He’s done. Once I put my focus on the right person, I forget about myself.”
Nick couldn’t imagine this woman being nervous. She always seemed so composed, so completely at home in front of the church. Even today, dressed casually in white capris, sandals, and a bright-yellow summer blouse, her hair done in those stylish “twists” unique to black women’s hair, Avis Douglass personified calm and poise.
“Thanks, that helps,” he admitted. “But you’ll need to remind me again when I actually have to get up there and preach.” He laughed self-consciously. “At least that’s a few weeks away.”
“And you have permission to remind me. I’m supposed to preach next Sunday—my first time as an interim pastor.” She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think of myself as a preacher, but I can get excited about teaching the Word. It’s communion Sunday too—and isn’t that when you’re becoming a member? Oh, I think I hear Conny.”
They both heard stomping feet and a childish voice coming up the stairwell and then fading into the apartment below.
Nick grinned. “Yeah. Rochelle took him out to the park so the rest of us could sleep in. Except Kat. She had to leave early to work at the coffee shop.” Kat . . . and Rochelle. Nick remembered the papers he’d stuck in his rear pocket. Rochelle was Mrs. Douglass’s daughter. Surely she and Mr. D had had to deal with the subject of precautions before. Maybe she’d have some wisdom about how to approach—
“How’s that going, Nick?” Mrs. Douglass lifted an eyebrow at him. “I’ve been trying to stay out of it, but I know it can’t be easy adding a six-year-old to your living sp
ace—even a six-year-old as charming as my grandson.”
Can’t believe it! She asked. A perfect segue. “Going great for the most part. Conny’s a great kid—and I really admire Rochelle. She’s a good mom. But . . .” Nick leaned forward. “There’s something I’d like to ask. It’s kind of awkward, but maybe you can give us some advice. It’s about, uh, about Rochelle’s HIV status.”
There. It was on the table. He’d try to leave Kat out of it, though. “We don’t know very much about HIV, and I’m wondering how to talk about it—how it affects her, but also what kind of precautions we should take. I”—he reached for the article in his hip pocket—“uh, this article came off the web. Seems like pretty commonsense stuff. But I’m not sure how to bring it up. I don’t want to embarrass Rochelle.”
Avis Douglass wagged her head. “Nick, I am so sorry. We— Rochelle and I—should have brought this up when you three were making the decision to invite her and Conny to share the apartment. I was just so overwhelmed with finding my daughter and grandson again, I didn’t even think about it.”
“No problem, it’s really okay. I just—”
She held up her hand. “Rochelle should bring it up. She needs to take responsibility for letting the rest of you know what commonsense precautions to take. I’ll speak to her about it. The sooner the better.”
“Wow. That’s great.” Nick felt enormously relieved. “It’d be much better coming from Rochelle than for us to bring it up. Thanks a lot.”
“Can I see the article? Maybe I could give it to her—wouldn’t have to tell her it came from you. That would give her something to use.”
Nick hesitated. What would Kat think about him going behind her back like this, giving away the article she’d found . . . but Mrs. D’s idea made all kinds of sense. “Sure.” He handed over the article. He’d just print out another copy for Kat. And find a way to hold her off before she brought the whole thing up.