by Neta Jackson
My husband grinned. “What if she accepts? How awkward is that going to be?”
I opened my mouth and closed it like a goldfish in a bowl. Finally I gasped, “You don’t think . . . no! She wouldn’t accept. He’s just a baby!”
Now Denny did laugh. “Look again, Jodi. He’s a good-looking young man, even with that shaved head of his. Takes after me, of course.” Another smirk.
“Denny. This isn’t funny. And not only that, Amanda is nagging me to death about going to the sophomore dance with José at Juarez High School. The last weekend of this month, I think.”
“What’s the question? Neither one of them can drive, so one of us will have to take them, hang around as chaperones—though I can think of a lot of things I’d rather do on a weekend night. Take you out, for instance.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Denny! Be serious.”
“I am serious. Didn’t we agree once upon a time that—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Say yes unless we have a good reason to say no.” I made a face. “Whatever happened to ‘No, because I said so’? Worked for my parents.” But by this time I was starting to giggle.
Denny reached for my hand. “Look, Jodi. Amanda made a vow at her quinceañera to save sex for marriage. She’s even wearing a purity ring. That’s huge for a kid her age. We have to show her we trust her.”
I stared into the bottom of my mug. Empty. Why didn’t they give free refills on their specialty coffees? I sighed. “I know. I do trust Amanda—at least, I trust her intentions. But some of these high school dances are downright raunchy. Have you looked at MTV lately?” I grabbed my throat and made a gagging noise. “I just don’t want to expose my daughter to all that.”
“I know.” Denny nodded. “We’ll talk to them—to both Amanda and José. Share our concerns but say yes. That’s how they grow up.” Denny leaned back in his chair. “OK. You want to hear about the men’s breakfast?”
“Sure.” Would rather hear about it with another cup of mocha decaf in my hands, but I couldn’t justify another three dollars—or all those calories. “Who all came? Did Ben come? Was it good?”
“Real good. Not exactly ‘cozy good,’ but an important conversation, I think—especially if Mark and Nony’s church ends up sharing space with Uptown for a couple of months. And yeah, Ben came. Have to admit I was surprised, but was glad he did. Also Carl Hickman and Peter Douglass, besides the regular Uptown guys. A good turnout.”
According to Denny, Mark brought the men up to date about what had been happening on Northwestern’s campus in the past week: members of White Pride handing out hate literature, a crude swastika appearing overnight in a stairwell, and young men in suits inviting students to a “free speech” rally on “White Pride and the Mud Races.”
Denny shook his head. “I tell you, Jodi. It’s one thing to hear this hate group diatribe on the news or talk about it between you and me. But to sit in a room with several black guys and a Jewish guy and imagine how they feel hearing that stuff . . . that was tough.”
I winced. I couldn’t imagine sitting with Avis or Florida or Adele or any of my Yada Yada sisters while somebody—even Mark—repeated such insults.
“Mark admitted it’s tempting to dismiss these incidents as the antics of a few extremists. Even he said, ‘I’m not that eager to rock my boat.’ ” Denny grinned. I grinned too. Big of Mark to admit he had it pretty good—small-town Georgia boy gets PhD and tenure at a Big Ten university, beautiful wife and kids, upper-middle-class home, nice pension.
But I also squirmed. That had been my gut feeling exactly: Don’t want to be bothered . . . Ignore it . . . Maybe it’ll just go away . . .
“But,” Denny went on, “Mark said the events of the past week should be a wake-up call for all of us. Even though there’ve been great strides in civil rights and massive shifts in attitudes, it doesn’t take much to bring latent racism bubbling to the surface. Some little spark ignites an explosion, and you end up with something like the beating of Rodney King and the L.A. riots. Peter Douglass didn’t say a whole lot, but he quoted that famous line: ‘The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing’—something like that.”
“What about Ben? Did he have any response to all this?”
“Yeah. In fact, Mark asked Ben how it felt, as a Jew, to hear that anti-Semitism is not dead in Chicago. It was . . .” Denny blew out a sharp breath. “I’ve only read about this stuff in history books, Jodi. It’s really different hearing someone you know talk about his own grandparents who ended up in Hitler’s gas ovens”—he swallowed—“while a lot of good Christian folks ignored what was happening, or didn’t want to believe it, until it was too late. Ben kinda stuck it to us when he asked: ‘Will we let it happen again?’ ”
The supper crowd was coming in, so we finally gave up our table and walked home in the damp coolness of the May evening. Denny took my hand, though I knew his mind was somewhere else. After a full block in silence, I finally prompted, “Any discussion?”
“Well, yeah. Some of the questions and comments got kind of hot. Carl Hickman unloaded at one point—a lot of resentment about ‘bigoted cops’ and ‘a system that keeps you down.’ A few of the white guys argued that it’s not all one-sided. But mostly we listened.” He snorted. “Huh. Josh probably asked more questions than anybody. But it was good. All good.”
The two-flat we rented loomed into view. “What now?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Not sure. Pastor Clark closed out the discussion with those verses about the different parts of the body needing each other, and when one part suffers, the whole body suffers. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, I think. Mark seemed moved by that, said it was a good reminder for him not to go off like the Lone Ranger, even though he was very angry and felt a need to respond somehow. So then we prayed—prayed for Mark, prayed for Ben, prayed that we’d all listen to God’s voice speaking to our hearts. Even prayed for the people mixed up in this White Pride group that’s kicking up so much dust. It was . . .” Denny’s voice got a little husky. “We all took hands while we prayed. Peter Douglass was on one side of me, and Ben on the other. And I thought, The gates of hell can’t prevail if we can just hold on like this—together.”
THE GATES OF HELL CAN’T PREVAIL if we can just hold on like this—together.
I would’ve liked to think about Denny’s comment some more, but as we walked through the front door, Amanda accosted us about our answer to José’s sophomore dance—and then Saturday night at the Baxter household kicked in. Willie Wonka was everywhere under our feet, whining for his walk; Amanda tore apart her bedroom—the one she supposedly cleaned that morning—hunting for her shoes so she could go babysit; Josh wanted to borrow the car after supper. Denny snapped a leash on Wonka, mumbling something about the video store and getting a movie, while I tried to conjure up something edible for supper.
Tacos. That would do it. I was grating the cheddar cheese when the phone rang.
“Jodi.” Ruth’s voice swept along without waiting for me to respond. “They should carve Denny’s likeness on Mount Rushmore, they should.” I grinned. I could see his dimples, twenty yards long, chiseled out of stone. “Ben came home charged up like a football player on steroids. Never before has he been asked his opinion about anti-Semitism outside the Jewish community. And they listened. A roomful of goyim listened. Mark and Denny made him feel like a man, Jodi.” Ruth’s voice got wobbly. “Like a man.”
I wished Denny were home to hear this. I started to respond, but Ruth got her voice back. “So. To dinner he is taking me. And dancing. Suddenly he is Romeo. Bye. Gotta go.”
Couldn’t help chuckling as I tackled the cheese grater again. Romeo? More like Danny DeVito. But dinner and dancing—that sounded like fun. Why didn’t Denny and I ever do that? But I knew what Denny would say, “Me? Dance? Not if you value your feet.”
The phone rang again. This time it was Florida. “Jodi! Where ya been? Third time I’ve tried to get you.”
Guiltily, I glanced at the answering machine. The message light was blinking. “Sorry, Flo. What’s up?” I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear and dumped a packet of taco seasoning on the hamburger sizzling on the stove.
“Nothin’. Jus’ that Carl came home from that men’s breakfast thang an’ says he wants ta move. Up on the north side. Be closer to work. Get Chris outta the Edgewater neighborhood an’ away from the gangbangers he been hangin’ with. Says we need more room for the kids. Huh. ’Course I been sayin’ the same thang for months; suddenly it’s his idea.” She snorted into my ear. “Men.”
“But that’s good, Flo.”
“I know. I’ll take it. Anyway, that’s why I’m callin’. If you see anything up there with three bedrooms that don’t break the bank, let me know. Not one o’ them condos. We ain’t buyin’ . . . yet.”
I managed to get the tacos on the table and something into my kids’ stomachs before they both took off—Amanda out the front door when her babysitting ride showed up, and Josh out the back door offering vague promises to be home by one o’clock—before the phone rang again. I eyed the caller ID: Mark Smith.
But it was Nony. “Hello, Jodi. Am I interrupting your dinner?”
“No, no. Just finished.” Well, Denny was making his fourth taco and tossing bits of hamburger into Wonka’s eager mouth, but that didn’t count. “Denny really appreciated Mark coming to talk to the guys at Uptown this morning. Sounded significant.”
“Yes.” Her voice was low, almost hesitant. “Mark feels positive about it.”
I walked the phone farther into the kitchen. “You don’t sound too sure.”
“No, no . . . I am sure it was a good thing. It’s just that . . . Mark came home determined to not let this so-called free speech rally go unchallenged.”
“What do you mean? Can he keep those thugs off the campus?”
“No.” I had to strain to hear her voice. “He wants to meet them head-on, debate them right there at the Rock.”
Goose bumps crawled up my arms. Did I miss something? Hadn’t Denny said Mark didn’t want to do some Lone Ranger thing? Nony’s voice was so low, I almost missed what she said next.
“Jodi. I am frightened.”
13
I rolled over in the bed and peered at the glowing numbers on my digital alarm. 1:10 . . . and I still hadn’t heard Josh come in. He hadn’t called either. Arrgh. Why didn’t somebody tell me that teenagers ruined your sleep every bit as much as a colicky infant? Denny, on the other hand, was out cold, oblivious to the fact that our son hadn’t come in. Probably because he thought a curfew was a bit unnecessary for an eighteen-year-old, even though we were pretty generous with exceptions if Josh called and asked for extra time. But that was beside the point. We’d agreed to the curfew on weekends, then we planned to remove it as a graduation present.
That was when we thought Josh was going off to college. What if he stayed home next year—with no curfew! I’d never get any sleep!
I punched my pillow and curled up on my side, facing away from Denny, feeling resentful. One of us had to know when the kids came in—otherwise they could stay out until all hours if they had a mind to. Or something could happen, like an accident, and we might not know until morning.
Calm down, Jodi. He’s only a few minutes late. Well, true. And if I was honest with myself, that wasn’t the only reason I was still awake. After supper, I’d put together a seven-layer salad for the potluck at church tomorrow, then Denny and I relaxed with a video and a big bowl of popcorn. But even after Amanda got home from babysitting and we’d gone to bed, I kept thinking about Nony’s phone call.
“Jodi. I am frightened.”
That wasn’t like Nony. Was she frightened for Mark’s safety? I had rushed to reassure her. “What could happen? It’s just going to be a ‘free speech’ rally—we had tons of those at college in the seventies. I’m sure the campus police will make their presence known; they won’t let anything happen. Maybe a few jeers and catcalls—but Mark’s got thick skin.” I hoped. “Besides,” I’d rushed on, “Mark’s smart. He’ll demolish their dumb arguments in two minutes, the NU students will clap and cheer, and it’ll all be over.”
Nony had not responded right away. I’d tried to think of some comforting Scripture—the kind of thing she’d do if I was scared about something—but the only thing I could think of was “Be anxious for nothing,” and I needed my Bible to quote it correctly. I’d started for the living room to look for it, phone still to my ear, when she had spoken up again.
“I know. But . . . it’s suddenly consuming all his time and attention. He threw out the syllabus for his history classes, says he’s going to use this opportunity to focus on ethnic hatred in the world today—not just Islamic jihad or ethnic cleansing in eastern Europe, but hate groups right here in the Midwest.”
I’d tried to keep it light. “I should send Josh to Mark’s classes. He’s all hot to research these hate groups and turn it into his senior debate topic.” But I had to admit I was confused. “Seriously, Nony, I know it’s not a fun topic, but it does seem like Mark’s taking a proactive approach, taking advantage of a teachable moment for his students. Maybe something good will—”
“That’s just the problem, Jodi!” The force of Nony’s words startled me. “Mark is supposed to be just . . . just finishing up his classes and disengaging his responsibilities at Northwestern—not getting involved in a huge campus issue. I know it’s important . . . but why Mark? Why now? We’re going to South Africa when school is out. He promised me!”
Only then had I realized why Nony was frightened. She was afraid Mark would get so involved in fighting this hate group stuff that he wouldn’t have time to make his sabbatical happen. Renting the house. Pursuing the position at the university in Durban. Making plane reservations.
She was afraid her dream was about to come crashing down.
But the crashing I’d heard just then sounded more like someone sideswiping a metal garbage can out in the alley. I strained my ears . . . and heard the garage door opening. I eyed the red digits on the bedside clock. 1:30.
I DEPOSITED MY SEVEN-LAYER SALAD on the pass-through counter to Uptown’s kitchen the next morning and found a seat. I was getting smart. Made it the night before; nothing to cook on Sunday morning; nothing to forget to cook either, like that fiasco with the raw chicken-and-rice casserole the first Sunday Stu had visited Uptown. Who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?
I put my coat and Bible on the chair beside me, saving a seat for Denny. Fact was, I was proud of myself. When Josh had knocked on our bedroom door last night to signal he was home, I just called, “OK.” I figured we could deal with why he was late in the morning.
Denny, of course, snored on, unperturbed. Now if it’d been Amanda who was out—ha! Different story.
“Hi, Jodi. Can we sit here?” Stu broke into my thoughts.
I glanced up. “We” were Stu and Becky. “Sure!” I turned my knees so they could scoot into the empty chairs in the middle of the row. “Hey, Becky. Neat you could come.” I didn’t state the obvious. Her parole agent must’ve gotten Pastor Clark’s letter.
Becky just nodded, her eyes darting here and there, taking it all in—Josh at the soundboard at the back, Amanda sitting with some of the teens. Her face perked up when she caught sight of Avis talking with Pastor Clark off to the side. “That the lady what got married a couple of weeks ago, right?”
“Well, thank ya, Jesus!” Florida’s voice sailed over my shoulder. “Look who’s here! Becky Wallace.” She appeared at the end of the row, beaming a smile. “Now I know God’s got this day in His hands.” She jerked her head slightly toward the back of the room.
I twisted around. Carl Hickman was shaking hands with Denny. My eyes widened. “How . . . ?”
She shrugged. “He just got up and came. Didn’t explain himself. And I ain’t gonna question God.” With a little wave, she found a row with several empty seats, pulling Carla onto her lap
. In a few moments, Carl shoveled twelve-year-old Cedric into the row and sat down with his family.
No Chris, though.
I glanced around the room. No Peter Douglass either. That was strange. You’d think now that he and Avis were married—
“Good morning, church!” Avis stood at the front, her Bible opened. Denny slipped into the chair beside me.
“Mornin’, Sister Avis!” Carla piped up in a loud voice. Chuckles rippled over the rows, still filling with latecomers.
“Carla Hickman’s got the right idea!” Avis smiled. “Out of the mouth of babes . . . Let’s try that again. Good morning, church!”
“Good morning!” everyone chorused. I grinned. Avis was going to make us a talk-back-to-the-preacher church if it killed her.
“If you listened to the news last night or looked at the headlines this morning,” she went on, “you might wonder why God puts up with such hate and violence. Does God care? Where is God?”
Nods and murmurs all over the room.
“We need to remember that the prince of this world is still working overtime, trying to defeat God’s purpose and plans. We shouldn’t be surprised. Jesus told us to expect wars and rumors of wars, trials, and persecution. I’m not just talking about yesterday’s suicide bombing in Morocco or the years of hostility between Palestine and Israel. I’m talking about the opposition we face in our own lives, too, right here in Chicago. In our neighborhoods. In our families. Within ourselves. But we know something the devil doesn’t know! What is it, church?”
Florida leaped to her feet. “The devil’s already defeated! Thank ya, Jesus!”
“That’s right!” Avis turned to her open Bible. “The book of Revelation says, ‘The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him. . . . They overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony.’ ” Avis looked up. “Did you get that? ‘The blood of the Lamb’—that’s the price Jesus paid, His own life. ‘And by the word of their testimony’—that’s us. That’s because the battle isn’t over yet. There’s a war going on in the spirit world—”