by Neta Jackson
Oh, great. Just great. I watched Josh disappear down the hall. Amanda and José were home alone . . . together.
IT WAS ALMOST ELEVEN when we finally got home. Josh was going to wait out front since he still had to take José and Edesa home, but cars were parked bumper to bumper under the dim streetlights, and the street was too narrow to double-park. He pulled into the garage and said he’d wait until we sent José out.
Denny and I walked silently to the back door. OK, this was weird. Our daughter and the love of her life were alone in the house. Our son and the love of his life—though she probably didn’t know it—were alone in the garage. Denny and I were treading the sidewalk between them, as if trying to make it across a high wire. For some reason I felt an incredible urge to laugh hysterically. Or cry.
I did neither. Just nerves, I told myself, as we unlocked the door and called out, “Amanda? We’re home!” We needed to be careful. The trauma of Mark’s beating, the all-night vigil, his surgery, the waiting, the fear, the not-knowing had all of us wound up too tight, like my grandparents’ windup school clock that sprung its spring one day.
“Amanda?” Denny called again. No answer. But there was a light on in the living room and some kind of music. We headed toward the archway—and stopped.
Amanda and José were sprawled in a corner of the couch, sound asleep, in each other’s arms.
27
I didn’t trust myself. “Amanda! José!” Denny shook them both, his voice sharp. Startled awake, José untangled himself from Amanda’s weight on his chest and jumped up, his dress shirt rumpled, his hair mussed. Amanda sat up, still wearing her pale blue quinceañera dress, and looked blearily at both of us in turn. Her mascara was smeared; she’d been crying. “Oh. You’re home.”
A touch of panic shone in José’s eyes. “Señor Baxter! Señora! I’m sorry! We . . . we fell asleep! Amanda was so sad. I was, you know, just trying to comfort her.”
“José. Go home. Josh is waiting for you out in the garage. Amanda?” Denny pulled Amanda off the couch. “Go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.” He propelled Amanda down the hall without saying good-bye to José. I stared after them as José split one way, Denny and Amanda the other.
Well. Kick the kid out? This was a different Denny.
I locked the back door behind José and watched until the lights of the minivan disappeared down the alley, my emotions tumbling all over themselves. Had anything happened while Amanda and José were here alone? They’d still had their clothes on. Huh! As if that cinched anything. A lot of petting could go on in, on, around, and under clothes. I should know. Denny and I strayed close to the line numerous times while we were courting.
A whine near my knees told me Willie Wonka wanted out, so I unlocked the door again and stepped out onto the back porch while the dog scrambled down the few steps to the yard. The night was balmy and clear, allowing a few bright stars to shine through the haze of city lights. I leaned against a porch post and took a deep breath. And another. God, I don’t need this right now! Mark Smith is hooked up to a zillion machines in the ICU and maybe in a coma. Nony is a wreck, and who can blame her? She’s going to need all the help she can get—care for her kids, people to stay with Mark so she can get some rest, meals, probably even stuff like grocery shopping or taking the kids to school! Somewhere out there are the evil people who did this thing. The last thing I need is a runaway romance under my own roof.
Willie Wonka stood at the bottom of the steps as if hoping for a hand up. “Forget it,” I muttered. “You’re on your own.” He finally labored stiffly to the porch proper, throwing in a few grunts for good measure and giving me a reproachful look as he passed. I let the dog into the house but hesitated before going in myself. Denny was uptight. Amanda was sad—and using it as an excuse to bend the rules. Josh had ended up at Edesa’s apartment tonight—why? He probably needed someone to talk to. He was definitely shaken by the attack on Mark after the rally yesterday.
And me? I was beyond tired. Almost too tired to sleep. I felt like a zombie. I’d been awake for the last forty hours. Too tired to help the rest of my family weather this trauma. But how could we rest? Somewhere out there were the people who did this to Mark. An evil lurking in the shadows . . .
That did it. I bolted through the back door and snapped the lock. Then I pressed my back against the door in the dark kitchen, heart pounding. God, I want to pray! But I don’t really know how to pray against “principalities and powers.” Feels like I’m still in prayer kindergarten! I need You, Lord! My family needs You! Mark and Nony need You! Yada Yada needs You! This is too big for any of us!
A face darted across my consciousness, interrupting my silent cries to God. A pale, frightened face, young, rather plain. The kind of face that could use a good session at Adele’s Hair and Nails. But our eyes had locked on the plaza around the Rock.
And that girl with the White Pride people. She needs You, too God. I don’t know her name, but . . .
But God did. Wow. That was a thought.
HOW WE BAXTERS ALL GOT UP THE NEXT MORNING, got ourselves dressed, fed on cold cereal, and to church on time is beyond me. I didn’t hear Josh come in. Slept right through it. Didn’t set the curfew alarm either. The laundry hampers overflowed, and the refrigerator shelves yawned emptily. Life seemed to be on hold. I needed an extra Saturday just to catch up on chores.
We checked in with Nony by phone before leaving for church and found out that Hoshi was spending the day with the boys so Nony could be up at the hospital—if she could get past the media people camped out on her block. As for Mark, so far no change. They were going to wean him off the sedation this morning.
“Pray, Jodi.” Nony’s voice seemed to ache with weariness. “And ask Uptown Community to pray. Mark needs an outpouring of prayers.”
The communion table sat in front of Uptown’s meeting room with its embroidered cloth covering the “wine” and the bread. June first—the first Sunday of the month. I thought Avis might be leading worship this morning, but she came in, conservatively dressed in a black pantsuit and black-and-white print silk blouse, and sat down next to Stu and Becky. Alone. Peter must be sleeping off his night in the hospital. He’d said he was going to attend New Morning’s service this afternoon.
Pastor Clark announced the call to worship from Isaiah 55: “Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy, and eat! . . . Give ear and come to Me; hear Me, that your soul may live.” The praise team launched into the first song, but my thoughts were still on Avis’s husband. Would Peter find New Morning Christian Church more comfortable than Uptown Community? Here, as a black male, he was definitely a minority. Even when he was courting Avis, he’d been visiting other churches. Maybe he’d start attending New Morning regularly and want to go there when they moved into their new building. What would Avis do then?
I felt a tiny tug of resentment. New Morning using our building was almost like having two services. One mostly white, one mostly black. Would people like the Hickmans and Douglasses end up being drawn away?
Don’t go there, Jodi. Open your heart to Nony’s and Mark’s church—they’re hurting today. This assault on Mark must feel like an assault on all of them . . .
When it was time to celebrate the Lord’s Supper, Pastor Clark mentioned the assault on Mark Smith and said he had not yet regained consciousness. “Dr. Smith spoke recently at our men’s breakfast about the troubling events on Northwestern University’s campus,” Pastor Clark added. “Many of us also met the Sisulu-Smiths at Avis and Peter Douglass’s wedding. Denny Baxter? Can you tell us more than the sound bites we’re hearing on the news?”
I felt sorry for Denny. He hadn’t been expecting this, and I knew he was still struggling to keep his own tumultuous feelings under control. He went to the front and somehow found words to give a brief account of the rally on Friday and Mark’s efforts to speak the truth about White Pride’s racist and violent views. Denny had to stop and clear his throa
t. “The situation was tense and things got a bit out of control—”
I sucked in my breath and glanced at Josh, half-hidden behind the soundboard at the back of the room, but Denny skipped the details.
“—but thankfully, no one got hurt. Until . . .” Denny tried to clear his throat again. “Until late Friday night, on his way home, when Mark Smith was attacked in the alley behind his home. The police haven’t made any arrests, but there is reason to believe this may be related to the racist rally earlier in the day.” Denny shook his head. He was done. He couldn’t say anymore.
Pastor Clark came alongside Denny and put an arm around his shoulder. “Dr. Smith is not only a respected member of the faculty at Northwestern and a good friend of several in our congregation—”
“Jesus! Help us!” Florida cried out. I could see Stu dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. I could hardly bear to look at Denny’s face at the front; he looked miserable.
“—but also a member of New Morning Christian Church,” Pastor Clark went on, still with a firm grip on Denny’s shoulder, “the congregation that will be leasing space from us here at Uptown until they locate a suitable facility in the Howard Street area. As host to this congregation that has suffered a deeply personal tragedy, we need to keep them lifted up in our prayers.”
Around the room, people began reaching out until we were all holding hands up and down the rows as various ones spoke out in prayer—praying for Dr. Mark Smith, praying for his family, praying for his congregation. And I was sure New Morning, coming together in this very room that afternoon, would be doing the same thing. I squirmed. Something didn’t seem right. One building, two congregations. One body, two separate services. I stared at the communion table, waiting for us to “eat and drink together.” All I could see was broken bread and spilled wine.
AS PEOPLE MILLED ABOUT AFTER THE SERVICE, Avis caught my eye and beckoned me into a corner, snagging Florida, Stu, and Becky on the way. “When is the next Yada Yada meeting . . . next week at Stu’s house?” She shook her head. “We need to get together to pray before then. Today, if possible. I know everyone is praying, but God is pressing on my heart the importance of ‘Where two or three come together in My name . . .’ There’s spiritual power in praying together with the authority of the name of Jesus.”
“Girl, I’m there. Can’t fight no spiritual war with little skirmishes. We gotta call in the troops.” Florida raised her voice. “Carla! Cut out that runnin’!”
Avis frowned. “There’s likely to be a lot of visitors up at the hospital on Sunday afternoon, but it doesn’t matter. We need to do this. We especially need to pray with Nony. Jodi? Can you help me call the sisters, see who can make it this evening?”
I hesitated. My weekend had already been chopped into pieces. When was I going to get my laundry done? Pick up some groceries? Denny would surely want to go see Mark. Shouldn’t we see if Nony needed some practical help? The kids had youth group at five. And we hadn’t talked to Amanda yet about last night . . .
Listen to yourself, Jodi Baxter! Didn’t you tell God last night you wanted to get out of prayer kindergarten? That you needed help knowing how to pray against “principalities and powers”? Warfare doesn’t wait for laundry and groceries! Don’t worry about the details. It’ll all get done. Somehow.
“Well, you know I can’t come.” Becky wagged her ankle with the electronic monitor attached under her jeans. Then she shrugged. “But guess it don’t matter—I don’t know that much about prayin’ . . . or holy war or whatever ya called it, Flo.”
“What? Ain’t we got permission from that parole agent yet for this girl to attend Yada Yada on Sunday nights?” Florida was indignant. “Stu, you can move mountains—”
When she wants to, I thought.
“—so do your thang, girl! An’ hurry up about it.”
Avis gave Becky a sympathetic hug. “Your prayers are important, too, Becky. And even if you can’t come up to the hospital with us tonight . . .” Avis paged through her Bible. “Pray Psalm 27. The Word of God is one of our spiritual weapons. We need to fill our prayers with the promises of God.”
“Uh, I don’t have a Bible.”
I cringed. Wasn’t I the one who’d offered to get Becky a Bible?
“Here. Take mine.” Avis thrust her big Bible with the well-worn pages into Becky’s hand. “Keep it until we get you one of your own.” She looked at the rest of us. “Five o’clock at Evanston Hospital sound good? Jodi? Can you help make the calls?”
I nodded, feeling like a recruit who’d enlisted in the army but hadn’t figured on giving up civilian life.
28
By the time Stu and I pulled into the parking garage at the hospital at five o’clock, I felt chagrined at my petty excuses. Everything got done. Somehow. We’d scratched our usual “sit-down Sunday dinner” and made sandwiches. Amanda agreed to run laundry loads while doing her homework. Probably trying to earn a few brownie points after breaking the rules last night, but so what? While I made phone calls to Yada Yada, Josh and Denny went to the hospital to see Mark and then took the grocery list to the store, along with a list from Hoshi for the Sisulu-Smith household. Of course, we ended up with Ben & Jerry’s Super Fudge Chunk ice cream instead of the store brand, a whole salmon sans its head, and two enormous bags of tortilla chips—but again, so what?
Everybody was trying.
Stu pointed out a WGN-TV news van parked outside the hospital, but we didn’t see any activity. Waiting for news—the vultures. Made me mad that the media dared to invade Nony’s personal crisis and reduce it to sound bites.
When we walked into the ICU waiting room, Delores and Edesa were already there; so were Yo-Yo, Ruth, and Ben. Ruth looked her usual frumpy self and kept fussing at Nony. “You look terrible. Vitamins you need. E and B-12. I’ll bring them tomorrow. You want Marcus and Michael to see their mother in the hospital too?”
Ruth must be feeling better.
The rest of us hung back until other visitors had a chance to offer condolences to Nony. Many were college age, probably some of Mark’s students. I wanted to grab Delores and ask how she was doing—we still hadn’t connected by phone since the last Yada Yada meeting—but I got waylaid by Ben Garfield. “Is Denny home? Do you think he’d mind if I hung out at your house till these two”—he jerked a thumb at Ruth and Yo-Yo—“need a ride home?”
“Oh. Sure. No problem.” I hoped. “I’ll bring Ruth and Yo-Yo to the house so you don’t have to come back up here.” Knowing Ben, he probably had a six-pack in the trunk of his Buick he’d be all too happy to share with Denny, but I wasn’t going to go there. Probably good for Denny to have company tonight, maybe watch a game on TV, I thought, as the silver-haired man headed for the elevator. Denny had been unusually subdued all weekend, and we hadn’t had much time to talk. Probably because both of us felt as though we were swimming through dark, murky water and were doing good just to keep from drowning in our turbulent emotions.
To my surprise, all the Yadas made it except Hoshi, who was taking care of Nony’s boys like a doting aunt. Even Chanda huffed up to the ICU floor, though she announced she’d have to leave early to meet with a real-estate agent. “To go tru’ me new ’ouse, you know,” she said by way of announcement.
“That’s nice, Chanda,” I said. But any interest Chanda hoped to spark in her new house got brushed aside as a nurse showed us into a “family consultation room” where we could have privacy for our prayer time. The room was a bit tight, and several sisters ended up sitting on the floor. I already knew from Denny and Josh that Mark was not yet conscious, even though the doctors had weaned him off the sedation. I desperately wanted to ask Nony what the doctors were saying about his prognosis, but I hesitated. I didn’t want to hear it if it was bad news. Didn’t want Nony to have to say it.
As if sensing my questions—and everyone else’s, no doubt—Nony’s eyes sought out Delores. “Delores? Please, could you explain what the doctor said this afternoon?” Her voice was str
ained, hoarse with fear and too many tears.
Delores nodded soberly. “Sí, of course. The good news is that they weaned Mark off the ventilator today, and he is breathing on his own—”
“Jesus! Thank ya!” Florida breathed.
“Also, they gradually reduced the artificial sedation, but . . .” Delores cleared her throat. “As yet, he is still unconscious. It is too soon to call it a true coma, but there is concern. They are monitoring the head injury for signs of pressure or swelling, but so far, everything is stable since the surgery.”
“Yeah.” Yo-Yo stuffed her hands inside the bib of her overalls, face glum. “But if he does wake up, he ain’t gonna be able to see nothin’ with those bandages on both eyes. That’d sure freak me out.”
“Eyes? What’s wrong wit ’is eyes?” Chanda broke in. “Why no one tell me not’ing?”
“Because we don’t know anything, Chanda.” Nony’s voice had an edge. “They were hoping he would wake up so he could tell them, you know, in an eye exam, what he can and cannot see. But he didn’t wake up, did he!” She buried her face in her hands.
Chanda’s lip trembled. A few eyes got wet.
Avis leaned forward. “Sisters. We don’t need to know all the particulars to pray. In fact, sometimes we ‘know’ too much. We let the facts, the circumstances, or what people are saying dictate our prayers. Like the disciples in the middle of the storm at sea, we give in to fear. But when the storm was at its worst, Jesus appeared to them, and He said, ‘It is I. Don’t be afraid.’ ”
“That’s right. That’s right,” Florida murmured, waving her hand in the air.
“In Matthew 18, Jesus promised that when two or three followers come together in His name, He is among them. We have come together in the name of Jesus to stand in the gap for Mark and for Nony and their children. Jesus is here. So we—”