by Neta Jackson
Pausing under a willow tree near the imposing university library, Nony, her tears subsided, voiced a heartfelt prayer from the Psalms. “I love You, O Lord, my strength! You are my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer; You, my God, are my rock, in whom I take refuge. You are my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold! I call to You, O Lord, who is worthy of praise, and I am saved from my enemies. But I pray not only for myself, God, but for all the young men and women of this campus, those who know You and those who don’t, that You will be their defender from the Evil One.”
Avis, picking up on Nony’s prayer, prayed for the spiritual battle raging for the hearts and minds of students on this campus and on campuses all over the world. “Break down the strongholds of unbelief,” she prayed. “Raise up a Moses, a David, an Esther, a Paul on this campus who are willing to step forward as God’s messengers in this day and in this hour!”
As the minute hand of my watch nudged closer to seven, we found ourselves walking up the path to the Norris University Center, NU’s student center, overlooking a sleepy lagoon. “We can use the restrooms here,” Hoshi suggested. Then she smiled slyly. “Willie’s Too has fruit smoothies.”
Ruth perked up. “Prayer and smoothies—that’s a marriage made in heaven, if you ask me.”
We laughed as we headed down the stairs to the ground level of Norris, feeling energized and almost lighthearted by the prayer walk. But as we started to walk into the student café, I put out an arm to stop our charge. “Wait. Shh. Don’t go in.”
The other Yada sisters stopped, confused. “What is it, Jodi?” Avis asked.
My heart thumped like the bass drum in a Sousa march. I peeked into the large lower room with its wooden tables and padded booths, hanging TVs, the enticing smell of coffee and pizza, and wall of windows overlooking the lagoon, just to be sure my eyes had not been playing tricks on me.
They weren’t. Josh was standing beside one of the tables nearest the door, his back toward us, talking to an African-American student wearing a Northwestern T-shirt, shorts, and sandals. Big guy. Legs solid as tree trunks. Looked like a football player. Wearing dreadlocks. Next to him, Josh looked like a skinny middle-school student.
“So?” The big guy’s voice suddenly carried our way, a mixture of scorn and frustration. “You’re still white! Maybe you’re not part of that White Pride group, but you’re still walkin’ around with all that white privilege in your pocket you people take for granted. Deal with it, man!”
Impulsively, I took a step forward, my thoughts spinning. What on earth is my son doing here? Is that guy threatening him? Josh is going to get the stuffing beat out of him! At almost the same moment, Florida grabbed my arm and pulled me away, practically pushing me back up the stairs and out the nearest exit. “Not a word, Jodi Baxter,” she hissed in my ear. “That boy’s doing a man’s work in there. Facin’ his own moment of truth.”
STU AND I WERE ALREADY WAITING IN THE CAR when Josh ran up out of breath, ten minutes late. I managed to keep my mouth shut until Stu parked the Celica in the garage and disappeared up the back stairs to her apartment. Then I grabbed Josh’s arm before we went into the house.
“Josh! That was the ‘somebody’ you were going to meet? The same guy who pushed us down at the rally? What were you thinking?”
Josh flopped onto the porch swing, resting his arms along the back and sticking out his lanky legs. “What? You were spying on me?”
“No such thing!” I explained that we were heading for the student café when I saw him talking in the eatery. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the guy’s voice carried like he was using a megaphone.” I sank down on the back steps. “He didn’t sound too friendly.”
Josh shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting friendly. Just wanted to clear up his presumption that I was part of the White Pride Coalition. Dr. Smith said his name was Matt Jackson, so I located his dorm. Somebody—roommate, I think—told me he was hanging out at Norris. Kinda surprised me that I actually found him. But I wanted to give it a shot. I prayed that I’d find him. And I did.”
I gaped at my son in amazement. Would I have gone to talk to a big bully like that after he’d pushed me around? Not likely. And not when I was only eighteen, for sure.
“From what I heard, he didn’t sound very open to what you had to say. You’re white, that’s it, end of subject.”
Josh shrugged again. “Yeah. But he let me have my say; then he had his say. That’s a start. Besides, I got in the last punch.”
I raised my eyebrows. “What’d you say?”
“Wasn’t what I said. I told him he had a point, and I was trying to deal with it. Then”—Josh grinned—“I shook his hand.”
36
I had to look twice to see who was pulling weeds in the flower garden when I got home from school Friday afternoon. Still wasn’t used to Becky’s new look. Her face seemed . . . younger. Fresher. Could definitely use some new clothes, though. Her new Bible was sitting on the back steps. She obviously was going to hold me to my promise to study the Bible “a couple of times a week.”
Becky brushed the dirt off her jeans, took the glass of iced tea I handed her, and plunked down on the steps to Stu’s apartment, facing me on the swing. “Been doin’ some readin’ in the Gospel of Matthew, like you said. Guess what I found?” She grinned, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a dirty streak on her face. “That story ’bout the woman touching the hem of Jesus’ robe, or whatever they called it. Man! Zap, she was healed. After bleedin’ all those years.” She wagged her head. “Never knew the Bible talked about female problems like that.”
I laughed. “Well, yeah. The Bible isn’t for the fainthearted. Gets pretty graphic sometimes.”
“Blows my mind, Jesus healing all those sick people. Right and left! Deaf guys. Blind guys. Even a dead girl!” She shook her head. “But what I’m wonderin’ is . . . all you Yada Yadas been prayin’ for Jesus to heal Nony’s husband, an’ He ain’t answerin’. Why is that? I mean, if He’s God . . .”
I pushed the swing with the toe of my shoe. Huh. Good question, Becky. Wish I knew the answer. The swing swayed gently, giving me time to collect my thoughts. Lord, help me here! I took a deep breath. “I ask that question all the time, Becky. Jesus did promise that if we ask anything in His name, He will do it. But there’s a story in the Gospels about two sisters—Mary and Martha—whose brother was sick. They sent for Jesus to heal him. Jesus got the message, but He didn’t come right away. And Lazarus died. The sisters were devastated, and they scolded Jesus when He finally came. Told Him that if He’d come when they’d asked Him to, Lazarus wouldn’t have died. But Jesus had a reason for waiting; He had another plan in mind. He raised Lazarus from the dead—after four days in the grave! But the whole purpose was to bring glory to God, to do an even greater thing.”
Becky leaned forward, and I realized she was listening intently.
I pressed on, reaching for the faith that had been building in me the last year. “I guess what God has been teaching me lately is that it’s my job to ask, and it’s God’s job to answer, according to His plan. Sometimes His answer is yes, sometimes it’s no, and sometimes it’s ‘wait.’ ” I shrugged. “I admit, it’s kinda hard to swallow the ‘no’ and ‘wait’ answers. But we gotta keep praying. Gotta keep asking.”
Inside the house, the phone rang. “If you want to read that story about Lazarus and his sisters, it’s in the Gospel of John, chapter eleven—” The phone was insistent. “Excuse me a minute, Becky. Be right back.” I hustled into the house and snatched up the phone. “Hello? Baxters.”
“Sistah Jodee?” Chanda’s voice squealed into my ear. “De ’ouse is mine! Closed today, bless Jesus!”
“You closed on the house already, Chanda? That’s fast!” I glanced out to the back porch. Becky was hunting in her new Bible for the Gospel of John with the help of Willie Wonka’s nose pushing into her lap.
Chanda chuckled with glee. “Yes! Yes! Mountains, dey move when you pay cash!
” And she laughed again.
Cash. I could hardly imagine paying cash for a house. And knowing the price of houses in the Evanston-Skokie area, she must have paid a pretty penny.
“Oh, Sistah Jodee. It’s one big ’ouse! Four bedrooms! One for Dia and Cheree, one for Thomas, one for me, and one for guests! Maybe me mother will come visit from Jamaica!”
“That’s wonderful, Chanda. I’m very happy for you.” I was too. Not the least bit jealous.
Liar. Even in Downers Grove we didn’t have a guestroom.
“I want you to see, Jodee. I got de keys to de house now. If you give me a ride, we could go together.”
I pressed the fingers of my free hand to my temple. Surely I didn’t have time for this. What was happening on Saturday? Lane Tech’s prom, but Josh wasn’t going. Amanda had final exams next week; she should be studying. State playoffs were over, West Rogers High didn’t place, so Denny didn’t have to coach this weekend—but wasn’t he training a new batch of suburban volunteers for Uptown’s outreach to the homeless this Saturday?
“Jodee? You still dere?”
“Yes, Chanda. I was just trying to think.” Oh well. Why not? Chanda needed somebody to share her joy. I stifled a sigh. “Sure. I could probably drive you up to your new house tomorrow. Could we make it in the morning? Ten o’clock?”
I WAS HUNTING FOR MY CAR KEYS the next morning when I heard thumping on the front porch. I peeked out. Peter Douglass was wrestling a box with computer logos all over it into Stu’s front door. Becky’s “new” computer! Well, hallelujah. Peter would probably get it set up and running, too, since computers were his specialty. Was he going to do the same thing for Yo-Yo?
Avis sure did get herself one heckuva good man. I found the keys in my jacket pocket and headed for the back door.
I dropped Denny off at Uptown for the outreach, then headed for Chanda’s apartment building on Juneway Terrace—better known as Juneway Jungle, a street straddling the north edge of Rogers Park whose name was synonymous with drugs, gangs, and absentee landlords. There was a big push to “gentrify” the neighborhood and bring in new business to the Howard Street area, but I was sure Chanda was glad to get out of there.
I was surprised, though, when she came out of her building alone. “Don’t the kids want to see the new house too?” I asked as she climbed into the front seat of the minivan. I’d assumed half the reason I’d been invited was to help ride herd on her three kids.
“I am sure dey do.” Chanda smirked. “Me jus want a chance to soak up de pleasure of me new ’ouse wit’out having to chase t’ree kids upstairs an’ down. Left Thomas in charge for a few hours. Saturday cartoons save de day.”
I smiled. OK, this was nice. Just Chanda and me. I began to look forward to seeing Chanda’s new “blessing.”
Fifteen minutes later, we pulled into the driveway of a white two-story house in a quiet neighborhood in north Skokie, just west of Evanston. Skokie had everything from little brick bungalows and new yuppie condos to upper-middle-class homes on quiet, tree-shaded streets. A tad more modest than the ritzy mansions along the lakeshore that could probably house two or three families, each living separate lives. But this house was just . . . nice. Really nice. Two-car-garage nice.
I smiled at Chanda with new respect. “I love it already! Show me around!”
Proudly, Chanda walked up the short walk to the front door—no porch or veranda—and used her key to open the door. The house smelled of fresh paint. The wooden floors in the foyer and dining room gleamed. Four wooden stools lined up along a breakfast bar that divided the kitchen from the family room. A fireplace hugged one corner of the family room.
I fell in love when I pulled open the sliding doors along the backside of the family room and stepped out into a screened-in, four-seasons porch. “Oh, Chanda. I love screened-in porches! I am going to go home, pack my suitcase, and move in here today!”
Chanda beamed. “Me hopes you will come visit anytime, Jodee. Your man too. De whole family! Anytime!”
The doorbell rang. Chanda’s eyes widened. “Who can dat be? Me not expecting nobody no how.”
“Go on,” I giggled, giving her a shove toward the front door. “It’s probably just one of your new neighbors or the UPS man.”
Chanda cautiously opened the front door and peered out. I held back but peeked over her shoulder. A fortyish man, medium tall, wearing slacks and a sport coat, stood on the front stoop. “Yes?” Chanda said. “What you be wanting?”
“Oh!” The man smiled cheerfully. “I’m Paul Schoenberg, co-owner of Schoenberg Realty”—he jerked a thumb at the real estate sign still on the lawn—“and I just came by to pick up the sign. One of our other agents handled the sale. When I saw the car in the driveway, I thought it might be the new owners, and I just wanted to—”
Chanda opened the door wider and crossed her arms across her chest. “Take de sign down? Dat’s good, good. You do dat.”
Just then Mr. Schoenberg caught sight of me standing next to the banister of the carpeted stairs going to the second floor. “Oh! You must be Mrs. George.” He stuck his hand out in my direction, a big smile on his face. “Let me be the first to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
His hand hung there, suspended in the middle of a ghastly silence. Chanda’s mouth popped open. I was so startled, two fat seconds went by before I found my voice. Then I started to babble. “Oh, no! No, you’ve got it all wrong—”
Chanda cut me off. “Mistah, I am Ms. George, de new owner of dis ’ouse.” Both fists settled on her wide hips. “An’ dis is me friend, Mrs. Baxter. An’ you can take your sign and get out.” She shut the door in his face.
Chanda leaned against the door and stared at me. I stared back. And then we started to laugh. We laughed until our stomachs ached. We laughed until I realized Chanda’s laughter had turned to sobs.
“Oh, Chanda.” I put my arms around her. “He’s just ignorant. Don’t mind him. It’s going to be OK.”
She shook her head, and now the tears were coming freely. “He . . . he tink me jus de maid.” She sank onto the carpeted stairs, pulling a tissue out of her pocket. “Oh, Sistah Jodee. What if dey don’ accept me in dis neighborhood? Keep all dey kids away from my t’ree kids?”
I hardly knew what to say. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask if the neighborhood was diverse. Had it occurred to Chanda? Would she feel comfortable here?
Chanda suddenly raised her head, mopping her face with the soggy tissue. “No more tears. Dat’s jus’ Satan, trying to steal my joy!” She stood up, found another tissue, and blew her nose. “Don’ have time to be offended, or I’d be a sorry mess one day to de next. Come on. Me show you de bedrooms.” She practically ran upstairs. “Come see! I got me own bathroom! Believe it, girl!”
CHANDA’S NEW HOUSE was just five minutes west of Evanston Hospital, so Chanda and I decided to visit Mark Smith on our way home. Nony rose from the chair when we walked into his room in the ICU, a light on her face. “He moved!” she blurted.
“He what?” Chanda and I sounded like a Greek chorus.
“Mark’s leg moved! I saw it! I was sitting right here when his leg moved. I got so excited. I called the nurse . . . but she told me it was involuntary. That people in a coma sometimes make involuntary movements. But . . .” There was no denying the hope in her voice and the smile on her face. “I saw him move. Oh, sisters. It is a sign. A sign of hope!”
I stared at Mark’s body, lying motionless on the bed, still hooked to bags that fed and watered him, still hooked to machines that monitored his vitals, his eyes bandaged. He didn’t look hopeful.
“Let’s pray,” I said, grabbing Nony’s and Chanda’s hands. But all I could think of in that moment of time was the Lord’s Prayer. So I prayed it anyway. We sounded like a trio without music, speaking different parts, as my Midwestern flat accent bubbled along the words with Nony’s South African lilt and Chanda’s Jamaican patois. “. . . Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven!”
“Oh, yes, Jesus,” Nony moaned. “Yes, yes.”
Pastor Cobbs and his wife from New Morning Christian Church arrived just as we were saying good-bye to Nony. “Pastor Joe and Mama Rose, have you met my friends? Chanda George and Jodi Baxter. Jodi’s family attends Uptown Community, where New Morning is meeting.”
“Yes, yes,” said Pastor Cobbs. Both he and his wife shook our hands warmly. “Pastor Clark has been very gracious, gracious indeed.”
Rose Cobbs held my hand in both of hers. Her eyes were dark and deep. “I hope you will visit our service sometime. Anytime. We would love to see you.”
“I would like that,” I blurted. And then I realized that what I said was true. I would like to visit their service. And I’d just been personally invited. “Tomorrow,” I said. “I would like to visit your service tomorrow.”
37
The third Sunday of June promised to be a scorcher. My T-shirt and shorts were already sticking to me when I let Willie Wonka outside and headed down the back sidewalk to fill my new bird feeder. Now that summer was here—well, not “officially” till the twenty-first, but tell that to the heat index—I’d been enjoying having my quiet time on the back porch and watching the birds squabbling over their breakfast.
I no sooner got the garage door open where we kept the birdseed than I heard our phone ringing inside the house. What? It was only seven o’clock! That’s like six on a weekday. I hustled back to the house in my bare feet and barely snatched up the kitchen receiver before the answering machine kicked in.
“Jodi?” It was Nony. “Did I wake you?”
“No, no. I was outside. Are you OK? Is Mark—”
“Mark is the same. I am sorry to call early. I did not mean to worry you. But I have a favor to ask, if you—”