by Neta Jackson
That was tempting. Chicago always did a big show on Independence Eve. I’d heard that the fireworks were coordinated with a fantastic light show at the city’s signature fountain along with a live concert by the Grant Park Symphony. And Denny had a point about “just having fun.” The past two months had taken a huge toll on us—emotionally for sure, but physically and spiritually too. Some good things had happened, like Josh’s graduation from high school and that awesome celebration we’d had last Sunday morning when our church and New Morning Christian met together in their new space in the Howard Street shopping center. But the recent hate group incidents on Northwestern University’s campus, the so-called free speech rally that had just been a cover up for spewing hate and fear, and the cowardly attack that had left our friend Mark Smith in a coma for two weeks—that had been tough. Tough on and Mark’s family, tough on the Baxter family, tough on the whole Yada Yada Prayer Group.
Though, I had to admit, we did learn a thing or two about “getting tough” spiritually. All of us had felt helpless and angry at the twisted attitudes and sheer evil behind that attack on Mark. But we discovered prayer was a spiritual weapon we could wield with abandon. Praise too. That was a new reality for me, but it made sense. As Avis pointed out at one of our Yada Yada prayer meetings, the devil can’t do his rotten work too well in an atmosphere filled with praise and worship for his main Adversary.
I chugged the rest of my iced tea. “OK, so when do you want to leave? Parking’s going to be a nightmare.” I’d heard the Taste drew thousands of hungry palates. I shuddered. Didn’t want to think about it.Threading through waves of sweaty flesh. Trying to ignore all the bouncy boobs in skimpy tank tops. Dreading the inevitable visit to the rows of Porta-Potties . . .
Denny pulled open the back screen door, a droll grin still lurking on his face. “Soon as we can get ready. Don’t have to worry about parking if we take CTA.” The screen door slammed behind him.
“What are you smirking about? ” I yelled after him.
The screen door cracked open, and he poked his head out. “Didn’t want to tell you, but since you asked.” His dimples deepened wickedly. “Willie Wonka slurped up the top third of your iced tea while you were feeding the birds. In case you wondered.”
The screen door slammed again as I let the plastic tumbler fly.
I’D FINISHED REFILLING A COUPLE OF WATER BOTTLES and adding them to the sunscreen, sunglasses, and windbreaker in my backpack when I heard someone at the back screen door. “Hey, Jodi.”
I looked up. “Hi, Becky! And who’s that cutie hiding behind you? Andy Wallace! I see you!”
Our upstairs neighbor—well, the long-term “guest” of our upstairs neighbor—stood at the back door, still sporting her new haircut and color, a rich brunette with auburn highlights swinging chin length in front of her ears and short and feathered in the back, courtesy of Adele’s Hair and Nails. Behind her, a tousled head of dark curls peeked out from behind his mother’s skin-tight jeans. Little Andy giggled.
“Come on in, you guys.” I held open the screen door. “Denny and I are leaving in a few minutes—kids away, parents play, know what I mean? But I didn’t know Andy was coming to visit this weekend. Is he staying for the holiday? ” I felt like I was babbling, but I often felt like that around Becky, trying to fill in the gaps of awkward conversation.
“Uh, that’s kinda why I came down.” Becky cleared her throat. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but with the heat an’ all, I had all the windows open upstairs, an’ I heard you an’ Denny talkin’ ’bout goin’ to see the fireworks downtown. And, uh, I, uh . . .” Becky cleared her throat again. I tensed.Was she going to ask if she could go with us? But she knew better than that! She was on house arrest for another four months, and that electronic monitor thing she wore strapped to her ankle would alert the authorities quicker than Instant Messaging if she left the premises. “. . . uh, was wonderin’ if you guys would mind takin’ Little Andy with you.” Her left hand fell gently on the little boy’s head as she drew him even closer to her side. “He ain’t never seen no fireworks before.”
A dozen thoughts tumbled around in my brain as I searched for an answer. Becky Wallace had come a long way since she’d first appeared at our front door last summer with a ten-inch butcher knife, desperate for money to spring a heroin fix. Huh. God sure had a weird sense of humor. The woman who’d robbed and terrorized our whole Yada Yada Prayer Group that night was now standing at my back door like any other mom, talking about fireworks and the Fourth of July.
Well, like any other mom who’d taken a detour through drug rehab and prison.
I stalled. Dragging a three-year-old along wasn’t exactly what Denny had in mind when he said the two of us needed to just have fun. “Uh, did you ask Stu? ” Leslie Stuart,Yada Yada’s fix-everybody social worker, rented the apartment upstairs and had taken Becky in as a housemate when she’d been paroled. “She’d probably love to take Andy to the Evanston fireworks tomorrow night—they’re closer than the ones downtown. Evanston does the Fourth up big, too, with a parade and everything.Might be more fun for Andy.”
“Nah. That ain’t gonna happen. Stu said she’s goin’ to some family reunion or somethin’ tomorrow. Leavin’ first thing in the morning. I’d take Andy if I could.” Becky looked at the monitor on her ankle and shrugged. “But if it’s too much trouble . . .”
I stared. Stu going to a family reunion? In the entire year-plus I’d known Stu, she’d only mentioned her parents once and had never visited them as far as I knew. I wasn’t even sure they lived in the Chicago area any more. In fact, Stu acted as if she and her parents weren’t exactly on speaking terms, though who rejected whom wasn’t clear either.
“Uh, well . . .” I felt caught between Andy’s big eyes, peering at me hopefully from behind his mother’s leg, and my husband’s expectations. Taking Andy could be kind of fun—except for the extra trips to the Porta-Potties. “Tell you what. Let me talk it over with Denny.Give me ten minutes, OK? ”
WE TOOK ANDY.
When I told him my dilemma, Denny rolled his eyes and muttered something that would probably earn an R-rating from Pastor Clark. But we both finally agreed that Becky didn’t have many options when it came to doing things with Andy. House arrest was house arrest. And we still had two more days until our kids came home from the Cornerstone Music Festival to get some one-on-one time together. A holiday weekend at that.
I threw in some antibacterial handwipes for those trips to the Porta-Potties and packed raisins and granola bars in case “curry goat” and “jerk chicken” weren’t on Andy’s list of What ThreeYear-Olds Eat. And once Denny shifted gears from twosome to threesome, he took Andy under his wing as we hustled to catch the Red Line.
“Hey, hey, we gotta run, Little Guy, and catch that train! ”
“My name ain’t Little Guy. It’s Andy.”
“What? Candy? Whoever heard of a boy named Candy? ”
Squeals of laughter. “Not Candy. Andy!”
“Whatever you say, Little Guy.”
On the el train, Andy crawled up on Denny’s lap and the two of them pressed their noses to the window as the train snaked upclose and personal along the backsides of brick apartment buildings. They made quite a pair. Denny, short brown hair with sexy flecks of gray running through it, looking every inch the athletic coach he was at West Rogers High School. And Little Andy, his skin a milky brown, highlighting his mixed parentage. Definitely “hot chocolate with whipped cream,” as Becky Wallace liked to say.
“Hey, Little Guy. See the flower boxes on those windows? That building is so close! Look, here they come! Should I pick some for Miss Jodi? Huh? Huh? . . . Oh, too late. We were going too fast.”
“Aw. You can’t pick dose flowers, Big Guy. The window ain’t open!” Curly Top dissolved into giggles.
We transferred to the Brown Line at Belmont, which took us around Chicago’s Loop—the heart of downtown—and got off at State and Van Buren, at which point it was only a th
ree-block walk to Grant Park and the lake front. I trailed along with the backpack as Andy pulled Denny forward, excited to get to “the Paste.” OK, if Denny was going to ride herd on Andy, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
We bought a roll of food tickets at one of the ticket booths and wandered down the long line of eateries lining Columbus Drive, which was blocked off to traffic.’s Pizza . . . Vee-Vee’s African Cuisine . . . Sweet Baby Ray’s . . .Taqueria Los Comales . . . Jamaica Jerk . . . “Oh, babe,” Denny said, licking his lips. “This is almost better than . . .” He waggled his eyebrows at me, knowingly.
I punched his arm. “Ow,” he complained. “I said almost.”
Andy was more interested in the popcorn vendor and the ice cream cart jingling its way between the long rows of eateries. I said yes to the popcorn and no to the ice cream, while Denny ordered a prime rib quesadilla for himself at the Grill on the Alley, and a grilled lime chicken chopped salad for me. He looked so funny with salsa dripping off his chin that I started to laugh. “You’re a pig, you know that, Denny Baxter? ”
Denny stuffed another bite of quesadilla in his mouth, unapolo getic. “No rules, no manners, just food heaven,” he deadpanned—though with his mouth full, it came out no ruves, no mannerves, juf foo’ heav’n. I just rolled my eyes at him and tackled my lime chicken salad with a plastic fork.
“OK, next pit stop,” he said, licking off his fingers. “But maybe we better get Andy something first.Whatchu want, Little Guy? ” He looked this way and that, then looked straight at me. “Jodi, where’s Andy? ”
“Andy? I thought you . . .” I spun around in a circle.Nothing but bodies in front of, in back of, on all sides of me. Big bodies. Skinny bodies. Babies in strollers. Towheaded wailers dragged along by the hand.
But no Andy.
2
I gasped for breath, my insides flopping about like a fish stranded on the beach. He can’t be lost! He was here just a second ago. “Andy? ” I yelled, adding my voice to Denny’s. “Andy!” But in the babble of languages, rowdy laughter, and music thrumming all around me, I knew it was useless.
Denny grabbed my arm. “You stay here,where he saw us last. I’ll look.”
“Wait!” I yelled after Denny’s back, but in moments, I lost sight of him, swallowed up by the crowd.
“That’s stupid,” I muttered. “How does he know Andy went that way? ” I took a few steps in the opposite direction, squinting down the endless rows of vendors and booths. But all I could see was a swarm of T-shirts, strollers, and baseball caps.
The reality of the situation sank to the bottom of my stomach like a heavy stone with my emotions tied to it. Oh God, Oh God,Oh God . . . Tears threatened my vision. I wiped them away angrily. God! This can’t be happening! He isn’t even our own kid! Becky trusted us with him! I can’t go home and tell her, “Andy’s gone. We lost him. Sorry.”
I danced impatiently on my toes. I should go looking now, not stay here! How far could a kid get in two minutes? He’s only three. Unless—
Panic rose in my throat. What if somebody snatched him? Lured him away with promises of ice cream or kittens or—
I started to run. “Andy? ” I screamed. “Andy!” Trying to avoid a double stroller, I plowed into a man with a large paunch, both hands balancing paper boats of noodle-something. “Watch it, lady,” he growled, holding the food high.
“S-sorry. I . . . my little boy, he’s . . .” I stumbled away.
“Lost kid? ” the man called after me. “Notify security, lady. Orange vests.”
Security . . . orange vests . . .
I whirled this way and that. No orange vests. “Oh God, Oh God,” I moaned.
Jodi! Stop! The Voice in my head snatched me up short. Go back. Stay where you were, or Denny will waste time looking for you too.
I knew I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanted to keep running, yelling, doing something to find Andy. But, yes, I needed to go back. Denny was right. I should stay at the last place we’d seen Andy—the last place he’d seen us.
I took a deep breath and willed my feet to go back. The Grill’s placard, listing its menu items, came back into view. I searched the two lines waiting at the booth, hoping against hope that Andy would be standing there, crying, wondering where we’d gone.
But . . . still no Andy. No Denny either.
I wanted to bawl. But instead, I sniffled my cries into a prayer. Jesus, I need You bad. Please help us find Andy. Please, Jesus! Protect him. Send all those warrior angels to guard his life, his safety—for Becky’s sake. And for mine. I can’t . . . I can’t lose another mother’s child . . .
Suddenly, clear as day, I knew the devil was just waiting to accuse me, to drag me down, fill me with fear. But fear wasn’t going to help. This wasn’t about me or the car accident last summer or that other mother’s kid. This was just about finding Andy.
Think, Jodi. Think like a three-year-old.Where would you wander off to? Where would you want to go?
I glanced around, not in panic this time but taking in my surroundings. The crowds of people seemed to shrink into the background as I tried to see what Andy might see. Like the ice cream cart we’d seen earlier, propelled by the back end of a bicycle. Or the balloon man over there making—
Balloon animals.
I don’t remember whether I ran or walked or flew the hundred feet to where a middle-aged man in a black hat, a huge drooping moustache, and striped suspenders was twisting long sausage balloons into all sorts of critters for the admiring crew of children clustered around him. “Make a g’raff!” shouted a little boy’s voice, a voice with a giggle. “A purple g’raff! ”
I gulped relief like life-giving air.
Andy.
THE THREE OF US—Andy, me, and the purple balloon giraffe—were standing in front of the Grill on the Alley when Denny hustled up with a female security guard in an orange vest. Denny’s face lit up when he saw Andy, shot a funny glance at me, then offered a sheepish shrug at the security guard. “Guess the lost is found. Sorry.”
The guard waved a hand and walked on. “That’s how we like it to turn out.”
Denny squatted down to Andy’s level. “Hey, Little Guy! You scared the heck outta me! I couldn’t find you.”
“See my g’raff? ” Andy waggled the purple balloon in Denny’s face. “His name is Purple Guy. He’s hungry.”
Denny’s grin wobbled. “Yeah. Me too.” He straightened up. “Bet I know what he wants.”
“Pizza! ”
Personally, I was hoping we could head back, avoid any more big crowds, forget the fireworks, just focus on getting home in one piece. But, according to Andy, Purple Guy needed a slice of pizza. And he needed to see fireworks.
So we stayed.We even found a great place to sit on the low wall running along both sides of Buckingham Fountain, mesmerized as the water bounced and sprayed, lit up with brilliant, ever-changing shades of rainbow hues. But wouldn’t you know it, Andy fell asleep before the first rockets shot into the air over Lake Michigan; he didn’t even wake up when the ones with big booms shot brilliant white lights in all directions. Just stirred from time to time, snuggling deeper under Denny’s protective arm.
Denny slipped his other arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. “Kinda takes you back, doesn’t it? ” he murmured between booms and falling twinkles above our heads, his eyes fixed on Andy’s face, angelic in sleep. “Maybe we—”
“Denny!” I pulled away from him, aghast. “Maybe we nothing! We’re over forty! ”
“So? Look at Ruth Garfield. She’s pregnant, and she’s almost fifty.”
“Denny! Be serious. You know getting pregnant at her age is a big risk. All sorts of things could go wrong.”
Three big booms went off in a row, followed by brilliant corkscrews of light in red, white, and blue. Andy stirred. Denny sighed. “Yeah, I know. But maybe we shouldn’t have stopped at two. Three kids. Or four. That’d be nice.” He shifted Andy’s weight, brushing back the curls from the boy�
��s sweaty forehead.
I giggled. “Yeah, but I guarantee they wouldn’t be cute three-year-olds at this point. They’d all be teenagers. And we’ve already got two of those.”
But Denny’s musings left me unsettled. Ruth Garfield. Forty-nine going on fifty and pregnant. Hoo boy. After several miscarriages and a foster daughter who’d been reclaimed by the natural mother, Ruth had seemed resigned to childlessness. Which was fine by her husband, Ben, who was at least ten years her senior and looking forward to retirement. Then Ruth had missed several Yada Yada meetings the past couple of months. “Not to worry,” she’d said, waving off our concern. “What’s a little stomach upset? ”
Some stomach upset.
The doctor told her she was almost three months. Due around Christmas.
Ben had blown a cork. Acted as if Ruth had gone behind his back or something. Pushing her to get an abortion before something went terribly wrong . . .
The finale burst into the sky over Lake Michigan, booms and whistles and wheees raining stars down on the hundreds of boats out on the water, their running lights aglow. “Hey, Little Guy. Look.” Denny shook Andy awake. The little boy sat up, blinked, then clapped his hands in wonder.
I watched Becky’s child, wondering about the child growing in Ruth’s body. Boy? Girl? Healthy? What were the risks for a pregnancy at fifty?
The sky hushed. Sulfur smoke drifted lazily downwind.Boats set a course toward their harbors. Denny hefted Andy onto his hip, and we headed back toward the el station, carried along by the crowd.
I really needed to call Ruth and find out what was happening.
Like tomorrow.
HOLIDAY OR NO HOLIDAY, Willie Wonka nosed me out of bed the next morning with his usual urgency. “Why don’t you pick on Denny? ” I grumbled as I let the dog out the back door. But the dog and I both knew no amount of cold-nosing would wake up the Slumbering Sack. Wonka scrambled down the porch steps and headed for the far back corner of our postage-stamp yard to do his business.