by Neta Jackson
Denny looked up, holding the piece of bread and the cup. “Don’t we have a chance here to take one giant step in that direction—to be one with another part of Christ’s church? ”
17
T hey should’ve included the teens in that meeting.” Amanda pulled a pout on the way home from church. “We have opinions, too, you know.”
I could practically hear my father: “Some things are for adults to decide.” But Amanda had a point. Whatever we decided would impact everyone at Uptown Community, big-time. Even the kids. Maybe especially the kids. Huh. Hadn’t thought about it that way before. But the decisions we adults made said a lot about what our priorities were—spiritual and otherwise. Our kids were watching.
“Nothing was decided,” Denny said, “except everyone agreed we need to sell our building. Pastor Clark asked all of us to take one month to pray, and we’ll make a decision next Communion Sunday.” He cocked an eyebrow in Amanda’s direction. “You can do that, too, you know, kiddo. Pray about it.”
Josh was quiet on the trip home. I wondered what he was thinking. In fact, we hadn’t really talked since our visit to Jesus People yesterday—and tomorrow was the first day of his jobless-schoolless life. As soon as we pulled into the garage, Amanda ran into the house—to call José and tell him Uptown was falling apart, no doubt—but I grabbed the little stepladder and a scooper of birdseed to fill my neglected bird feeder. Josh steadied the ladder for me. “Can I talk to you and Dad a few minutes? ”
“Uh, sure.Give me a minute.” Was I ready for this? I poured the birdseed slowly into the feeder. By the time I stowed the ladder and scooper, Josh and Denny were already ensconced on the back porch swing with glasses of iced tea.My glass sat on the porch railing. I unfolded a lawn chair by the railing and sat, studying my two men. Denny, casual in his khaki slacks and pale green short-sleeved dress shirt, a new job title tucked in his pocket, had reined in all the practical questions about a merger with New Morning and taken us to the core issue: did we really need the other parts of the body of Christ? Josh, still wearing those pathetic shredded jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt—OK, at least it was clean—had taken Pastor Clark’s buildup and reduced it to the bare bones of what our gentle pastor was trying to say: sell the building, give the money to New Morning for renovation, and merge the two churches.
Now this six-foot fruit of my womb wanted to talk. I had no idea what to expect.
“OK.” Josh blew out a breath. “I’m not sure how all this fits together, but I know you guys don’t want me just hanging around.”
Good.We had one thing straight.
“I’m really interested where this idea of merging with New Morning Church is going to go. Far as I’m concerned, we could have made the decision today. But . . .” He shrugged. “Guess people gotta think about it.”
“And pray,” I said. “We sometimes forget to ask what God wants us to do. At least,” I admitted, “I know I do.”
He nodded. “Well, yeah, that too. Still, if we do go that direction, I’m real interested in Pastor Cobbs’s vision for reaching out to the kids in the Howard Street area—gang kids too.Not just church kids, like Uptown. I’d like to get involved. Don’t know how. But that means waiting till Uptown makes a decision, unless . . .” He frowned. “Guess I could just change churches.”
Denny and I looked at each other. Josh was lost in thought for half a minute. Then he said, “But I’d like to wait till the next meeting, anyway, see what happens. As for Jesus People, I had a long talk with Edesa on the phone last night. She’s really interested in that Manna House. It’s not like Jesus People—the staff isn’t residential. So if we volunteered at that shelter, I’d still have to live at home—if that’s OK with you guys.”
Long talk with Edesa . . . if “we” volunteered . . . Um, God? You’ve got this under control, right?
Josh put up his hands. “OK, I know what you guys are thinking: all that’s fine and good—”
Were we?
“—but what about a job? Well, I’ve been thinking about that too. Remember when Peter Douglass asked what I was planning to do after I graduated? Said he might have a job for me if I was willing to go full time. So” —he blew out another breath, like the last five minutes had taken more energy than he had stored up— “thought I’d go see him tomorrow at his company, see what he’s got.Work the volunteer stuff around the job. I could maybe pay you guys rent or something.”
Josh collapsed against the back of the swing and drained his glass of iced tea as if saying, Done.
Denny and I were both silent for a few moments. Kinda iffy on all counts. But Denny caught my eye and raised an eyebrow. I gave a short nod.
“All right. Guess that’s OK for starters.We’ll talk again if you get the job.” And that was that.My two men got up and wandered back into the house.
But I sat on the porch a few minutes longer. Pray first, Jodi, not later. “OK, God,” I murmured, “You’ve heard it all. I don’t understand what’s going on with Edesa and Josh. She’s at least three years older than he is, sailing through college, but it almost sounds like they’re making decisions together. At least about this Manna House thing. A job with Peter Douglass, well, that would be great. But he made that offer to Josh months ago. So, God . . .” I searched my heart.What did I want for my son? Or was that the right question?
Suddenly I remembered what Nony had said about Josh several weeks ago as we all kept vigil for Mark in the ICU. “God has plans for that young man. Not your plans. Don’t stand in his way. I believe God will use your Joshua like the Joshua of old, to fight a battle that the older generation did not fight.”
This time I was the one who blew out a breath.Give up my own expectations for Josh? My ideas of what was best for my kids? Hard to do. But I tried again. “So, God, please,work out Your purpose for Josh—and don’t let him get caught or led astray or . . . or hurt along the way.”
DENNY GOT UP, PUT ON A TIE, and went to work at West Rogers High School as the new athletic director the next morning. Josh left the house and came back a few hours later—ta da!— employed. Working in the shipping department at the Chicago branch of Software Symphony, Inc., as assistant to Carl Hickman, starting tomorrow. Amanda got a call from one of her babysitting parents wanting to know if she’d be a daytime nanny for their three kids for the month of August.When she hesitated, they upped her hourly rate. I saw her eyes go big.
To celebrate the new jobs, I made one of our favorite summer salads—bow-tie pasta with grilled chicken, lemon, nuts, and grapes—served with sliced melon and grilled bread, and invited Stu and Becky downstairs to join us for supper. “Yeah, well, hope you can be celebrating for me soon,” Becky said. “Yo-Yo and Ruth got an interview for me at the Bagel Bakery next Monday. Don’t know much about baking stuff, though.Might have to start by sweeping floors or something.”
We clapped and cheered as if she already had the job. Oh God, thank You. You are so good . . .
Stu was serving up banana splits with three kinds of ice cream, hot fudge, fresh strawberries, and whipped cream—her contribution to the celebration—when the phone rang. Amanda, always the first one to jump at the phone, said, “Oh.Hi, Mrs.Hickman,” and handed it to me.
“Jodi! What’s all that laughing? You guys havin’ a party without me? ”
I giggled. “Hi, Florida. Come on over! We’re just celebrating the new jobs. Did Carl tell you Josh is going to be working for him? ”
“Yeah, he tol’ me and he’s real glad too. Some nights he been so overworked, he don’t get home till eight or nine. And you know we movin’ this Saturday. I need that man around here bad. Anyway, that’s why I’m callin’. You guys comin’ to help out? ”
I covered the mouthpiece. “Hickman move. Saturday. Everybody on? . . . Yeah, you can count on four Baxters and Stu. Becky says, sorry, she’s grounded by the State.”
“All right. Say, Jodi, can you do your e-mail thang and ask the rest of the Yada Yadas? We need all the help we can get.”
>
WE FOUR BAXTERS AND STU showed up at the Hickmans’ thirdfloor apartment at eight o’clock on Saturday, along with Peter Douglass and a couple of guys from Software Symphony, Edesa Reyes, and José Enriques. (José brought regrets from his mom—Delores had to work pediatrics at the county hospital that weekend.) Even Ben Garfield showed up in his big Buick with Yo-Yo and her kid brothers, grumbling about the narrow streets and nonexistent parking.
Not Avis. She begged off, saying she had to take care of grandson Conny. Didn’t say where Rochelle was.
Not Ruth—for obvious reasons. “But ask Ben, Jodi,” she’d said in response to my e-mail. “Do him good to get out of the house. OK, OK, I’m lying. Do ME good to get him out of the house.”
Not Nony and Hoshi. In fact, I didn’t even ask. They already had their hands full at the Sisulu-Smith house.
Not Chanda, who knows why. She still didn’t have e-mail and didn’t return my call. Maybe the kids picked up the message and didn’t give it to her.
Not Adele. Saturdays were her busiest days at Adele’s Hair and Nails.
We still had a good crew. The men and teen guys lugged furniture down the outside stairs of the apartment building to the rented moving van in the alley, wrestling couches and mattresses around sharp landings, while Amanda and Edesa helped pack the kids’ bedroom (still looking as if a cyclone hit it). Stu and Yo-Yo volunteered to clean the stove and refrigerator, leaving Florida and me to tackle the bathroom.
Every now and then, we heard shouts from the furniture crew: “Watch it! Watch it!” “Chris! Grab that corner!” “¡Espere un min-uto!” . . . and stupid jokes: “Hey, Hickman! Why don’t we just toss those mattresses over the side and drop everything else on top? ”
Taking a break from the strong ammonia fumes in the bathroom, I gulped fresh air at the back door of the apartment before tackling the medicine cabinet. “Chris seems to be working well with the guys out there,” I said to Florida, who was scrubbing the life out of the tub. “He doing OK? ” I still felt a little guilty that I hadn’t said anything to her about the spray-painted wall at the Wilson el station with Chris’s “signature.” But I didn’t know it was Chris, did I? Only had José’s word, and he could be wrong.
“Yeah.Guess so. He’s pretty mad we’re movin’. Doesn’t want to go to a new school. But guess he resigned himself. He’s still only fourteen. Not like he’s grown.”
The bathroom squeaky clean, Florida disappeared for half an hour and returned with doughnuts and store-bought lemonade. “Break!” she yelled out the door to the men. “Oh, mercy. It’s starting to rain.”
Indeed. Gray clouds and a light drizzle had settled in over the city.We all crowded together on the third-floor back porch, downing doughnuts and gulping lemonade, talking and laughing. Chris, José, Yo-Yo’s brothers, and Josh and Amanda huddled in one corner and I heard “Cornerstone” at one point. That was the last time they’d all been together; probably comparing notes on the bands they liked or hated. I smiled. Good that they had that experience in common.
The wind picked up,warm and wet. “Mr.Hickman!” José called out. “The rain’s blowing into the van! I’ll close it.” The boy ran down the stairs and out into the alley, passing a couple of black teenagers on the way. “Hola.” His easy greeting floated back up to the movers on the porch.
I watched curiously, licking the last crumbs of the blueberry doughnut off my fingers. The boys glared at José, as if he’d insulted them. But they turned back, shielded their eyes against the drizzle, and hollered up. “Hey, Hickman”
Carl Hickman leaned over the railing. “What you boys want? ”
The boys smirked. “Uh, hi, Mr. Hickman. We came to see Chris. He here? ”
Beside me, Edesa’s body tensed. “¡José! Venido aquí. Ahora!”
Chris swore under his breath and started down the stairs. “Chris!” Florida hollered after him. “Don’t you go runnin’ off now! ”
The roll-up door of the rental moving van slammed shut, and José headed back toward the building, running through the rain. We saw him lift his hand as if greeting Chris in passing—and the next second stumbled off the narrow sidewalk as Chris, hands in his pockets, shouldered past him—almost as if he’d given José a shove with his body.
“Chris!” his fathered hollered. “You get back up here!”
But the fourteen-year-old put his head together with the other two—and disappeared down the alley.
18
José made no comment when he got back to the third floor, but I noticed he seemed withdrawn the rest of the move. He even avoided Amanda, which put a kink in her ponytail. I didn’t think Florida had seen the body language that went on between José and Chris; she was just fussing that he disappeared. “That boy done cut out for the last time! He gone be lucky if I let him back in the house.”
“But Mama!” Carla’s face puckered. “What if he don’t come back ’fore we move? Does he know where our new house is? ”
Florida was unmoved. “Humph. That his problem, now, ain’t it? —Carl! You ready for boxes now? ”
Edesa tried to say something to José, but he just shrugged her off and started lugging boxes down the stairs. “What went on out there? ” I murmured to her a few minutes later as we tackled the boxes stacked in the hallway, when I was sure Florida or Carl wouldn’t overhear. “Chris acted like he didn’t even know José—no, worse than that. As if he didn’t exist.”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure. But the way those boys looked at José, I was frightened. That’s why I called him to come back. Black and Latino gangs are at each other’s throats on the West Side. Maybe here too.”
“But José isn’t in a gang! Remember, he stood up to some gangbangers, maybe it was even Latin Kings, when they were selling drugs in the park where his kid brother and sisters played! Then that rival gang showed up . . .” I swallowed. That was the phone call that glued us together as a prayer group at the women’s conference where we first met—Delores’s son in the hospital! Caught in gang crossfire, trying to get his siblings out of harm’s way. “And he and Chris were both laughing and talking not thirty minutes ago.”
“Sí. But Chris’s friends don’t know that. I suspect Chris acted that way to save face.”
Now I was mad at Chris. “What kind of friend is that? Couldn’t he have just said, ‘Hey guys, this is my friend, José, he’s helping us move’—or something? ”
Ben Garfield’s voice sailed down the hall. “Jodi Baxter! You and Edesa gonna jabber all day? We need some more boxes!”
Edesa grabbed a box labeled Carla’s Stuff. “All I know is, the Enriques family is likemi familia.” Her eyes teared up. “I don’t want José to get hurt again.”
THE TRUCK GOT LOADED BY NOON, and Carl asked Denny to drive the rental truck to the Hickmans’ new address on North Ashland in Rogers Park. That was the first time I realized that Carl Hickman didn’t have a driver’s license.Duh, of course.No car, no driver’s license. Peter Douglass, who somehow ended up with a carload of teenagers, showed up at the new house with a couple of buckets of Buffalo Joe’s hot wings and five liters of soda. José seemed to have snapped out of his funk. He and Amanda were sitting together on the front steps, sucking the life out of those hot wings.
The frame house was old, badly in need of paint, and looked tiny squeezed between three-story apartment buildings. But it had two small bedrooms downstairs and two upstairs, plus a separate second-floor “apartment” in the back. “An’ a front porch!” Florida crowed. “I’m gonna get me a wicker rocking chair, jus’ like my grandmama used to have back in Memphis. Mm-hm.” Her eyes got dreamy, her upset at Chris momentarily forgotten.
Fed and sassy, the teenagers came up with a brilliant idea, lining everybody up from the truck to the front door, passing boxes hand to hand. “Huh,” Yo-Yo snorted. “Takes me longer than that to get Pete outta bed in the mornin’.” Even unloading the furniture seemed to go faster on this end of the move.
“Yada Yada still meetin’
at my crib tomorrow? ” Yo-Yo asked hopefully as we finally dragged our weary bodies to our cars.
“What about Ruth? ” I asked. “You know, stairs.” Yo-Yo’s motellike apartment building had one flight of outside stairs to the balcony walkway in front of the second-level apartment doors.
Ben, waiting on Yo-Yo to get in the monster Buick, snapped, “Ruth’s not coming. Even if you lived in a basement. Doctor’s got her back on bed rest.”
Yo-Yo, Edesa, Florida, and I looked at each other. How did we miss this new development?
BUT BEN WAS RIGHT. I called Ruth the next day when we got home from Second Sunday Potluck, and she said, yes, she’d been ordered back on bed rest at her last prenatal appointment if she didn’t want to miscarry. “A few sick days I’ve still got. So I call the office;my boss has a snit. Can the man find anything when I’m not there? Make his own phone calls? Oy. Helpless as a goyim in a Yiddish restaurant.” She sighed. “I was hoping to use all my sick days when the baby—uh, babies arrived.But I don’t know, Jodi.My job might be kaput when all this is over. One more thing to upset Ben.”
For the first time since she’d announced she was pregnant, Ruth sounded discouraged. And frankly, I didn’t know how to encourage her without stomping all over Ben’s concerns. The tension between Ruth and Ben made my head ache.