by Neta Jackson
What are friends supposed to do in a situation like this, anyway? I thought, riding with Stu and Becky toward Yo-Yo’s apartment a couple of hours later, half-listening to their chatter in the front seats.
“Kinda cool to see more people from New Morning at the potluck,” Becky said. “What? Roll up the window? But it’s hot! —Oh.” She fiddled with the power window as Stu turned the AC on full blast. “Preacher Cobbs’s wife even asked me my name, called me ‘Sister Becky,’ like I was a regular saint.What’s that people call her? First Rose somethin’? ”
“First Lady Rose.” Stu pulled her Celica into the parking lot of Yo-Yo’s apartment building. “I think it’s a black church thing. Sign of respect for the pastor and his wife, I guess.Would take getting used to, though.” Stu came from the school of first-name egalitarianism. No titles.
“Huh.” Becky chewed on that a while. “Guess it’s good Pastor Clark ain’t married if Uptown and New Morning do that joining thing. Can’t see two ‘first ladies’ in the White House, the doghouse, or any house.”
We were still laughing about that as we punched Yo-Yo’s door bell, then trooped into her barely furnished apartment. “Hey, Becky.” Yo-Yo gave Becky a high five. “Glad your PO gave you the OK to pray with Yada Yada.Guess the penal system finally figgerin’ out that religion helps.”
As I hugged Chanda, Delores, Edesa, and Nony, who had already arrived, my mind strayed to Yo-Yo’s comment. Funny. Didn’t think of my faith as “religion.” Other people had religions: Muslims,Buddhists, Hare Krishnas. Christians and Jews were supposed to have a relationship with God. Big difference in my mind. But Yo-Yo had a point. Excons who went to prayer meetings—Yada Yada or otherwise—probably lowered the recidivism rate.
Yo-Yo’s furniture consisted of one ancient couch and several mismatched dining room chairs, which meant more of us had to join Yo-Yo on old bed pillows on the floor. Besides Ruth, several others were missing. Florida, who never skipped, was too over-whelmed with unpacking. ( “Mi still not unpacked,” Chanda sniffed. “What de big deal? ” ) Florida hadn’t been to church either. “We still callin’ Chris’s friends, tryin’ to find him,” she’d told me on the phone, her tone rippling between worry and fury. “That boy! Lord, give me patience!”
Adele wasn’t coming; she’d had an upset with MaDear.
“And Hoshi stayed home with Mark and the boys so I could come,” Nony said. “I wish . . .” But she didn’t finish. Just picked at her nail polish.
Avis arrived last—with her daughter Rochelle. “I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead. Rochelle is staying with us for a few weeks. I told her she’d be more than welcome.” A smile tickled Avis’s face. “Peter’s babysit-ting Conny. It’ll be good for him.”
Rochelle cast her eyes down as if embarrassed.Didn’t blame her. After all, her abrupt arrival two weeks ago had disrupted our last Yada Yada meeting.To our credit, though, everyone said “sure” and kept the greetings low-key, not making Rochelle’s presence a big deal. She settled on a floor pillow near her mother, a vision even in slim faded jeans, sleeveless top, and toe sandals. Her hair was a long, thick fall of kinky curls with rusty highlights. Her nutmeg skin showed little sign of the bruises she’d had two weeks ago. But her sad eyes were a window into the bruises in her heart.
Delores, who’d come straight from work at the county hospital, leaned over, gave Rochelle a hug, and whispered, “Dios le bendiga. God bless you, my daughter.”
Avis cut through the usual chatter. “Sisters, let’s spend a few minutes in worship before we share requests. Try to lay aside all the pulls and tugs for our attention, and consider who it is who hears our prayers. Immanuel, God with us. Jehovah-Jireh, our provider. Jehovah-Rapha, our healer. Jehovah-Shalom, our peace.We have so much to be thankful for, in spite of the concerns we have.” She began to pray aloud, just worshiping; others joined in. But without Florida and Adele, and with a subdued Nony, our worship seemed more restrained than usual. Or maybe it was just me. Funny how I let how others worshiped influence my own expression to God.
Well, I wasn’t going to let it. I grabbed my Bible and opened it to Psalm 139, paraphrasing as I read along, adding my voice to the other prayers. “Lord, You know all about me. You know when I’m resting and when I’m working. You even know what I’m thinking—”
“Ouch,” Yo-Yo muttered. Chanda giggled. The other prayers dropped to a murmur. I seemed to have the floor.
“Everything I do is familiar to You. You know what I’m going to say even before I say it, and You protect me from every side. How can I even begin to understand how wonderful You are? —”
To my surprise, another voice cut in. Nony, her Bible closed, took up the familiar psalm straight from her heart. “Where can I go from Your Spirit, O Lord? Where can I flee from Your presence? If I go up to the heavens, You are there; if I make my bed in the depths, You are there too.”
For some reason, Psalm 139 broke open our worship.We sang “thank You” hymns and songs, read Scripture, added prayers . . . until Avis herself brought worship to an end. “Nony? How can we pray for you? ” she asked gently.
Nony’s face was wet. “Oh, sisters. I am tired of bringing my sorrows to you. I feel so selfish. Mark is improving little by little—for that, I do thank God. But it will be a long time before our family is back to normal, before we can think of other things. And . . . I feel so useless. Like God has put me on a shelf. I wanted to help my suffering people in South Africa, and now I’m just . . . a nursemaid.” She smiled ruefully. “See? I told you my thoughts are selfish. Pray for me, my sisters, that I would grow in patience. That I would learn to wait on God.”
I reached out and held Nony’s hand. Good grief, Lord, I’m the one who’s selfish. How easy I get caught up keeping my own household running and forget to call Nony and Hoshi. I still had a couple of weeks before school started. Maybe there was something else I could do.
“Yeah, you can pray that waitin’ thing for me too,” Becky chimed in. “Y’all know I been goin’ nuts just hangin’ around Stu’s house. Drivin’ Stu nuts too—”
“Amen to that.” But Stu’s smile took away any sting.
“—but the good news is, Yo-Yo and Ruth put in a good word for me at the Bagel Bakery, an’ I got an interview tomorrow. Y’all can pray about that. Kinda nervous.” Becky seemed embarrassed at the “Yea, Becky!” and “You go, girl!” comebacks.
“Uh, speaking of Ruth . . .” Yo-Yo stuffed her hands into the bib of her overall shorts. “Tell ya the truth, I don’t know how to pray ’bout her. Sometimes . . . I dunno. Almost agree with Ben.Not sure she should push this pregnancy. Heck, the lady’s almost fifty!” She made a face. “Sorry. Tryin’ to clean up my language . . . but she’s already been in the hospital twice. I thnk Ben’s scared. Grouchy ol’ goat is still the closest thing to a father I ever had. He’s been real good to me an’ the boys. He’s got his reasons for thinkin’ like he does.”
I tensed. Yo-Yo was practically saying Ruth should end the pregnancy! I expected a flurry of protests, with Bible verses flying through the air. But there was only silence. I was shocked. Was everyone in Yada Yada thinking the same thing?
19
Stu cleared her throat, breaking the silence. “Uh, I know Ruth’s being real stubborn, maybe even stupid about not getting any of the tests they want to do because of her highrisk pregnancy. But I just want to say that I, um, I . . .” She cleared her throat again, struggling to find words.
My skin prickled. Leslie Stuart never had trouble saying exactly what she thought. But last spring Stu told me she’d share her story with the rest of Yada Yada “when the time was right.” Only Florida and I had been with Stu the weekend we discovered the secret she had carried for so long.Was she going to—?
“—I mean, we all know Ruth has always wanted a family but had all those miscarriages, and the foster girl she wanted to adopt was returned to the parents. But I mean, at a deeper level I understand. You see . . .” Stu took a deep breath. “I once cho
se to end a pregnancy. I had an abortion, and it is a decision I have regretted every day of my life since. I . . . thought I knew what was best for me at the time, but . . . nothing hurts like knowing you threw away the life of your own child.” Tears slid down Stu’s face and dripped off her chin.
“Oh, mi amiga. God knows,” breathed Delores, handing her a tissue. Becky’s eyes were wide with shock.
Stu mopped at her face but didn’t stop. Her tone became fierce. “Ruth has lost several children—not by her own choice. You think she’s going to choose to end this pregnancy, risky though it is? I, for one, understand why she’s willing to take those risks. All the risks. I would give anything, anything, even risk my life, if I . . . if I . . .” She mopped the flood of tears again. “. . . if I could hold my baby David in my arms for even one hour.” Stu buried her face in her arms, her shoulders shaking. Delores wrapped her arms around her.
My own face was wet with tears. David. “Beloved.” The name I’d suggested for her aborted child, a name she’d embraced like salve to a wound.
The room was quiet, except for a few sniffles . . . and then Avis began to hum. The tune seemed familiar, but for a moment, I couldn’t place it. And then Nony began to sing the words quietly. “A saint is just a sinner who fell down . . . and got up.”
There. Stu’s secret was out. I was glad. The look on Stu’s face as we joined in the song reminded me of a parched field after a good rain.
We spent a lot of time praying for Stu and Ruth and Becky and Nony, throwing in other concerns and thanksgivings on top of them. Delores said José had applied to Lane Tech College Prep High School. “Pray he will be accepted.” Huh. Wonder whose idea that was. But Ricardo’s threat to take José out of school had galvanized Delores to do just the opposite: send her firstborn to college.
Chanda said she was heading for Hawaii the following week. “T’ree days and t’ree nights, all free!” she giggled. “I’m taking de boy, but you can pray about me girls. Me sister gone back ’ome to Jamaica, so mi needing somebody take care o’ dem.” She looked directly at me, and I had a feeling . . .
Sure enough. Chanda grabbed me as Yada Yada broke up and began to disperse. “Sista Jodee! What about your Amanda? I pay her good to come take care of my girls.Mi hear she de best baby sitter in Chicago.” Chanda laughed appreciatively.
Aha. She wanted Amanda! But my relief drained out the sieve of reality. “Ah, I’m sorry, Chanda. Amanda has a nanny job the whole month of August. Otherwise, I’m sure she’d be glad to . . .What? ”
A gleam still shone in Chanda’s eye. “Den, what about she mama? Such a short time; only t’ree days—”
“Five, Chanda. It takes a day to get there and a day to get back from Hawaii.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. Then she smiled slyly. “Well now, mi knows you don’ want to leave dat Denny mon to sit at mi ’ouse. So mi girls, dey could come to your house, eh? Mi pay you too!”
“Ah, uh, I . . .” My mind scrambled. Surely I had something to do next week. Our anniversary! No, that was this week. Amanda’s birthday, that was it! But we had said just cake and ice cream this birthday, even if it was her “sweet sixteen,” since she’d had a huge Mexican quinceañera at fifteen-and-a-half. “I need to check my calendar, Chanda.” And buy some time.
“No problem! Mi call you tomorrow. De girls, dey be so happy to stay wit you!” And Chanda bubbled out the door to a waiting taxi.
DENNY WAS ON THE PHONE when I got home. Sounded like the August men’s breakfast was turning into a workday at New Morning’s facility. I studied the kitchen calendar. Five days taking care of Chanda’s girls would pretty much kill my last full week at home before the required professional development days just before Labor Day.
I poured myself a glass of iced tea and went out to the swing on the darkened back porch to think. Everybody else in Yada Yada was either working or had really good reasons not to nanny-sit two extra kids. What was my excuse? I was off for the summer. Was I just being selfish wanting to salvage my last few days of summer break? Once school started, I’d have a classroom full of eight-year-olds—more than full, if Avis’s predictions were accurate—five days a week for the next nine months!
But if I didn’t take the girls, where would that leave Chanda?
The cicadas, invisible in the darkness, struck up a rousing chorus. Denny came out onto the back porch, iced tea in one hand, a candle jar in the other. He set the flickering candle on the porch railing and sank into the swing beside me.
“Hey,” he said, reaching out a hand and twirling my limp brown locks around his index finger. “Why don’t you make an appointment at Adele’s shop, have her do that twisty thing with your hair again for our anniversary? ” A slow grin spread across his face in the candlelight. “You looked pretty hot, gotta say that. And wear that slinky black dress I got you. We’ll do dinner and a show on Thursday, OK? ”
OK, OK. Had to figure out Chanda first. “Um, Denny? Chanda asked me if I’d be willing to take care of Dia and Cheree when she goes to Hawaii next week.”
Denny snorted. His touch in my hair disappeared. “Hawaii! How many days are you talking about? You didn’t say yes, did you? ”
I was startled by his reaction. “Well, no. But I don’t really have a good reason not to. School hasn’t started yet, and—”
“Well, I can give you some good reasons. One, I’ve just started a new job. It’s stressful. I don’t want a houseful of little kids underfoot for a whole week.”
“You! You’ll be at work all day. I’d be the one taking care of them.Why is this about you? ” I could feel my back stiffening.
“OK. Reason number two. School starts in a couple of weeks. Don’t you have lesson plans to do? If you end up babysitting for a week, I know you; you’ll be up half the night after everyone’s gone to bed in order to be ready. Then you’ll be tired, cranky, burn the coffee—”
“Oh, stop. See, it is about you.You just don’t want a cranky wife.” I meant to say it jokingly, but it came out nasty.
He flinched. “Of course it’s about me—and you, and Amanda, and Josh. When are you going to realize that your Yada Yada friends sometimes have to take a backseat to your family? You don’t have to say yes to everything.”
I felt my defenses rising. “Of course our family comes first! But just how terrible would it be to spread some of our blessings around a little bit? We’ve been married twenty years—”
“Twenty-one next Thursday.”
“OK. Twenty-one! My point exactly. A grace Chanda has not enjoyed for even a day. She’s got three children by three different daddies, not one of whom offered to marry her. She likes our family. I’m sure she thinks the girls would be safe here. Not only that, Denny Baxter. Before Chanda won the lottery, before she had scads of money at her disposal, while she was still cleaning houses on the North Shore, struggling to make ends meet—it was Chanda who showed up at our house after my car accident and cleaned it from top to bottom, no charge. Wouldn’t this be a way to thank her? ”
Denny zipped his lip and looked away. The cicadas were deafening. Then he got up, sending the swing wobbling. “Fine. Do what you want to do.” The screen door banged behind him.
We slept that night two feet apart, backs to each other.
AMBIVALENCE BOUNCED ALL OVER MY THOUGHTS the next morning: Mad at Denny for turning a simple request into major marriage muck. Mad at Chanda for giggling her way to Hawaii, oblivious to everything but her own greedy pleasure. Mad at myself for not knowing what I should do. I felt caught between Chanda and Denny and my own mixed-up motives.
“OK, Lord,” I muttered, taking my Bible and a mug of coffee out to the back porch swing after the three worker bees had scuttled out the door. “How did this get to be such a big deal? ” I sat quietly, my Bible closed, watching the sparrows fight over the dwindling birdseed in the birdfeeder. Argh. Hated to admit it, but Denny was right. I was feeling like I “ought” to do it. But was “ought to” such a bad thing? If we only did wh
at we wanted to do, it’d be a pretty selfish world.
On the other hand, maybe I “ought to” consider my husband more. If he said it’d be stressful having two little girls underfoot all next week so soon after starting a new job, why didn’t that weigh more with me than doing Chanda a big favor? And he was right. That would be my last chance to get my lesson plans in order, do all my preparation for school, set up my classroom . . .
But how could I say no to Chanda? If I didn’t take the girls,who would?
Then I started to laugh. Here I was,wrestling with my “problem” in good Old Jodi style.Didn’t Scripture say we could ask for wisdom? I flipped open my Bible to the book of James.There it was in the first chapter: “If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him.”
I took a deep breath and blew it out. “OK, God, I need some wisdom. I don’t know what to do. I don’t really want to take care of Dia and Cheree for five whole days, but kinda feel I ought to. But what’s right for my family? What’s right for Chanda? Will You show me? ”
No big answer thundered from the clear blue sky. Even the Voice in my spirit was quiet. But I suddenly felt untangled. OK, the problem was in God’s lap. I didn’t have to solve it right this minute. I felt . . . free.
I popped out of the swing, startling Willie Wonka who was already deep into his first nap of the day at my feet. I called Adele’s Hair and Nails to make an appointment for Thursday morning to get my hair done.Maybe I’d go early and take MaDear for a walk in her wheelchair. Only ran into one hitch. Adele’s assistant was sick, and she had to reschedule all this week’s appointments.Didn’t have anything free until Saturday morning, and that was because she just got a cancellation. Saturday! Oh well. Denny would have to take his bride “as is” this time—or go out on Saturday evening instead.