by Neta Jackson
“Jodi, is Edesa still volunteering at that women’s shelter on the North Side? ”
“Manna House? ” I nodded. “Josh too. Most weekends. Friday night, all day Saturday.”
“Do you know the add—”
“I don’t want to go to a shelter, Mama!” Rochelle’s eyes flashed, in spite of the puffiness. “I came to you for help, and you’re going to send me to a shelter? ” She stood up, hauling Conny up onto her hip. “Fine. It was a waste of time coming here.”
“Sit down, Rochelle.” The firmness in Avis’s voice took me by surprise. “But you did come here. And I’m glad.” Her voice softened. “What did you expect me to do at school? You can’t stay here.”
Rochelle rolled her eyes, still standing. “Oh. Well. I came here because if I showed up at your apartment, just Conny and me, Big Boss Man Peter would throw me out. But I thought my mother might take me home with her. Yours and daddy’s home, Mama. Where we were always welcome until . . .” She pressed her beautiful mouth into a tight line and slumped back into the chair. Conny whimpered. She put the toddler over her shoulder and rubbed his back.
Avis closed her eyes a moment, steadied herself on the corner of the desk. Then she motioned me outside, shutting the door behind us. The office had cleared, though there were still a few stray parents and teachers out in the hallway. I closed the main office door, locked it, and turned the wands on the Venetian blinds covering the office windows between office and hallway. Diffused light filtering through the blinds bathed the office in a tranquil hush, as if the sound had been turned off.
I leaned against the door. I had never seen my friend look so stressed. “Avis,” I whispered, “can’t you just take Rochelle and Conny home with you tonight and decide what to do tomorrow? Peter isn’t that mean; he wouldn’t just kick them out, would he? ”
She sank into an office chair and shook her head. “No . . . yes. I mean, if Rochelle would come just for one night, long enough to decide what to do, yes, that would be fine. Peter and I have even talked about that. But I’m afraid she’s stubborn enough to do a standoff, and he’d literally have to throw her out to make her leave. We . . . I don’t want that.” Avis pressed her fingertips to her temples. “It’s not like we haven’t taken them in several times in the past few months. And I have to agree with Peter: we aren’t the solution to this mess she’s in. But . . .”
Tears slid down her face. Had I ever seen Avis cry? I could hardly imagine having to choose between my husband and my child—even if she was grown. And then Avis was weeping silently, shoulders shaking.
I grabbed some tissues from the box on the counter, pressed them into Avis’s hand, and just held her and let her cry.Then, as her weeping calmed, I found the telephone and punched in my home number. “Josh? Hi, it’s Mom. I need the address to Manna House. Are you or Edesa going there tonight? . . . Good! Avis is bringing her daughter and grandson there tonight; she’s going to need a friend . . .What? What about Carl Hickman? ”
I pressed the phone to my ear. Josh kept talking, but his words didn’t compute. My mouth went dry. My heart seemed to hang, suspended, in my chest.
No, noooo . . . this can’t be happening!
“What about Carl Hickman? ” I heard Avis echo my own question. She blew her nose and looked at me as I hung up the phone.
I turned slowly to face her. “Carl and Florida didn’t show for Carla’s conference tonight. I was really mad too.” Oh God, forgive me! “But Josh said Carl got a call at work this afternoon, around five o’clock. Chris was picked up by police along with some other guys, something about” —I tried to push the words out— “an armed robbery.”
41
I don’t believe it!” I told Denny. I paced back and forth in our kitchen while he opened a couple of cans of tomato soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches. “Chris is mixed up, doesn’t always make the right choices—but he wouldn’t take a gun and point it at somebody—no, no, no, I don’t believe it.” I grabbed the phone. “I’m going to try Florida again.”
Still no answer. Oh God! What is happening? Where are they? If they’re at the police station, who’s taking care of Carla and Cedric?
“Jodi, sit down and eat. You’re a wreck. You’re making me a wreck.” Denny balanced two small plates with the grilled sandwiches on top of two mugs of hot soup and carried them into the dining room. But I wasn’t thinking about food.
“Some friend I am,” I muttered. “Carl and Florida didn’t show up for conference, but was I worried something might be wrong? Oh, no. I think they’re blowing it off. That they don’t care.” I stared morosely at the steam rising from the soup mug.
Denny ate his soup and sandwich in silence. I resented the fact that he could eat. Didn’t he care? Two of our best couple friends were in agony tonight over their children! Avis was probably still down at Manna House, not wanting to leave her daughter and precious grandson at a shelter, for heaven’s sake! . . . Carl Hickman was probably at the police station; Florida too—unless she was still working two jobs. Why didn’t I think of that possibility when she didn’t show for Carla’s conference?
The phone rang. I jumped, looked at the caller ID. Hickmans. “Hello? ”
“Hey, Jodi.”
Not Florida. Sounded like . . . “Becky? ”
“Yeah. Just wanted to let you guys know that Stu and I are over here at the Hickmans—just got here actually—with Carla and Cedric. Florida called, asked us to come pick them up at the police station. Guess you probably heard about Chris.”
Florida called Stu and Becky? Why didn’t she call us?
I squeezed my eyes shut. Oh Jesus, forgive me for making this about me.
“I’m . . . I’m glad you and Stu are with Carla and Cedric, Becky. I was worried about them. And we only heard the bare bones about Chris from Josh—that he got picked up by the police.” I couldn’t bring myself to say armed robbery. “What do you know? ”
“Only what Carl and Flo told us.Guess he hooked a ride home from school with some guys in a car; they stopped at a gas station. One of the guys ran in, pulled a gun, robbed the cash. Chris swears he didn’t know anything about it! Guy ran back to the car, laughing . . . next thing Chris knows, police are all over the car, got all the kids spread-eagled, found the gun, cuffed ’em all.”
Relief flooded my spirit. “But if Chris just happened to be in the car, they can’t keep him, can they? I mean, sounds like only one guy went in the store.”
“Huh. They still gonna book him. They got that Accountability Law now. If you didn’t do it but you’re with the perp who did, they gonna charge everybody with the same thing.”
I licked my lips and looked at Denny, who was trying to piece together this one-sided conversation. “Which is . . .? ”
An entire two seconds of silence went by. “Armed robbery. They’re takin’ him ta juvie.”
“JUVIE.” The Cook County Juvenile Detention Center.
I couldn’t sleep.Were Carl and Florida still at the police station? Florida must be going crazy.What was “juvie” lke? As bad as the stories we’d heard about Cook County Jail? The adult prisons? Young man makes a mistake, gets incarcerated, comes out a bona fide criminal. Oh Jesus! Don’t let this be the beginning of the end for Chris.
But maybe it didn’t have to be. Both Becky and Yo-Yo had survived prison, and look at them now!
I heard Josh come in about midnight. I padded out into the hallway in my robe and slippers. “Hey,” he said. “You didn’t have to wait up.”
“Didn’t. Couldn’t sleep. How are Rochelle and Conny? ”
His grin slipped a little. “Not very happy campers. Mrs. Douglass looked on the edge too. But . . . guess they’re OK. Edesa is spending the night with Rochelle, helping her get settled. She didn’t bring much—just one bag for her and the little guy.When I left, they were trying to figure out how to go back to her house, get her things without creating a big scene with Rochelle’s husband.” He yawned, stretching. “You should go to bed, to
o,Mom. ’Night.”
Yeah, right. How could I go blissfully to sleep if Avis was still down at the shelter, hating to leave her precious daughter there alone? How could I crawl into my comfy bed when Florida was probably lumped in some uncomfortable plastic chair at the police station, worried sick what was going to happen to her boy?
I made some hot milk with honey and curled up in the recliner in the dark living room.Willie Wonka, confused by all this nighttime wandering around, heaved a sigh and stretched out on the floor beside me. The tree branches outside our bay windows were bare. Occasional car lights lit them up, like skinny arms lifted toward heaven . . .
I should pray. I used to pray in the nighttime for Hakim Porter last year. Everyone said God had put the brother of the boy I’d killed in my classroom for a reason.Why hadn’t I been praying like that for Carla and Chris? Maybe my prayers for Hakim had been selfish, because I wanted—needed—him to succeed and learn and be healthy to exonerate me. Had God put Carla in my classroom for a reason? Brought our families together for a reason?
To stand with each other.To pray, if nothing else.
Oh God, I’m trying to pray, to learn what it means to use “spiritual weapons,” but I still fail so often. Forget to pray until things fall apart. Forgive me, Lord! But I’m praying now, for my hurting friends and their hurting children . . .
“HONEY? JODI? ”
Denny’s voice swam somewhere above my head. I opened my eyes. He was leaning over me, hands resting on the arms of the recliner. “I’m going to pick up Ricardo for the men’s breakfast. Invited Ben, too, but he’s coming on his own. If Carl’s not there—my guess is he won’t be—I’m going to stop by the Hickmans to see him before I come home. Hey, Jodi! Wake up. I’m leaving.”
I blinked at him and smacked my dry lips. “Mm, yeah, OK. Got it.”
My neck ached from lolling at a strange angle in the recliner. I briefly considered crawling into my bed and going back to sleep, but I finally lowered the footrest with a whump and meandered into the kitchen, wrapped in the afghan my grandmother had crocheted. The coffeepot was half-full of hot coffee . . . the swing on the back porch danced in a stiff November breeze . . . the birds pecked hopefully at the empty birdfeeder.
Saturday was up and running. I might as well be too.
I was lugging laundry down to the basement when I heard clumping feet on the back stairs and knocking at our kitchen door. I ran up the stairs and pulled open the door. “Becky! What’s up? You guys just getting back from the Hickmans? What’s happening to Chris? ”
“Uh . . .” Becky looked as if she was sorting through my questions, then she shrugged them off. “Just wanted to tell ya I’m movin’ today into that little apartment above the Hickmans.”
“Becky! I thought you weren’t gonna move till the end of the month—Thanksgiving weekend or something.” I pulled her inside and shut the door. November was flexing its muscles today.
“Yeah, but we talked this morning when she an’ Carl finally got back from the police station—hey, can I have some of that coffee?
” She poured herself a cup. “They booked all the boys, took ’em to juvie. It’s gonna be a long haul till Chris gets a hearing; they gotta get a lawyer, all that stuff.We decided it’d be helpful if I moved in early—ya know, another adult in the house for Carla and Cedric when they gotta be gone.”
Whew. My head was spinning. Chris had been charged and taken to the detention center, the Hickman family probably felt like that game of Fruit Basket Upset, and Becky was moving out. In. At the Hickmans.
I found my voice. “Wow. Yeah, guess it makes sense to move now. But I’m sure gonna miss you, Becky.”
“Yeah. Me too.” She suddenly stooped down and scratched the dog’s ears. “’Specially Willie Wonka. Gonna miss me, Wonka? Huh? Huh? ”
OK, I wasn’t going to take that personally. “Uh, do you need some help moving or anything? The minivan’s not here this morning, but maybe this afternoon . . .”
Becky stood up. “Nah. I don’t have that much stuff. Stu said she’d try to fix me up with some of the basics. Maybe go to a few garage sales, get dishes, pots and pans, stuff like that.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” I laughed. I really laughed. That’s what Stu always used to say when I tried out one of my ideas on Yada Yada. Well, this time, I had a better idea. “What you need, Becky Wallace, is a housewarming party. We’re going to make it happen! But you need to register at Target and Linens ’n Things—places like that.”
Becky’s face was blank. “Register? ”
I laughed again and gave her a hug. Oh God, it feels good to laugh even when our hearts are full of pain!
DENNY STILL WASN’T HOME BY ONE O’CLOCK, so Stu and I took Becky to register at Target in the Celica. It was like shopping with a new bride. She was starting from scratch.We’d need more people than just Yada Yada to get all the basic stuff she needed—and we did have to explain that these were just suggestions of what folks could get for her, that she probably wasn’t going to get it all.
Denny was home when I got back, making himself a late lunch. He’d been over at the Hickmans, said Carl seemed to appreciate that he’d stopped by. “They believe Chris, that he didn’t have anything to do with the robbery, but he’s going to need a good lawyer. Right now, he’s been assigned a public defender. But it’s going to be tough. Some of the guys in the car were known gang members, probably pulled the stunt to prove their stuff. It’s a tough lesson for Chris about who you hang around with.”
He swigged a glass of milk as he leaned against the kitchen counter, then waggled his eyebrows at me. “Hey. Ben Garfield showed up at the men’s breakfast. All the Uptown guys were glad to see him again; we introduced him to Pastor Cobbs, Sherman Meeks, some of the New Morning men. At the end, when it was time to pray, Ben asked us to pray for his babies. That’s what he said: ‘Pray for my babies.’”
I stared at Denny. That was huge. Ben Garfield had asked prayer for his babies?
I finally had a chance to talk to Florida on the phone later that day. “Florida, I’m so sorry about Chris. You must be going out of your mind! But we want to stand with you through this, whatever it takes. The rest of Yada Yada too.”
Did I know what I was saying? What would it take?
She was quiet a long time. “Yeah. I guess. I’m just . . . tired of talkin’ ’bout Chris, worryin’ ’bout Chris, everybody askin’ ’bout Chris, prayin’ for Chris. People get all holier than thou, poor Florida, sure glad my kid’s not in some mess—know what I’m sayin’? Don’t really want to talk about it right now.”
Whoa. I heard “back off ” and “don’t want you and your perfect little family to feel sorry for me.” But if I hung up that phone—no. I got stubborn. “Don’t do that, Florida. Don’t bottle it all up and try to carry this on your own. Isn’t that what we’ve learned in Yada Yada? That Scripture tells us to carry each other’s burdens? ”
“Know what, Jodi? I’m not bottling it up or goin’ out of my mind, like you said.Not feelin’ all upset. I’m really OK. Fact is, you really want to know what I’m feelin’? ”
“Well . . . sure.”
“Relieved.”
42
Relieved? Didn’t understand it at first. But I shut up and listened. Flo said she’d been sick with worry for months, dreading that Chris would get caught up in a gang, end up in jail, or get shot in a drive-by like so many other young black men.
“But I been prayin’ for that boy, Jodi. Askin’ God to do whatever it takes to turn him around.An’while I was sittin’ there at the police station, bein’ ignored by the officers, waitin’ ta find out what was happenin’ . . . I suddenly felt the peace of God come all over me. Like God was sayin’, Well, you said, ‘Do whatever it takes.’ An’ this mornin’, when I woke up after gettin’ a few hours’ sleep, I realized I wasn’t worried for the first time in months. Felt big relief, in fact. I knew where Chris was. He wasn’t out on the street. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t sk
ippin’ school. Did you know they got a decent school at juvie? Kids can keep up with their schoolin’, even get their GED while they waitin’ for the system to bring up their case.” She snorted. “’Course, can’t promise you I ain’t gonna be mad again on Monday. Mm! Jesus, help us!”
I SAW FLORIDA TALKING TO AVIS the next morning at church. Made me realize a lot had happened since Yada Yada met a week ago at the Sisulu-Smiths, stuff that couldn’t wait until our next meeting to pray about. And then there was Hoshi—had anyone called her to find out if she’d talked to Sara since the fiasco last Sunday night? I knew I hadn’t—not with everything else that had happened this week.
But I saw her come in with the Sisulu-Smith family, so I pulled her aside before the service started. “Hoshi, I’m so sorry I didn’t call you this week. I’ve been praying for you and Sara, though.Did you get a chance . . .? ” I stopped as her almond eyes lowered. “Hoshi? Are you OK? ”
She nodded. “But Sara didn’t come back to class all week. I am so worried. Now that I know her background, I realize entering university was a big step for her. I wish I knew where she lived or had a telephone number for her. But . . .” Her eyes lowered again. “I don’t know if she will talk with me again.”
“We’ll keep praying, Hoshi. I don’t believe God is finished here yet, like Adele said. God chose you to be her friend.”
I was going to ask if she was at peace with Mark and Nony over what happened last Sunday—but just then the sax player and praise team launched the worship service with “Let everything that hath breath praise Him!” Hoshi quickly slipped into the row next to Nony, who gave her a sweet smile.Guess that answered my question.
The gospel song was new to me, but Denny and I sat next to Debra and Sherman Meeks, which helped. “Lift up those hands and praise Him . . . Clap those hands all ye lands . . .” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Little Andy Wallace in the aisle clapping his hands happily, then jumping up and down when the praise team sang, “Move those feet, get out of your seat, It’s time to praise Him!”