by Neta Jackson
“Who, me?” Florida shrugged. “Oh well, why not. My name is Florida Hickman. I’m five years saved and five years sober, thank the Lord. Got three kids. Two are living with me right now; the oldest one is ADD, otherwise they doin’ good. My husband works full time”—she gave a little laugh—“lookin’ for work.”
“Uh-huh. Kick the loser out,” muttered Adele.
I nearly fell off my chair. The nerve! I imagined myself Walter Mitty-like telling the woman to shut up. But no one else must have heard her, and Flo just carried on. “But thank God, I got my GED, passed the civil service exam last year, and got a job at the Chicago post office that puts food on the table. So I can’t complain. I’m blessed!” She smiled sweetly at the Hispanic lady. “Now you.”
I wanted to snort. Florida let drop more in sixty seconds than I would in a month of Sundays, given the same situation. What kind of precedent did that set?
“Si. No problem.” The woman next to Flo gestured with every sentence. “I am Delores Enriques from Iglesia del Espirito Santo, and I work as a pediatric nurse at Cook County Hospital.” I couldn’t speak Spanish, but I was pretty sure she said “Church of the Holy Spirit.” Delores’s eyes rolled up, as though searching her brain for more information. “Um, my husband, Ricardo, drives truck, and we have five kids, from five to fourteen.” She shrugged. “Guess that’s it—oh!” She turned to the slim young black woman on her other side. “This is Edesa, from my church. She babysits for my kids, and she’s good—but don’t nobody steal her!” Delores gave the young woman a squeeze.
Well, it was rolling now. Edesa seemed shy, with a trace of an accent. Jamaican? Haitian? Didn’t Haitians speak French? Why would she end up at a Spanish-speaking church? Edesa didn’t say much, just that she was a student at some community college, but I didn’t catch which one.
I hadn’t really noticed the woman next to Edesa. But when she spoke, her voice was soft, cultured, almost European—which startled me because she was black. Not black-black, like some Africans I’d met, but rich brown, like Starbucks coffee beans. And she wore a scarf in an African print tied smartly around her head and wore a matching tunic in orange and black. How could I not have noticed her?
“I am Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith. Just Nony is all right,” she added, seeing that several of us didn’t quite get it. “My homeland is South Africa, but I came to the States to go to the University of Chicago, where I met my husband, and so here we are. I love the Lord, and that’s why I’m at this conference.” She gave a little shrug as if to say that’s all. I wanted to say “More! More!” But she had already turned to the tall Asian girl next to her. “This is Hoshi Takahashi. She is a student in my husband’s history class at Northwestern University—he’s a professor there.” Nony’s smile now was wide and genuine. “Hoshi just became a Christian!”
The young woman nodded and smiled and nodded. “Yes! My name is Hoshi. I am student from Japan. Like Nony say, she tells me about Jesus and I am new Christian.” She beamed. “Glad to be here. Glad to know all of you. Glad to practice my English!”
Okay, I was impressed. Prayer Group Twenty-Six was practically a mini–United Nations.
Silence reigned. I leaned forward slightly to see if there was someone hiding between Hoshi and Adele. Nope. It was Adele’s turn.
The big woman sighed. “Adele Skuggs, just like it says here on my name tag. ‘Adele’s Hair and Nails’ on Clark Street in Rogers Park, if any of y’all want a makeover.” Her voice seemed to take on a smile at the mention of her beauty shop, and I glanced at her. She had a small gap between her two front teeth I hadn’t noticed before. I quickly looked back at my lap. “Oh, yeah,” Adele added, “I’ve been a member of the Paul and Silas Apostlic Church on Kedzie since I was in the children’s choir. Me and Chanda over there.” She nodded at another woman we hadn’t got to yet. She folded her arms. She was done.
My turn. I suddenly felt about as interesting as an economics textbook. But I couldn’t invent an exciting persona on the spot— besides, Avis was sitting next to me—so I stuck to the truth. “My name is Jodi Baxter. I’m married, have two teenagers, and I teach third grade at Bethune Elementary in Rogers Park.” I skipped the born-in-Iowa-recently-moved-from-the-suburbs part. I was sure everybody would automatically think Hick Chick. “I’m a member of Uptown Community Church in Rogers Park, and Avis Johnson, who is the principal of the school where I teach, invited me to this conference . . . so, here I am!”
“What kind of church is Up-town Com-mun-ity?”
I was startled by Adele’s question. No one else had gotten questions. And the way she pronounced every syllable of the church name made it seem like a challenge.
“Uh, it’s nondenominational. Just . . . Christian. You know.” It sounded lame.
The big shoulders next to me shrugged. “Just asking. All sorts of unitys and communitys out there. Just ’cause you put the name church on somethin’ don’t mean anything these days.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak. What was this woman’s problem?
Avis came to the rescue. “I think it’s my turn. My name is Avis Johnson, and as Jodi said, we both attend Uptown Community Church in Rogers Park. I grew up Church of God in Christ but began attending Uptown a couple years ago because I like the emphasis on bringing people to Jesus, not bringing them to a denomination. Like this conference. We’re about Jesus, right? Unless you tell me different, I assume that’s why we’re all here.”
Thank you, Avis, I breathed inwardly. I kept my eyes riveted on my friend’s face, not daring to look at Adele on the other side of me.
“And I’m glad to have us introduce ourselves,” Avis continued, “but I think the whole idea is to spend some time praying. So maybe we can move along and share some prayer needs. Or pray for the conference itself. Speakers . . . praise team . . . women who need healing in their lives.”
With that admonition, the remaining women in the group quickly introduced themselves:
Chanda George,Adele’s friend, had a Jamaican accent that was a little hard to understand. I wondered why she and Adele weren’t sitting together. Maybe they just attended the same church so they got put in the same prayer group.
Leslie Stuart (“Just call me Stu,” she said) was in her mid-thirties, long and shapely, with big eyes and long blonde hair with dark roots. Didn’t say what church she came from, just that she was a real estate broker in Oak Park, Chicago’s first suburb to the west. “I think we should pray for the peace of Jerusalem,” she announced.
The peace of Jerusalem? Seemed a little off the mark at the moment, though the Middle East was a hotbed in the news. But the middle-aged white lady on the other side of her immediately said, “Amen! As Jerusalem goes, so goes the world. And as long as we’re praying for peace, pray that I don’t knock off my husband. I won’t go into details. Details, shmetails. If you’re married and human, you know what I mean.” She rolled her eyes and sighed.
Chuckles around the group broke the crust of awkwardness and seemed to let in a breath of fresh air.
“Oh. My name is Ruth . . . Ruth Garfield. I’m new to this Christian thing, too. Popular in my family, I’m not. And if I knock off my husband, they’ll definitely blame it on being a lapsed Jew.”
The chuckles burst into outright laughter. “You are a cool lady!” Florida said, wagging her forefinger at Ruth. “Maybe we could knock off our husbands together.” She simpered at the rest of the group. “Just kidding. Just kidding.”
“Sure you are, honey,” muttered Adele next to me.
There was still one person to go. Another white girl—woman, rather. At first glance she looked young, her short hair bleached blonde on the tips and combed in the spiky look popular in those big Calvin Klein ads on the sides of buses. She wore denim overalls, which, I had to admit, looked youthful and cool but out of place among the carefully dressed women in pantsuits and business dresses, and Nony in her exotic African garb. But as she pursed her lips, as though considering what to say, I realized he
r eyes betrayed hardships beyond her years.
She shrugged. “I’m just . . . Yolanda. They call me Yo-Yo. Don’t know why I’m here. I’m not really into this Jesus thing you talk about. But you guys are all right. I’m cool with that.” She shrugged again. “I’m with her”—she jerked a thumb in Ruth’s direction.
“A cook she is, at the Bagel Bakery in my neighborhood.” Ruth winked. “She makes pastry to die for.”
That’s interesting, I thought. “Where’d you learn to cook, Yolan—uh, Yo-Yo? Professionally, I mean.”
Yo-Yo’s lips tightened, and for a brief second her eyes took on a wary look, like a cat in a corner. Then the shrug again. “Lincoln Correctional Center.” She let it hang in the air. “Prison,” she added.
Lincoln? The new Illinois women’s prison? I could have slapped my mouth. I’d only meant it as a friendly question.
Yo-Yo glanced around the quiet circle. “What’d I do—punch everybody’s bozo button?”
“Don’t you worry about it, honey,” Adele spoke up. “We all got skeletons in our closet of one kind or another . . . all of us.”
I didn’t dare glance at Adele. Did she mean that for me?
Yo-Yo leaned forward, elbows on her knees, worn athletic shoes planted widely on the floor. “I’m not ashamed of it. Not like I axed anybody or anything. Served eighteen months for forgery. Had my reasons. But I did the crime, served my time. It’s behind me now.” She sat back, casually hooking one arm over the back of the chair. “Ruth, here, put in a good word for me at the bakery, helped me get a job. Ain’t easy to get work after you’ve done time.”
Gosh. I felt like I’d opened Pandora’s box. Obviously there was a lot more history to Ruth and Yo-Yo’s relationship than met the eye. And what did Yo-Yo mean, “had my reasons”?
“I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.” Avis’s voice broke into my thoughts. “I’d like to pray for Yo-Yo, if that’s all right with the rest of you—and you, Yo-Yo?”
Once more Yo-Yo shrugged. “Hey, if it makes you feel good. Just . . . you know. Don’t get all hyper.”
Avis stood up,moved to the outside of the circle behind Yo-Yo, and began to pray. “Thank You, Lord. Thank You, Jesus,” she began.
That was smooth. Avis had a kind of authority—not bossy, just firm, confident—that gathered up the loose ends and knotted them so they wouldn’t fray any further. At least we were finally praying—which was the point, after all.
“Others of you, feel free to pray,” Avis invited a few moments later. To my surprise, Florida knelt down in front of Yo-Yo, laid a hand on her denim knee, and began to pray in a loud voice, praising God for new beginnings. I wasn’t sure how Yo-Yo reacted to being the focus of attention, because my own eyes misted up, and I had to fumble around in my pockets for a tissue.
After a while, Avis moved behind Ruth, laid a hand on her shoulder, and began to pray for the marriages in the group that were on rocky ground. Ruth and Florida had been pretty blunt about theirs . . . didn’t know about any of the others. At least my marriage was solid, thank God.
At one point I glanced at the clock: 10:47 . . . and Avis was still going strong.
4
It was almost 11:30 by the time Avis and I got back to our room. Florida said she’d be up in fifteen minutes— probably stepped out for another cigarette. Told us she’d be real quiet when she came back. I hoped so. I was tired.
“You didn’t leave at ten,” I teased as Avis pulled out the sofa bed in the “sitting room” part of the suite. I found two puffy pillows on a shelf in the closet and tossed them in her direction.
“I knew it would go late,” she grumbled, unzipping her suitcase and pulling out a black-and-gold caftan. Man, it looked comfy— and a whole sight more elegant than Denny’s Chicago Bulls T-shirt that I usually wore.
“Sorry you stayed?”
“Hmm. No.” Avis carefully wrapped her head with a black scarf—to preserve her hairdo, I presumed—and knotted it on her forehead. “Once we got to praying. It was the idea of sitting around talking with a bunch of strangers that put me off.”
I studied her curiously. That was the part I liked, once we escaped the cast of thousands—well, hundreds—in the main session. “Oh. Sorry if I got us off track by asking everybody to introduce themselves.” I wasn’t really sorry; somebody had to get us rolling. But the introductions had gone rather long.
“You surprised me, jumping right in like that. But I think people were glad you did,” she said. (Except Adele, I thought, but kept that to myself.) “We can spend more time praying the next time we get together,” Avis went on, picking up her toilet kit and disappearing into the bathroom. “What time did we agree to?” she called back.
I raised my voice. “Nony suggested 7:00 a.m. Before breakfast. Think anyone will show after going so late tonight?” I was personally hoping we’d all oversleep. At this moment seven o’clock sounded like the crack of dawn. But the water was running in the sink now, and there was no answer.
By the time I used the bathroom and came out,Avis was in bed and the lights were out in the sitting room. I left the bathroom light on and the door open a crack for Florida and crawled between the sheets of the humongous king-size bed on the side next to the window. My body was tired, but my mind still felt all wound up. The main session had been pretty good, even if it was loud. Prayer Group Twenty-Six was going to be interesting. I liked knowing a few more people at this conference by name. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so out of place.
The door to the suite clicked open, and two seconds later Florida slipped into the bathroom and shut the door. When she came out, I lay still, hoping she’d think I was asleep. I was too tired to do any more talking. But opening my eyelashes a crack, I noted she had her beaded braids wrapped in a scarf like Avis’s. Must be an African-American thing. But her big Chicago Bulls T-shirt? I grinned inwardly. Just like me.
SOMETIME DURING THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, I awoke and went to the bathroom. By the time I came back into the bedroom, my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I stopped short. Florida wasn’t in the bed. Her side was rumpled, and I was pretty sure I remembered when she’d crawled in. Remembered I’d been glad it was a king, which left lots of room for two people not used to sleeping in the same bed.
But where had Florida gone? Surely she didn’t have to have a cigarette in the middle of the night! Curious, I opened the French doors between the bedroom and sitting room and peeked in. Only one lump in the sofa bed. I tiptoed in, shuffling old-lady slow so I wouldn’t bang into something. There was another lump on the floor between the sofa bed and the window. The air conditioner— hardly needed in early May—was humming steadily. Florida? Why was she sleeping on the floor?
I crawled back into the king-size bed feeling confused. Sure, it felt awkward to sleep in the same bed with a virtual stranger. When it turned out we had three in our room, I would have preferred sharing the bed with Avis. Or sleeping by myself on the sofa bed, lucky Avis. But I hadn’t thought about how Florida might feel. Was it just too weird sleeping with a white girl? Nah, I told myself. Couldn’t be that. Florida seemed cool with that. No chip on her shoulder—not like that Adele. But a sense of rejection settled over me like the kid who got no Valentines.
Suddenly I missed Denny terribly. Missed reaching out and resting my hand on his arm, feeling the rising and falling of his steady breathing as he lay on his side. Missed snuggling against his bare back and fitting my body into the curve of his legs. Missed the comfort and safety that his mere presence fed into my spirit. Missed knowing that I belonged.
I even missed the kids. Missed getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and peeking into their rooms to be sure everyone was okay. That was when I fell into my deepest sleep, knowing we were all under one roof, safe and sound and together.
Did they miss me? Was anyone losing any sleep at the Baxter house because Mom . . . Jodi . . . wasn’t under that roof? Did the house feel incomplete without me?
I sighed.
Probably not. Teenagers were too self-centered to even notice Mom was gone. And Denny . . . he would miss me, sure. But once he fell asleep? He wouldn’t notice I was gone till morning.
Lying there awake, taking up a miniscule slice of space on the king-size bed, I felt terribly alone . . . and lonely. It wouldn’t feel so bad if the conference was over tomorrow—make that today, since it was obviously past midnight already. But I’d paid for two nights. Two long nights!
From here, Sunday felt like an invisible speck on the distant horizon.
I WOKE UP TO THE SOUND OF THE SHOWER. Rolling out of bed, I pulled back the “blackout” hotel curtains and was nearly blinded as a wash of sunlight poured into the room. Blue sky . . . sunshine . . . what a great day to go for an early morning walk. Denny and I often walked to Lake Michigan on weekend mornings, only a few blocks from our house. “The lake,” as everyone calls it, is Chicago’s playground, lapping at the sandy beaches and rocky breakwaters that define miles of parks along the shore, filled with joggers and bikers, in-line skaters and dog-walkers, picnickers and bench sitters, volleyball players and windsurfers, kids and old folks and family reunions. The lake is what made city living bearable for me and a million or so other small-town transplants.
But the steady hum of cars and eighteen-wheelers on I-90 reminded me that on this particular Saturday I was a prisoner in a fancy hotel with undoubtedly no place to go walking except the parking lot.
What time was it anyway?
The door to the bathroom opened as I squinted at my watch— six-twenty—and Avis emerged in her caftan with a plastic bonnet over her night scarf. I hadn’t seen a plastic bonnet since high school days, when my mother wore one in the shower to protect her monthly permanent. Avis looked at Florida’s empty side of the bed, jerked a thumb in the direction of the sitting room, and whispered, “What gives with that?”