2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  I was the only one who saw Stu come into the room. I scanned her face. Bad news? Good news? “Stu! What’s happened?”

  The prayers abruptly stopped. Stu took a deep breath. “He’s okay—shot in the back, but not fatal—”

  “Thank ya, Je-sus!” Florida shouted. Chanda gripped her head and started jumping up and down. Several burst into tears and dropped to their knees. “Hallelujah!” . . . “You are a mighty God!” . . . “Ha! Satan, you’re a liar!” filled the room for several moments.

  I wanted to say, “Hush! Hush! Let’s hear what happened.” But obviously some of the other women had heard what they needed to hear. Delores Enriques still had her son! José was not dead! The “enemy” had been thwarted!

  GRADUALLY THE STORY CAME OUT—what Stu knew of it, anyway. She and Edesa had not been allowed to see José, only family. They’d paced and prayed in the waiting room for a couple of hours while José had surgery to insert a tube in his chest cavity— she wasn’t sure why. At one point several police came in, asking to speak to José Enriques. Stu and Edesa could only wait helplessly. Finally Delores came out, worry mixed with relief.

  Evidently José had taken his siblings to the park near their house in the Little Village neighborhood. José’s sister Emerald said a bunch of gangbangers—Spanish Cobras—were hanging in the park, “doin’ business.” José had told them to move somewhere else (Unbelievable! Pretty brave for a fourteen-year-old, I thought) so the kids could play. The Cobras started yelling, so José had corralled the little ones and was hustling them out of the park, when . . . here Emerald said she didn’t know what happened. But she heard car tires screeching, then some gunshots—and suddenly her brother was down on the ground, groveling in pain.

  Stu said Delores had broken down weeping at that point in the story. “It could have been Emerald—the twelve-year-old—or any of her ‘babies.’ ” The police weren’t making any statements at this point, Stu added, but witnesses in the park said José got hit by a bullet when a bunch of Latin Kings showed up and started a shouting match over Cobras doing business on King turf.

  “King turf?” I blurted.

  Yo-Yo spoke up. “Cobras makin’ a big mistake if they mess with the Latin Kings. Kings are everywhere, and they don’t take kindly to anybody messin’ with their turf.”

  I stared at her. How did she know that? Prison education? But I’d heard enough. Kids getting hit by stray bullets just going to play in the park? I brushed aside the nagging thought that I’d been quick to assume José himself was in a gang, just because he got shot. I latched on to the most important thing: Delores still had her son; they’d get through this.

  The big-faced clock in the room said nearly eight o’clock. Most of us still needed to get showered and dressed for the day— in a hustle if we didn’t want to miss breakfast. Several others must have had the same idea, because we started drifting toward the door. Crisis was over.

  But I heard Yo-Yo’s voice again. “What are you guys going to do?”

  I turned back, prepared to offer my short list: shower, clothes, breakfast.

  “How do you mean, do?” Ruth asked in that funny, backward way of hers.

  “About Delores. What are you going to do about Delores?”

  There was an awkward silence, which Yo-Yo took as an invitation. “You guys been talkin’ all night to the Big Guy upstairs about Delores’s boy. Looks like He gave a pretty good answer . . . for starters. But everybody just goin’ to go home? Like this prayer group never happened? Delores might still need you, you know.”

  9

  Later, sitting with Avis and Florida in the Sunday morning worship service in the ballroom, I thought about what Yo-Yo had said. For somebody who wasn’t into the “Jesus thing,” Yo-Yo had sure seemed to nail the “Jesus thing” that time.

  Avis had said it was a good question. “Let’s meet one more time after the morning worship and talk about what we want to do.”

  Sunday worship was the fourth main session of the weekend— not counting the banquet—and to tell the truth, the pounding gospel music had begun to burrow its way into my soul . . . “The devil is defeated! We are blessed!”

  That was true enough this morning. Last night I, for one, had thought Delores might be attending her son’s funeral. Not Avis, though. She obviously wasn’t about to accept defeat—hers or anyone else’s—as long as she had breath to claim victory. That took faith—a lot more faith than I seemed to have. Funny. I’d always presumed I had a strong faith. Let those Commies come and send me to Siberia unless I recant! Ha! Do your worst! But on an everyday level, my mind tended to weigh in all the “realities.” Most people don’t get healed from cancer . . . Denny got bumped from the high school coaching job he wanted . . . A lot of poor people pray, but they still go to bed hungry . . .

  The music was going over the top. “I’m coming back to the heart of worship . . . it’s all about You, Jesus . . .”

  I closed my eyes, for once oblivious to what Florida and Avis were doing. I want to learn how to worship You, Jesus. I want a bigger faith. I want to learn how to pray. And, yes, I want to know what You created me for . . .

  When the morning speaker—Evangelist Olivia Mitchell again—asked, “Who wants God to show you who He created you to be? Who wants to step into your spiritual destiny? Come on down here to the front. We’re going to pray for you,” I planted my feet firmly. No way was I going up. I didn’t want to cry or have hands put on me or get laid out. I could pray right here in my row, thank you.

  But when both Florida and Avis went up—and I saw Nony and a couple of others from our prayer group up front—I reached down for some courage. Jodi Baxter, didn’t you just tell God you wanted to learn more about worship . . . about faith . . . about prayer . . . about yourself? Well, go get prayed for, girl!

  Fortunately for my shaking knees, there were so many women who came to the front for prayer that the speaker just touched each woman on the forehead with oil and kept praying as she passed down the line. But even that brought tears to my eyes, to feel that touch, to be included in the prayer. I had the strange sense I was being sent on an adventure into the unknown . . . without a map.

  WHEN THE SERVICE WAS OVER, the ten of us in Prayer Group Twenty-Six—Edesa had stayed at the hospital with the Enriques family—gathered once more in Meeting Room 7. One of the other prayer groups was also meeting in the room, so we pulled our chairs closer together in order to hear.

  “Well,” Avis said, “Yo-Yo asked what we’re going to do about Delores. What are you thinking, Yo-Yo?”

  Yo-Yo slouched in her chair like a denim-clad log, shoulders and fanny barely touching the chair, her legs stretched out their full length, her hands jammed in the pockets of her bib overalls. “Yeah. The way I see it, something got started here, and you guys stood up with Delores in a big way with that chain prayer thing. But it ain’t over yet.”

  We all glanced at each other, then a few suggestions trickled out.

  “If we had her phone number, we could call her, let her know we’re still praying for her.”

  “Or maybe some of us could visit José in the hospital—Cook County, wasn’t it, Stu?”

  I took a leap. “I’ve been thinking about what Yo-Yo said. There’s no reason we couldn’t continue this prayer group.”

  “Oh, really!” Adele snorted. “My guess is the folks in this room live all over the city. Lawndale . . . Little Village . . . Austin . . . and half a dozen other neighborhoods. Not an easy commute to get together at 7:00 a.m. for a prayer meeting.”

  I could feel my ears turning red. But I pressed on. “I realize that. But if we had each other’s telephone numbers and e-mail addresses—”

  “What? Like a phone chain?” Florida asked.

  Stu groaned. “That could take forever to get around—or get stuck in somebody’s voice mail.”

  “But how about e-mail?” I pressed. “If we had each other’s e-mail addresses and each created a ‘group list’ in our address book, then
if someone has a prayer request, they could send it to the whole group with one e-mail.”

  The idea sat out there for a moment or two, then Florida piped up. “I like that. That works for me.”

  Stu tucked a long blonde lock behind her ear. “But maybe not everyone has e-mail. Let’s see hands of those who don’t.”

  Yo-Yo and Chanda were the only ones who waggled their hands.

  “Not to worry, Yo-Yo. My e-mail is your e-mail.” Ruth patted Yo-Yo’s knee. “I’ll bring it to the café when I get my rugelach.”We had no idea what rugelach was, but the rest of us couldn’t help but laugh.

  “But what about Delores and Edesa?” Stu pressed. “What if they don’t have e-mail?”

  “I’ll call them and find out.” I lobbed the ball right back into her corner. “Did you get Delores’s phone number last night?” I dug around in my tote bag and pulled out my notebook. “Look, I’ll send this around and everyone can put down their e-mail addy and their phone number. Snail-mail address, too. Then we can make a list—can’t tell when it might come in handy.”

  “You are the queen of list-makers, girl!” Florida crowed.

  “Um,” said Hoshi. We all looked at her. The Japanese student had said so little in the group that even “um” got our attention. “I have e-mail, fine. But if we create a group list in our address book, we need a name. Not just ‘Number Twenty-Six.’ ”

  Chuckles rippled around the circle again.

  “Just call it Prayer Group,” said Stu. She sounded annoyed.

  “Prayer Group, yada yada, whatever,” said Yo-Yo.

  Ruth twisted her motherly self to the side and looked at Yo-Yo like she’d just said something brilliant. “I like that. The Yada Yada Prayer Group. It means something, I think.”

  “Yeah. ‘Whatever,’ ” echoed Adele. She shook her head as though she couldn’t believe we were having this conversation.

  I snatched back the initiative. “Yada Yada it is—whatever it means.” I wrote it at the top of the page of my notebook, scratched my address, phone, and e-mail on it, and started it around the circle. “I kinda like it, too.” It kinda fits this motley crew, I didn’t say. And we’ll never agree on a name, so “whatever” is fine.

  Avis smiled. “Well, I don’t know about Yada Yada as a name, but keeping in touch and sharing prayer requests by e-mail is a good idea. Jodi, will you send that list to all of us by e-mail? But we still have Yo-Yo’s question to answer. What are we going to do about Delores? I think it would mean a lot if a few of us—wouldn’t have to be everybody—could visit José in the hospital. And the rest of us could call Delores and share a promise from the Word or pray with her on the phone.”

  “Now you’re talking,” said Yo-Yo. “Sign me up to visit José.”

  I TENTATIVELY SIGNED UP to visit José Enriques with Avis on Monday night if he was still in the hospital—pending Denny’s schedule, since he sometimes had to coach late afternoon sports at West Rogers High School. As we packed our luggage and said our good-byes to Flo, I felt really weird. We’d been thrown together for three days and two nights, right down to our toothbrushes and sleep shirts . . . and now I wasn’t sure when—or if—I would see Florida again. Our lives were about as different as two people’s could be, but I liked her. Really liked her. I could only imagine everything she’d been through, but she was so . . . so upbeat. So close to God. Where did that come from?

  “Sorry about the snoring,” I told her sheepishly as we folded up the sleeper sofa and returned the cushions to their rightful place. “Next time you take the bed, and I’ll take the floor.”

  “Next time?” Flo wiggled her eyebrows. “Well, girl, you come visit me, and for sure I’ll take the bed and give you the floor.” She laughed. “Only got one bed, anyway. The kids are already sleeping on the floor.”

  I tried not to look flabbergasted. Kids sleeping on the floor? Oh, well. Not my business. But I did have something I was curious about. “Flo, when we were sharing stuff for prayer, you asked us to pray about getting your family back together again. What did you mean?”

  Avis, coming out of the bathroom with her cosmetic bag and toilet kit, heard my question and gave me a look. Like maybe I was getting too personal.

  “That’s okay. You don’t have to say,” I added hastily.

  Florida shrugged, her brow knit into a frown. “No, it’s all right. Just hard to talk about. Truth is, I can’t find my baby. DCFS took all three of ’em when I was strung out on drugs and put ’em in foster homes. Carl—their dad—wasn’t in any shape to take care of ’em, either. Since I’ve been straight, I’ve got the boys back— Cedric, he’s eleven, the one who’s ADD, and Chris, he’s thirteen. But my girl—she’d be eight now—the foster family who had her just . . . disappeared. Even DCFS can’t find ’em.” Florida’s eyes puddled. “Scares me sometimes that maybe I won’t find her.”

  “Oh, Florida!” I put my arms around her in a tight hug. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  “Not find her? Oh, no, we’re not going to go there,” Avis said firmly. “That’s Satan telling you one of his rotten lies. Father”— and she started right in praying—“we rebuke Satan and all his lies. We reject discouragement. We claim victory right now for finding Florida’s little girl . . .” The three of us stood in a little huddle for several minutes while Avis prayed. When she was done praying, I didn’t want to let go of their hands, didn’t want the moment to end. But we parted, finished packing quietly, and headed for the lobby to check out.

  “You got a ride?” Avis asked Florida as we said our good-byes beside the hotel’s revolving door.

  “Yeah, Adele said she’d drop me off. We don’t live too far.”

  “Are you in Rogers Park, too?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t had time to look at the list of addresses that had gone around.

  Florida nodded. “Yeah. Almost to Edgewater. Only a couple of miles from you guys, though.”

  As Avis and I pulled out of the hotel parking lot, I saw Florida outside the revolving doors with her bag, a cigarette in one hand. At that moment, I didn’t blame her. If I couldn’t find my little girl, I’d probably be dragging on a cigarette, too.

  10

  Avis dropped me off in front of the house. I couldn’t believe it was already 3:30—but then our prayer group had gone past noon, so by the time we tried to get a “quick lunch” in the hotel café, the line had been pretty long. We’d made the deadline to check out by two o’clock—barely— but the traffic on I-90 going into the city crept along in typical freeway gridlock. We made better time once we got off on Touhy Avenue heading east toward Lake Michigan, even with stoplights.

  “See you tomorrow,” Avis said as I got out in front of our two-flat on Lunt Avenue in Rogers Park. “Back to real life. No more maid service.”

  I grinned weakly. I was glad to be home . . . but part of me hated for the weekend to end. I wasn’t sure why—getting to know the women in the prayer group was part of it. But I wanted time to think about everything that had happened since Friday night, to sort it out. I couldn’t wait to tell Denny—he’d be real interested to hear about it.

  Picking up my suitcase, I walked up the steps to the porch and stood there. Should I ring the bell? Or use my key? I used my key, let myself into the foyer where carpeted stairs led up to the second-floor apartment, then unlocked our first-floor door on the right. Slipping off my shoes and hanging up my jacket in the hall closet, I could hear the television in the living room—a baseball game, no doubt. Then I heard male laughter—several adult voices.

  Rats. Denny had company.

  I could almost taste the resentment that surged upward from my gut. Didn’t Denny know I’d be home about now? That we hadn’t seen each other for two whole days and nights? That I’d want some time together to catch up with each other?

  I swallowed, telling myself I was being childish. I didn’t even know what the situation was yet. Pasting a smile on my face, I walked in my stocking feet toward the living room archwa
y and stopped.

  Three guys—four, counting Denny—lounged on the couch, the floor, and two overstuffed chairs, eyes glued to a Cubs game on the TV as they booed a call by an umpire. Willie Wonka, our almost-deaf chocolate Labrador, lay sprawled happily on Denny’s feet. Nearly empty bowls of chips, popcorn, and salsa competed with a cardboard pizza box and cans of pop on the coffee table and lamp tables. And brown bottles. Bottles? The bottles didn’t compute for a moment. And just then Denny looked up and saw me in the archway.

  His face lit up. “Hey, babe! You’re back!” He leaped up, bottle in hand, and gave me a big smooch.

  Beer on his breath. The bottles were beer bottles.

  He turned back to the other guys. “Larry . . . Greg . . . Bill . . . you remember my wife, Jodi.”

  I recognized the men now—coaches and assistants who worked with Denny at the high school. Larry could be Michael Jordan’s brother, complete with shaved head. A chorus of “Hi, Jodi!” wafted my way, cut short by a whoop as the Cubs batter connected.

  “Denny?” I said, giving the bottle in his hand a dark look.

  He looked amused. “Don’t worry about it, babe. One of the guys brought a six-pack. One six-pack. Not a big deal.”

  “But what if my parents walked in right now? . . .”

  “Your parents, I assure you, are safely ensconced in Des Moines, Iowa, where they belong.” I could tell he was teasing me, his gray eyes twinkling under dark eyebrows and the thick strand of dark hair falling over his forehead. “Say, did you have a good time at the conference?”

  “Yeah, I—”

  Loud groans from the living room. Denny stepped back where he could view the TV. “I want to hear all about it, hon. Only one more inning in the game.” He still stood only three feet from me, but he was gone.