by Neta Jackson
“Seeex.”
“What’s your favorite subject in sixth grade?” That’s what I said. But I wanted to say, What did those gangbangers say when José asked them to leave the park? Were you afraid? What did you do when José got shot? Who called the police? Did anyone help you? What—?
Emerald shrugged. “I don’t know. Art maybe.”
Art maybe? “I’m a teacher—did you know that? But I teach kids younger than you—third grade.” I leaned over and lowered my voice to a stage whisper. “Señora Johnson is the boss of our school. She’s the principal.”
Avis arched an eyebrow and opened one eye. Emerald giggled. She clearly didn’t believe me. “My sister Luisa is grade three. Rosa’s the baby—she’s in kindergarten.”
I added up the names. “Aren’t there five of you?”
The dark hair bounced up and down. “My other brother, R. J. He’s ten.”
“Were you all in the park—”
The door to the waiting room opened, and Delores and the two police officers came in. “Ladies, if you don’t mind, we’d like to ask this young lady a few questions,” said Officer Clay. We were clearly being dismissed.
“Go talk to José,” Delores urged apologetically. “We’ll come back in a few minutes.”
Avis and I obediently found our way back to the hospital room. “Not sure I want to be alone with Mr. Stoneface without Delores,” I murmured to Avis just before we went in.
The chatter had resumed around Bed One. We hustled past, nodded to Mr. Enriques, and came around to the other side of José’s bed. My heart seemed to squeeze. Anchored by tubes to the hospital bed, José seemed younger than his fourteen years. A child with a bullet wound? It was crazy.
“It could have been the girl—or one of the others.”
I jumped at Mr. Enriques’s voice. It was as if Delores’s husband had read my mind. Suddenly, I felt ashamed of my flippant attitude toward the man. He was obviously hurting, hurting badly, in his own way.
“We are terribly sorry this happened to your son, Mr. Enriques,” Avis said gently. She turned to José. “But we are so grateful God spared your life, José. That’s something to thank God for, isn’t it?”
José nodded politely and winced.
Avis opened her Bible. I knew she was warming up now. “Your youth is a great gift, José—did you know that?” The pages of the huge Bible flipped. “Let me read you something.” She turned a page or two more. “Here it is, First Timothy, chapter four . . . ‘Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young—’”
“That’s right,” José muttered, his voice suddenly dark with anger. “Those Cobras just flipped me off ’cause they bigger. Makin’ that park so nobody can use it but them. But they better watch out. One day they gonna be sorry they messed with me.”
I caught Avis’s eye. I didn’t think this was where she’d been going with that verse.
“Let me finish the verse, José.” Avis’s tone held a bit of her “principal” authority. “‘Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith, and in purity.” She closed the Bible and laid a hand gently on José’s hand, avoiding the IV line. “That was you, José—what you did in that park. Even though you are young, you were an example to your younger brother and sisters of doing the right thing—even an example to those Cobras, or whoever they were. That took a lot of courage. But you had that courage. Courage to do the right thing.”
José frowned, as if considering what Avis was saying. Or ignoring it. It was hard to tell.
“Do you mind if we pray for you, José?” Avis said “we,” but she didn’t really wait for an okay from either the boy or me. She just began praising God for sparing José’s life. A nurse came in to check José’s tubes and machines; Avis just kept praying. When the nurse left, I began to pray, too, whispering, “Yes, God . . . Heal José’s wounds, Jesus . . . Thank You for his courage, God”—an undercurrent to Avis’s prayer, which was growing stronger and bolder.
“We’re claiming victory for José’s life, Father God! Right now, in the name of Jesus! Satan, you can’t have him!—or his brother, or his sisters, or anyone in his family. Hands off, Satan! This is God’s child!”
I couldn’t help sneaking a peek through my eyelashes at the visitors for Bed One as Avis back-talked “the enemy.” The two older ladies stared open-mouthed in our direction. I didn’t look at Mr. Enriques to see how he was reacting to Avis’s prayer. But I closed my eyes again, realizing it didn’t really matter. Avis wasn’t trying to offend anyone—but she believed in the importance of prayer so much that she just did it, even if it did.
Oh God, how many people have I not prayed for or with because I was too afraid of offending somebody?
“Gracias, Dios. Thank You, Jesus!”
I opened my eyes. Delores and Emerald had come back. I gave my new friend’s plump body a squeeze as we clustered around the bed and pulled Emerald into the crook of my arm. But I felt a little hypocritical. I wasn’t sure I could be so . . . so enthusiastic in my praise if that was my son lying in the hospital bed with a gunshot wound in his back.
IT WAS DARK by the time we got out of the hospital, and once we got on Lakeshore Drive heading north, the city was spectacular, dressing all the buildings in gossamer gowns of twinkling lights. To our right, the city lights lit up the foam atop the gentle waves of Lake Michigan, like so much liquid cotton rolling against the shore.
“Who’s going to the hospital tomorrow?” Avis asked, as I pulled up in front of her apartment building.
“Nony, I think.” I dug around in my tote bag, pulled out my notepad, and turned on the interior light of the minivan. “Right. Nony tomorrow, and Ruth on Wednesday. Stu is Thursday, and Adele on Friday if he’s still in the hospital.” The doctor had told Delores it would be anywhere from four to seven days until the hole in José’s lung healed and they could take out the tube that was draining air and fluid from his chest cavity.
Avis was quiet a moment, thinking. “Maybe you should send those folks a reminder by e-mail. It’d be easy to forget.”
“A reminder?” I rolled my eyes. My kids already accused me of nagging them to death. Would these grown women feel the same way? But I probably would remind the people on this list, because I couldn’t help it.
Avis laid a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Jodi. It’s going to be hard to keep this group informed and praying together. Go for it. You’re good at that.”
I flushed gratefully. “Okay. I’ll, um, send out Delores’s and Edesa’s e-mail addresses”—thank God I’d remembered to get them from Delores before we left the hospital—“and just add the visitation list so everyone has the same info.”
She opened the car door. “Great. And don’t forget the prayer request about Florida’s daughter.”
I laughed. “Now who’s nagging!”
But as Avis got out of the car I felt a strange disconnect. I’d spent gobs of time with Avis the last few days and still knew nothing about her family, her background. On impulse I beeped the horn. She turned back and peered into the open passenger window, eyebrows raised as a question mark.
“Uh . . . would you like to have dinner with us sometime this week?”
“Dinner?” She glanced away, breaking eye contact. “I’m usually pretty beat after a day at school. But thanks for the invitation. Maybe another time.”
With a wave she was gone. I’d been dismissed.
Five minutes later I pulled into our alley, clicked the garage door opener several times till our garage door finally rolled up, and parked the car inside. I hated the walk from the dark garage to our back porch at night, even though it was only twenty feet. I didn’t feel truly safe till I got in the back door and locked it behind me. A cell phone would be nice, I thought, stabbing my key into the door lock. Then I could call Denny when I drove in and he could come out to the garage and escort me in.
“Woo woo woo,” bar
ked Willie Wonka, scrambling up from the mat just inside the back door where he always waited if anybody in the family was “out.”
“That you, Jodi?” Denny’s voice sailed from the front room, where I could hear the TV.
“Yeah, it’s me! Be there in a minute!”
Noting gratefully that the kitchen had been cleaned up, I dumped my purse in the dining room and stopped by the kids’ bedrooms before heading for the front room. Amanda had the cordless and gave me a wave, pointing to the phone. Josh was sprawled on his bed, working on homework in his lap, his boom box playing noisily at his elbow. I went in and stood by his bed, just looking at my son. Almost as tall as Denny now. Losing his adolescent gawkiness. Sandy-haired.Too short, though; almost a buzz cut. Not like Denny and me at that age, imitating the hairy hippies of the ’70s. Ho ho! How Josh and Amanda laughed at our high school pictures, with those gaudy bell-bottoms and all that hair. That was ancient history now—the last century, Josh liked to remind us. Gosh, he was good-looking—especially when he laughed, which was often. Next year he’d be a senior, and then . . . off to college.
“What?” He looked at me funny. “You okay,Mom?”
“Yeah.” I bent over and kissed him on the forehead. “Just glad you’re alive.”
TO HIS CREDIT, Denny turned off the TV when I brought in two mugs of tea and curled up on the couch beside him. He listened thoughtfully as I told him all about the visit to Cook County Hospital. “It’s called Stroger Hospital now,” I told him, feeling informed.
“Uh-huh.” Denny was obviously not going to work too hard to change the name in his mind. I grinned. Me, either.
“Both José and Emerald picked out a mug shot of the guy José talked to in the park. José said he’s a Spanish Cobra. That doesn’t mean he’s the shooter, though. Other witnesses say some Latin Kings drove up and started shooting. The police said they’d talk to the guy, though. It’s a start.” Suddenly I shivered, in spite of the hot tea. “Oh, Denny, I never worried about gangs before, because . . . I mean, it sounds terrible, but at least the gangs tend to leave the white kids alone and . . . what?”
Denny was giving me a funny look. “Jodi, there are white gangs, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Honey, at West Rogers High we’ve got Skinheads and Stoner groups . . . the Insane Popes here on the North Side are Greek, basically a white gang. And girls—don’t forget girls. A lot of the gangs have female counterparts.”
I just looked at him.
“Besides,” Denny added, “that’s not the point here. From what you say, Delores’s son wasn’t in a gang, just an innocent bystander. We’ve seen it in the newspaper before—some kid killed accidentally in a drive-by.”
True, but it had always seemed . . . far away. Not up close and personal.
Denny reached out a finger and tipped up my chin. “Hey, don’t get all morose. I wish I could meet these new friends of yours. I’m feeling left out. Sounds like an interesting bunch. An ex-con named Yo-Yo . . . an ex–drug addict . . . a Japanese university student . . .”
“You will . . . I hope.” Suddenly I wanted to see the women in the prayer group—the Yada Yada Prayer Group—again. It had been great to see Delores tonight and meet part of her family and pray in person for José. How could we make that happen for the rest of the women?
“That reminds me,” I said, pushing myself off the couch. “I’ve got to send out an e-mail. Won’t take long.”
“Promise?” Denny waggled his eyebrows suggestively then picked up the remote. “Okay. I’ll catch the news for a few minutes, then come to bed.”
Willie Wonka followed me into the dining room and plopped himself under the computer desk, leaving no room for my feet. The screensaver contorted on the computer screen, like a Slinky toy on amphetamines. I called up e-mail. Two or thee spam junk ads . . . a reminder from Uptown Community about the Mother’s Day potluck after worship next Sunday, please bring a friend . . . and something to “Yada Yada Prayer Group” from “Yiddish@ online.net.” Ruth.
Chuckling already, I clicked it open.
To: Yada Yada Prayer Group
From: [email protected]
Subject: “Yada Yada”
So who’s the brilliant person who came up with the name, Yada Yada? I knew it meant something. I looked it up in my Hebrew dictionary. “Yada: to perceive, understand, acquire knowledge, know, discern.” And a whole lot more. Here’s one I like: “To be known, make oneself known, to be familiar.” And another: “To distinguish (yada) between right and wrong.”
If we add an “h” it gets even better. “Yadah: to speak out, to confess; to praise; to sing; to give thanks.” Later it says Yadah “essentially means to acknowledge . . . the nature and work of God.”
How about those jewels, Yada Yada sisters?
Ruth
I sat staring at the computer screen, not quite understanding the tears that wet my cheeks.
14
When I got home from school the next day, Willie Wonka nearly bowled me over in his urgency to go outside. Normally we just let him pee and poop in the backyard in the morning and Josh walks him when he gets home from ball practice. But today I played on Amanda’s sympathies and sent her around the block with Willie Wonka while I logged on to the computer.
There were several e-mails to Yada Yada, mostly in response to Florida’s missing daughter. A couple of the responses said things like, “Oh, Florida, my heart aches for you. Of course I’ll pray!” and “That’s so awesome about what Yada Yada means.”
Avis, of course, cut to the chase: “Cling to Romans 8, sister! ‘If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also . . . graciously give us all things?’ (v. 31–32).”
Nony’s e-mail took it to the next level: “Satan, beware! You can’t have this child, either! Florida, I’m praying Isaiah 10:1–2 for you and your precious Carla.” Hmm. Would have to look that one up.
And then there was Stu’s e-mail.
To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Subject: Missing foster family
Florida, I’d like to hear more about the situation. I worked at DCFS for several years after college and still have some contacts there. Maybe we can pull some strings and cut through some red tape to get your daughter back. E-mail me privately if you don’t want to put out the details to the whole group.
Stu
I glared at the screen. Why did Stu’s e-mail rub my fur the wrong way? She was only trying to help, right? Right. That was just it. Stu acted like she had all the answers. For half a second I hoped she wouldn’t be able to find those “strings” she wanted to pull—and almost slapped myself. Jodi Baxter, get a grip. Bottom line, you want Florida’s daughter to be found, right? Who cares if God uses a real-estate-agent-wannabe-social-worker?Okay, okay, I told myself. Still, it bugged me that she invited Florida to “e-mail me privately.”
I clicked “next.” A response from Adele: “Sure. Get the white folks to pull strings, and all will be well. Whatever. I’m praying, Florida.”
Ouch. I didn’t know whether to wince or giggle. Adele’s sharp tongue sure could snap you like a rubber band. I kinda liked it when she set Stu straight. But what exactly did she mean by “get the white folks to pull strings, and all will be well”?
“Mom? Can I—?”
I jumped. “Amanda! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Sneak?! Willie Wonka and I got back five minutes ago! But I gotta use the computer—got a paper due tomorrow.”
I sighed. Did anybody with teenagers have a life? Seemed like all I did was juggle around their schedules. They needed the computer . . . they needed a ride . . . they needed the car . . . could they eat early? or late? They had a practice, a game, a youth meeting . . .
I clicked the “close” box and headed for the kitchen. Oh, well. It was time to start supper anyway, and my plants could use a good soak. And lesson
plans for tomorrow. Always lesson plans.
“Oh . . .Mom? You’re supposed to sign this.”
I turned in the dining room doorway. “Sign what?”
“This.” Amanda held out a sheet of paper with all the enthusiasm of going to the dentist, making me walk back to take it. A Spanish test . . . with a big fat red F at the top.
“Amanda! What is this?” The school year was almost over! How could I not know she was doing so badly? “This isn’t . . . this isn’t . . .”
“No, it’s not the final.” She pulled a pout, a talent bestowed on fourteen-year-olds the day adolescence was invented. “Just a quiz . . . but my teacher said you had to sign it or I’ll get an F for the semester. How fair is that?”
I grabbed a pen and scrawled “Jodi Baxter” across the bottom of the paper. “Fair? Fair? You’re on rocky ground, young lady, talking about fair.” I threw the pen back onto the desk. “What’s going to keep you from getting an F for the semester all by your own sweet self with grades like that?”
“But Spanish is hard, Mom.” Amanda dragged out the word “hard” like she was pressing it into existence. “And the teacher doesn’t teach good.”
“Well.”
“What?”
“‘The teacher doesn’t teach well.’ Forget it. But you can’t blame the teacher, Amanda.”
“I can’t help it if I don’t understand what he’s saying.” The pout deepened to personal injury. “Why’d you and Dad move us from Downers Grove anyway? That high school is rated one of the best in the state.”
I winced. “Don’t change the subject,” I snapped. “What about homework? Have you turned everything in?”
“I guess. Yeah. Mostly.”
I stood there, hands on my hips, feeling frustrated. Frustrated with Amanda for waiting this long—it was May, for goodness’ sake!—to say she was struggling with Spanish. And only then because the teacher made her get a parent signature on a failing quiz. Frustrated with myself for not noticing. For not asking. What did her teacher say at the last parent-teacher conference? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember. I’d never taken Spanish in high school; might as well be Greek to me. That was my excuse, anyway, for why I never asked to see her homework or how Spanish class was going.