2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  “Si, si.” Delores, who was sitting beside Florida on the couch, put an arm around her shoulder comfortingly. “Muy bueno. And we pray.”

  “Are the foster parents white? Or black?” Chanda’s question interrupted the flow of encouragement like an open manhole that one had to dodge in the middle of the street.

  Stu shrugged. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “Matter!” Adele jumped in, screeching to a halt right in front of the yawning manhole. “White folks think they can raise black kids color-blind. But most of ’em don’t know a whit about preparing a black child for life in this society. Huh.” She folded her arms across the wide span of her bosom. “Takes more’n love or money or good intentions. Black kids need identity, the strength of they own kind. What else gonna—”

  Stu stood up. “I disagree. There’re too many kids wasting away in the foster care system—most of them children of color—to get all self-righteous about what color an adoptive family should be. We need more people wanting to adopt, period.”

  “Why don’t you adopt, then?” Chanda asked.

  I felt slightly smug that Stu was on the hot seat after riding in on her white horse to save the day. Adele had a point, of course, but to be honest, I agreed with Stu. I probably would’ve been rendered speechless by Chanda’s challenge, though, but Stu lifted her chin. “I’ve thought about it. Seriously.”

  “Want a couple of teenage boys?” Yo-Yo snickered. “I need a break.”

  “Ah . . . this might make a good discussion at another time,” Avis said. “But right now it’s a moot point, since, as Stu says, we don’t know. The important thing is . . . Carla was lost, but now she’s found. What an answer to our prayers! We need to give some glory to God!” She stood up—I think it’s against Avis’s nature to praise God sitting down. “Glory to You, Jesus! Glory!”

  Florida’s tense body gradually melted against Delores’s arm around her shoulder. “Yes . . . Yes! Thank ya, Jesus. Thank ya! Thank ya! You’re a good God!”

  Others began to join in the prayer and praise. I thought hallelujah, too—hallelujah that Avis had the wits to derail that discussion. I wanted to join in the praise and prayer, too—if Carla really had been found, that was worth shouting about!—but I was still standing in the doorway, holding Stu’s nine-by-eleven pan. I slipped out to the kitchen and set it on the counter. Maybe it would keep the kids busy if they got back before Yada Yada was done.

  The praise from the living room could be heard clear out in the kitchen—maybe even out in the backyard. I peeked in Stu’s pan— yum, lemon bars—then glanced out the screen door. Denny, Mark Smith, and Ben Garfield had parked three lawn chairs in the shade of the garage. They looked relaxed, friendly. Sure were a funny trio. Denny, the all-american-guy high school coach . . . Mark, the svelte college professor, tall, dark, and handsome . . . and Ben, short, stocky, a shock of wavy silver hair, and features that could make him a stand-in for Itzhak Perlman if he played the violin. I could hear Ben’s guttural guffaw as he raised a bottle to his lips.

  Bottle? I squinted and peered intently through the screen door. Had Ben brought some beer to the party? Hadn’t noticed any when they came in. Which meant—

  I did a quick double-check of the other guys. Both Denny and Mark held red plastic cups. I glared through the screen door. That better be iced tea in that red cup, Denny Baxter—

  “Jodi?”

  Startled, I turned to see Ruth standing behind me. Her face was red, her eyes bleary, and she was holding a tissue to her nose.

  “Ruth! Are you all—”

  “Need to get Ben . . . need to go.” Ruth’s voice wavered.

  “Ruth . . . wait.” I put my hands on her shoulders and could feel her trembling beneath my fingers. “Ruth, tell me what’s wrong.”

  She began to cry in earnest then, stifling the sobs in an effort to be quiet. I pulled her into my arms, pulling past her resistance, pressing our heads together cheek to cheek, and just held her while she cried. A movement behind Ruth caught my eye, and I saw Avis hesitate in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen. I crooked a finger at her to come in.

  After a minute or two, Ruth quieted and pulled back from my embrace, fumbling for a tissue and blowing her nose in a healthy snort. Avis came closer. “Ruth?”

  Ruth turned her head. “I’m all right. Just need to leave . . . I’ll get Ben—”

  I was about to say, You can’t go! Then Yo-Yo will have to go, and her brothers aren’t even back from the lake yet . . . but Avis cut to the chase.

  “Ruth, you’ve got a load as big as a dump truck on your shoulders. Let us help you carry it. Isn’t that why God put this group together?”

  Ruth just shook her head as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “It has something to do with Florida and finding Carla . . . doesn’t it.” It was a statement, not a question. Avis put a firm arm around Ruth, who mopped her blotchy face and allowed herself to be walked back toward the living room. “Come on. Let’s face into it. After all . . .” Avis gave Ruth’s shoulder a tender shake. “. . . you’re the one who told us Yada Yada means ‘to be known, to make yourself known.’ ”

  The group had gathered around Florida on the couch, their hands laid on her knees, her shoulders, her head as first one, then another, continued the prayers for Carla, for strength in the waiting, for a speedy reunion of Florida’s family. Avis led Ruth back to her chair and waited quietly with her until there was a lull in the spoken prayers, even as various ones were murmuring, “Have mercy, Jesus” or, “Bless You, God.”

  I probably would have said a big “Amen!” at that point, bringing the prayer time to an end so Ruth could share whatever it was that was eating her up. I was afraid that if we didn’t hurry, she would change her mind and leave. But Avis just turned the prayers.

  “Father God, You have loved us so much . . . loved us in spite of all our imperfections. You sent Jesus and covered all our sins with His blood . . .” A general chorus of thank Yous and hallelujahs filled in the blanks. “Thank You for bringing Yada Yada together and allowing us to pray for one another. Thank You for answering those prayers, for sparing José’s life, for finding Carla . . .”

  The rest of the group pitched in. “Yes, You did!” “Thank ya!” “You’re a good God!”

  “Now give us that same kind of love for one another . . . give us ears to hear and hearts that are open to bear each other’s burdens as we listen to our sister Ruth.”

  That took everyone by surprise. Eyes popped open as the women realized Avis meant it literally. I caught a few looks that said,What’s goin’ on? passing between folks as they took their seats.

  “There’s joy in this room because of the news Stu brought us,”Avis said, “but there’s also pain. One doesn’t cancel the other out—we need to be able to bear both sorrow and joy at the same time.” She lifted her eyebrows at the still-blotchy-faced woman beside her. “Ruth?”

  For a moment,Ruth just shook her head and blew her nose, and I thought she couldn’t do it. But then her voice croaked, “I . . . I wanted to leave, not spoil the celebration. But a mother hen, she is.” Ruth jerked a shaky thumb at Avis. “Oh, Florida, of course you want your daughter back, and . . . and I want that for you. Yes, I do. But . . . but . . .” The tears started fresh.

  “But what? What kind of ‘but’ you talkin’ ’bout?” Florida’s voice had an edge. Avis’s prayer about “bearing each other’s burdens” was going to be a hard sell if it had anything to do with not getting Carla back.

  Ruth squeezed her eyes shut. Couldn’t blame her. Maybe it would be easier to talk if she didn’t have to look at the ring of skeptical faces.

  “The family that’s been raising Carla for . . . what? five . . . six years? I can’t help thinking about them.” It was a good thing Ruth’s eyes were closed, because Florida’s eyes narrowed. Avis simply raised her hand to cut off any comments. “Because that’s me,” Ruth wailed. “Me.”

  More looks passed ar
ound the circle as Ruth took a big, shuddering breath. What in the world did she mean? When Ruth spoke again, her voice had lowered almost to a whisper and I had to lean forward to hear her. “A foster mother I was, years ago . . . three times I’ve been married and no kids. So my second husband and I, we decided enough of this moping! We’ll adopt a kid through Jewish family services. Huh. But that process dragged on and on, so we went to DCFS and took a foster child, a beautiful little girl . . . mixed she was—Asian and black and maybe something else— and we had her for five years. Five years! And we loved her so much . . . and we wanted to adopt her. Nothing from her mother or father for five years—not a word! And all of a sudden, her daddy shows up and wants his ‘baby girl’ back. And they took her . . . they took her . . .”

  The room was deathly silent except for Ruth’s gut-wrenching wails. Yo-Yo was staring at her friend, open-mouthed. Avis simply held up her hand as if to say, Just hold the comments and hear her out. And, eyes still squeezed shut, Ruth’s sobs finally quieted and she spoke again.

  “Tore us apart, it did. My husband and I . . . we didn’t make it. I . . . he . . .” Ruth seemed to sink into the memory, not crying this time, just revisiting the pain that drove them apart.

  The room was hushed for a long time. Then Yo-Yo blurted, “But you and Ben—you practically took my brothers in while I was doin’ time. And you smother-mother me, too, for that matter. Pretty good parents, if ya ask me.”

  Ruth opened her eyes and smiled at Yo-Yo in spite of her dripping nose. “Yes, my Ben. Number Three. Helped me move on, Ben did. And meeting you and Jesus in the Cook County Jail. I thought I’d put it all behind me . . . until . . .” Ruth studied her lap, where she had shredded at least three soggy tissues. “Until Carla.”

  Florida leaned forward. “I’m gonna get Carla back, do you understand? Ain’t gonna make no apologies for that. And I don’t wanna feel sorry for the foster family that has to give her up. Does that make us enemies, Ruth?”

  Ruth jerked her head up. “No! No . . . I’m sorry. So sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  “Yes, you should,” Avis said firmly. “Florida’s story is her story . . . and Ruth’s story is her story. A good reminder that every story has two sides, maybe more. And there’s no way we can be a prayer group if we don’t know each other’s stories.” She reached over and laid a hand on Ruth’s knee. “Ruth, remember praying with Delores at the conference? All we knew was that José had been shot. Didn’t know why . . . didn’t know what. Some of us probably thought he was gangbanging, just didn’t want to say it.”

  Ouch. Avis got me there.

  “But did that stop us from praying? No, because Delores’s pain became our pain. And we’re praying with Florida, because she’s our sister and God put us together in Yada Yada to stand with each other. If Yada Yada had existed when you were going through the fire, we would have prayed with you, too. It’s not up to us to make the difficult decisions like King Solomon. What are we going to do, cut the baby in half?”

  “Cut the baby in half? What are you talking about, Avis?” Yo-Yo sputtered.

  The tension buckled and broke into laughter. Avis smiled. “Tell you later, Yo-Yo. All I want to say is, if the Yada Yada Prayer Group means anything at all, it means standing with each other no matter what.”

  27

  Denny and I stood on the front porch saying good-bye to our guests as Yada Yada, long-suffering spouses, empty dishes, and assorted offspring straggled out of the door. Emerald Enriques had a hard time letting go of Amanda and made Edesa promise she could come with her the next time she gave Amanda a Spanish lesson. Yo-Yo’s stepbrothers kick-boxed with the other boys on the sidewalk until Ben Garfield pulled up in the car he’d had to park two blocks away—and even then he had to yell, “Get in the car now or you’ll walk home!”

  Florida turned down Denny’s offer to walk her and her boys to the el. “We’ll be fine—don’tcha worry none. Delores, Edesa, and Emerald have to catch the train, too.” She patted him on the arm, like some granny thanking an overzealous Boy Scout. “But that’s very sweet, Denny.” Florida cast me an impish eye. “Better hold on to your man, Jodi Baxter. Ya don’t want ta train ’im this well then lose ’im to some hungry hussy.”

  Everyone in earshot laughed as Denny turned red . . . but remembering the comment later, it seemed an odd thing to say, teasing another woman that she might lose her husband to some “hussy.” I mean, ouch. After all, we didn’t really know everybody’s story in Yada Yada when it came to men. Who had fathered Chanda’s three kids? Had Adele ever been married? Ruth was on number three! Even Avis’s love life was still a mystery.

  Not that I was worried about Denny.

  Avis was the last to leave, cradling her empty pan. “You two need any more help cleaning up?”

  “Nah. We’ll just let Willie Wonka lick the rest of the dishes.” Denny’s smirk lasted only a brief second. “But seriously . . . what happened in there? Ben heard his wife wailing, and I practically had to tackle him to keep him from ripping in there.”

  Avis leaned back against the porch railing and nodded at me to go ahead. Briefly I tried to tell Denny how Florida’s search for her missing daughter had stirred up a lot of painful memories for Ruth, who’d been a foster parent wanting to adopt, but the child had been taken away from her. “When Stu showed up and said that Carla had been found—”

  “Found!” Denny’s jaw dropped. “Florida’s daughter has been found? Why didn’t you say something?”

  Avis shook her head. “Sorry. We couldn’t. The kids came back, and Florida didn’t want to get Chris and Cedric’s hopes up before she could check it out. And since it’s a holiday weekend, she’s going to have to wait till Tuesday.”

  “Whew.” Denny sank down onto the top step. “That’s huge. But what about Florida and Ruth? I can only imagine . . . sheesh.”

  I hadn’t even had time to process for myself what had happened in my living room. Part of me wanted to just think about it for a while before trying to explain it. But Avis was studying a jet’s contrail overhead, as though waiting for me to respond.

  “Well, yeah. They both felt pretty raw . . . but Avis kept us from making it a ‘foster care issue’ and focused on what Ruth and Florida both needed in the painful situations they’re in.”

  Avis shook her head. “Not me. That was God, no doubt about it. If I’d stopped to think about it, I would have hightailed it before putting myself between two she-bears with their fur up!”

  Okay, so God deserved the credit. But I’d been awed by the simple truth Avis had spoken into the group, diffusing Florida’s pointed challenge (“Does that make us enemies, Ruth?”) and enabling the rest of us to love both of them.

  We had cried and prayed and hugged each of them and prayed some more. But the best moment for me was when Ruth reached out her hand to Florida and said, “The wall I put between us . . . I am sorry. Can you forgive?” And Florida, hesitating only a moment, had said, “Guess I’d be poundin’ new nails into the cross if I didn’t forgive you, after all the forgivin’ God’s had to do for this sinner.” And she’d taken Ruth’s hand and pulled her into an embrace.

  We really had started having church then, but a few minutes later the kids arrived back from the lakefront, barging through the front door—all nine of them—and then standing in the doorway gawking at their mothers praising and crying and praying. Chanda had gotten so excited she’d started jumping up and down.

  I’d reluctantly peeled myself away from the “party” and shooed the younger set toward the kitchen, where I let them dig into Stu’s lemon bars and told them to hustle out to the backyard. When Avis closed out Yada Yada ten minutes later and we drifted toward the back of the house, the lemon bars were gone. Only crumbs.

  Didn’t matter though. We’d been having a feast.

  EVEN AVIS WAS GONE NOW. We let Josh drive Amanda to youth group at church, and Denny bagged the last of the trash while I put away leftovers and filled the dishwasher.


  “So, did I overhear Yada Yada deciding to get together regularly after this?” Denny asked, lugging a bulging plastic trash bag through the kitchen, followed by an ever-hopeful Willie Wonka, who so far had not gotten to lick any dishes.

  “Uh-huh. Chanda complained that not everybody got to share stuff for prayer today, so couldn’t we meet again real soon? Several folks work on Saturday, so we’re going to try every two weeks on Sunday—like five to seven. Might visit each other’s churches now and then, too.” I noticed Denny’s puckered lips. “What? Will the car be a problem?”

  His lips unpuckered. “Nope. Gotta get the kids to youth group but . . . okay, I kinda hate to give you up Sunday evenings when the kids are gone. Especially now that summer’s just around the corner. That’s been our special time, walking to the lake, stopping for coffee . . . you know. But if it’s just every other week . . .” He shrugged. “Guess I can deal with it.”

  I followed him out the screen door as he headed for the trash can in the alley. I probably should have talked it over with Denny first before agreeing to meet with Yada Yada on a regular basis. But I’d been so glad the others wanted to, I hadn’t even thought about it. I think everybody realized we couldn’t “yada yada” in either sense—“becoming known” or “giving thanks to God by praising”—unless we actually met face to face.

  “Bring that recycling bin, will ya?” Denny called back over his shoulder.

  I bent down to pick up the blue recycling bin on the back porch, overflowing with empty liters of pop and tin cans . . . and two brown bottles. Beer bottles. So my eyes hadn’t been fooling me when I’d looked out the screen door. I looked after Denny, who had disappeared behind the garage. Should I—?

  I felt torn. I didn’t really want to get into a fuss with Denny after such an amazing afternoon. On the other hand, I couldn’t just ignore it, could I? There they were, sitting right in the recycle bin. And I had specifically told Denny I didn’t want any beer at this party.