2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  I pulled out the flyer Yo-Yo’s brother had given to Josh and Amanda. “What do you think of this?” I asked, not wanting to wave all my red flags yet, since I didn’t really have much ground to stick them in.

  He gave it a good once over. “Hmm. I don’t think so—not till we know a lot more about what goes on at these teen raves. So for this coming Saturday, anyway, it’s out.”

  I gaped at him in happy relief. How did Denny do that? Yes or no—bam, that’s it. Well, I’d let him tell Josh and Amanda.

  We were silent for a while, slurping our iced coffees till we were sucking air at the bottom. After getting Denny’s agreement on the teen rave thing, I hated bringing up a sore point. Maybe, like he said, I was making too big a deal over the whole thing. And I could take responsibility for jumping all over him.

  I set down my plastic cup. “Denny? About yesterday . . . I really do see that you felt caught in the middle between Ben Garfield and me about the beer. And I’m sorry that I made it such a big issue . . .”

  He tore his eyes away from the assorted species of humanity walking by the sidewalk café in everything from sloppy sandals to combat boots. “Okay, thanks. I appreciate your saying that.”

  “But I’m still confused about why you bought all that beer in the first place.”

  A finger tapped impatiently. “I thought we went over that.”

  “I know, but . . . “ I’d thought of another point in my favor. “I mean, after your dad’s heart attack last year, doesn’t it make sense not to drink at all? I mean, that stuff tends to run in families.”

  He shrugged slightly. “Actually, there are a lot of studies that say a moderate amount of alcohol is good for your heart.”

  “But . . .” Frustration began to lick at the edges of our conversation. “It’s not just that. We’ve got teenagers who are very impressionable. And what if we offend some of our new friends who got saved out of all sorts of addictions?”

  He seemed to be studying my face. “That’s really it, isn’t it? It would embarrass you if your new friends saw a bottle of wine or some beer at our house.”

  “No! I . . .” I stopped. Be honest, Jodi. “Okay, yeah. I . . . I just don’t want anybody to be offended, or think—”

  “—or think your husband’s a lush.” Denny looked at me hard. Then, to my surprise, he leaned forward and took my hands. “Jodi. We’ve been married almost twenty years. Have I ever gotten drunk? Or abused alcohol in any way?”

  I looked down at our entwined hands. “No, but . . .” Why couldn’t he just not do it because I didn’t want him to?

  We sat in silence for a few moments as twilight settled over the city and the streetlights came on. The evening was warm and, if anything, the cars and foot traffic going up and down Sheridan Road grew thicker, like the ants that had found our picnic that afternoon.

  Denny sighed. “Look, Jodi. It really bugs me the way you’ve been jumping all over me. Like you don’t trust me. And I don’t think I’ve given you any reason to do that. But let’s call a truce. I won’t stuff the refrigerator with beer, and I promise to be very circumspect when it comes to your friends. And you promise to give me the benefit of the doubt, okay? Romans fourteen, remember?”

  I nodded grudgingly. Pastor Clark had given a good teaching last month from the fourteenth chapter of Romans on “Christian freedom” in what we eat and drink, while also being careful not to be a stumbling block for others or cause them to sin. But surely that wasn’t the only Scripture passage that might apply here.

  “Okay, come on.” Denny pulled me to my feet. “That waiter is giving us the evil eye. ‘Vacate that table, you miserable penny pinchers, or order some actual food!’ ”

  I laughed as he pulled me toward the intersection to cross with the light. “Oh, gosh, Denny, I forgot to tell you the most amazing thing. Remember that time I picked up a panhandler—eons ago —and you got mad at me for being so naive?”

  THE NEXT TWO WEEKS seemed to pile up on each other, like a rug runner that kept bunching up instead of lying flat. Parents Day was a success, more or less, though for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why a third of my parents didn’t even show. But now that June was here, the school day consisted mostly of corralling thirty young prisoners who had suddenly smelled freedom. “Get back in your seat!” “No, you went to the bathroom ten minutes ago.” “Because I said so, that’s why.” “No punching!” The worst part was enduring the sullen looks of my young charges who acted like I had denied them parole.

  If I had my way, it’d be against the law to have school after Memorial Day. But so far the Chicago School Board hadn’t asked my opinion.

  Josh and Amanda got several calls from church members for the Saturday teen workdays—washing windows, childcare, painting a stairwell—so they actually had an excuse when Pete called to ask if they were coming to the teen rave. I wondered if Yo-Yo had given permission for him to go. On the other hand, she worked at the deli Saturday nights. Maybe she didn’t know.

  Stu came to church on Sunday, but she said the earliest appointment Florida could get with DCFS was next week. Personally, I’d hate to be the social worker who told Florida she had to wait. Probably was walking around with a blistered ear.

  I checked up on Yada Yada e-mail when I could. Lots more chatting since we’d met face to face at Florida’s party. Even Ruth sent an e-mail telling Chanda to get her behind to the doctor right now or she’d come over and take her herself. I hit “reply” and reminded Ruth that Chanda didn’t have e-mail, and she’d have to use the phone to threaten her.

  Had to laugh, though. If we weren’t careful, Ruth would smother-mother the lot of us. But I was so glad God had steered Yada Yada through that minefield.

  Hoshi was still anxious about her parents’ visit . . . Ricardo Enriques still hadn’t found a job—or Florida’s husband, either, for that matter . . . Nony wanted Yada Yada to visit her church in Evanston—the Worship Center, or something like that—but said we could decide on a date when we got together at Adele’s . . .

  By the time the second Sunday of June rolled around, I was eager to see everybody in Yada Yada again—not to mention I could use some prayer-and-praise encouragement to make it through the last week of school. How did Avis keep her poise through all the ruckus? Teachers were harried, parents were complaining about grades, a fifth grader even had to go to the hospital because a classmate shot her in the eye with a rubber band and a paper clip!

  Adele’s apartment was practically close enough to walk to—only about ten blocks from our house—but Denny said, no, he wanted me to take the car and not be walking alone on the streets, especially coming home. Things were good with Denny and me since our talk—at least the “beer discussion” seemed to have dissipated.

  I called up Avis and asked if she’d like a ride—one less parking place to have to find. As I packed my Bible and notebook into my tote bag, I noticed I still had the old flyer about the teen rave stuck in there. I was about to throw it out, then left it on the off chance I’d get a minute to ask Yo-Yo what she knew about these raves, since I could almost bet the subject would come up again.

  It wasn’t easy finding a parking place near Adele’s apartment building on a Sunday afternoon. In fact, Avis and I circled the block at least two times hoping someone would pull out and leave us a space. Finally pulled into a lot that said, “For customers only! All others will be towed!” and crossed our fingers. Only had to walk two blocks to get to Adele’s building.

  We arrived at 5:10, afraid we were late. But Avis and I were actually the first ones. I sipped the glass of lemonade Adele pushed into my hand, and Avis admired Adele’s collection of “All God’s Children” figurines, while the others straggled in over the next thirty minutes. Couldn’t really blame them—most had farther to come, and some, like Florida, didn’t even have a car.

  Adele’s first-floor apartment seemed dark, and I realized all the blinds were pulled, even though it was still daylight. I had the urge to run from r
oom to room, pulling up all the blinds and opening the windows, but I drowned the urge with more lemonade and joined Avis by the glass cabinet that held the cute collection of African-American figures. But finally everyone arrived who was coming, even Hoshi this time, who got a ride with Nony. Delores was on duty at the hospital, but Stu had picked up Edesa since she had to drive in on the Eisenhower Expressway from Oak Park anyway. I certainly hoped Stu’s fancy silver Celica wouldn’t be missing its hubcaps when we got done here today.

  In my eagerness to give Florida a big hug, I knocked over the glass of lemonade I’d set on the floor, and it spilled all over my tote bag. “Better that than Adele’s rug,” Florida snickered under her breath, fishing out my Bible, notebook, keys, and wallet from the wet bag while I ran to find some paper towels in Adele’s kitchen. When I came back to the living room, she was pulling out the now-soggy flyer.

  “Hate to tell ya, Baxter,” she teased, waving it around, “but you’re over seventeen. If you’re into Ecstasy, you’ll have to get it at a forty-something rave.”

  I stopped, the wad of paper towels still in my hand. “What do you mean, Ecstasy?” Florida rolled her eyes. “Oh, girl, it’s there right under your nose. Look.” She shoved the flyer in front of my face. “See all those yellow butterflies? Yellow Butterfly—that’s the street name for one kind of the Ecstasy drug. Red Camel . . . Boogie Nights . . . Cloud 9 . . . some others, too.” She took the paper towels out of my hand and started to mop up the spilled lemonade. “You savin’ that flyer for some reason?”

  30

  I was so shaken by Florida’s casual drop that street drugs were being advertised in the flyer Pete had given my kids that I sat in a stupor for the next ten minutes, only vaguely aware that Avis had gently prodded the group past yakking all at once to starting our prayer time with some Scripture. I couldn’t believe I even discussed whether Josh and Amanda should go to that teen rave. But how was I to know, God? Do I have to be a recovering junkie to be aware of what’s going on out there?

  I glanced at Yo-Yo, who sat slouched in her usual position, feet straight out, hands stuffed in the pockets of her boxy overalls. Why did she keep coming to Yada Yada anyway? After all, she wasn’t even a Christian . . . well, at least she wasn’t sure about “this Jesus stuff.” But did she approve of these teen rave things her brother was going to? She was his guardian, for heaven’s sake!

  “Jodi!” An elbow in my side and Florida’s hiss got my attention. “You okay? You whiter than Whitey right now.”

  I glanced at her sidelong. “Yeah, I’m okay,” I whispered back. Then I giggled. “Whiter than Whitey, huh?” and she started to laugh, too. “Could be my problem,” I added.

  Avis looked up from her Bible and peered at us over the top of her reading glasses. But we both put on straight faces so she continued reading. “Seek the Lord while he may be found; call on him while he is near. Let the wicked forsake his way and the evil man his thoughts. Let him turn to the Lord, and he will have mercy on him, and to our God, for he will freely pardon. ‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,’ declares the Lord. ‘As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.’ ” Avis closed her Bible. “From Isaiah, chapter fifty-five,” she said.

  “Can I see that?” Yo-Yo said, actually sitting up and peering at the Bible next to her in Ruth’s lap. “You mean God might go away and not be able to be found?”

  I carefully peeled apart some pages in my Bible still clinging together with lemonade. Isaiah 55 was one of my favorite passages: “Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy and eat. . . .”

  “I think the main point of the chapter,” I pitched in, “is that God can be found now. Look at all the invitations—‘come’ . . .

  ‘come to me’ . . . ‘seek’ . . . ‘call on him’ . . . ‘turn to the Lord.’ ”

  “And all the promises if we do,” Nony added. “ ‘Buy wine and milk without money’ . . . ‘eat what is good’ . . . ‘your soul will delight in the richest fare’ . . . ‘he has endowed you with splendor.’ ”

  “Wait, wait.” Yo-Yo leaned forward. “Talk plain English, will ya? I don’t get all this water and wine and milk stuff.”

  “Those are just figures of speech,” Avis explained, “meaning God wants to fill our lives with good things, like giving water to a thirsty person, or food to someone who’s hungry.”

  “Oh, Lord. Ain’t that the truth.” Florida punched the air. “Thank ya, Jesus.”

  “So how do you get all that good stuff?” Yo-Yo wanted to know. “I mean, coming to God—is that like coming to this prayer group? Or going to church and listening to God-talk?”

  I felt a twinge of conscience for my ricocheting thoughts just a few minutes ago, questioning why Yo-Yo was even coming to the prayer group. Her presence had been suddenly threatening to me because of her brothers, because they’d come to my home and brought their damnable flyer with them . . . but here she was, basically asking how to come to God!

  “I talk; you don’t listen.” Ruth wagged her head. “I told you already, you must believe Jesus is the promised Messiah.”

  Edesa nodded. “And accept Him as your personal Savior.”

  “What’s that song Donnie McClurkin sings?” Adele snapped her fingers and burst out Jamaican style, “ ‘Born, born, born again, yuh must be born again . . .’ ”

  “Arrrgh!” Yo-Yo exploded. “There you go, using all those bozo buttons. You think people know what they mean, but I don’t get it.”

  I was intrigued. I’d grown up all my life with those “bozo buttons,” as Yo-Yo called them. How did you break it down for someone like Yo-Yo who wasn’t familiar with religious shorthand?

  “It ain’t that hard, girl,” said Florida. “Remember Bob Dylan?—nah, you too young. But he had a song . . . ‘Ya gotta serve somebody—might be the devil, might be the Lord, but ya gotta serve somebody’—or somethin’ like that. Ya just gotta make a decision: Ya gonna sit on the fence? Or give your life to Jesus twenty-four seven—all day, every day. And if anybody asks ya what your religion is, you say, ‘I’m a follower of Jesus Christ.’ ”

  “Twenty-four seven?” Hoshi looked confused. “Is that what I should tell my parents when they come?”

  “No, Hoshi.” Avis tried to hide a smile. “Just tell them the last part—you’re a follower of Jesus Christ.”

  “I get it.” Yo-Yo sat back. “Okay. Let me think about that.”

  Avis nodded. “Do you have a Bible, Yo-Yo? I can give you some good scriptures to read.”

  “Nah. I tried reading the Bible. But it’s too hard.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get you a modern translation—” She smiled at the face Yo-Yo made. “Sorry. A Bible in plain English.”

  “Okay.”

  “But Hoshi reminded us of one of the things we need to pray about—telling her parents that she has become ‘a follower of Jesus Christ.’When are they coming, Hoshi?”

  “First weeks August. Very short time.”

  “Any news about Carla . . . Florida? Stu?”

  Both shook their heads. “Had me a meeting with DCFS last week,” Florida said. “I think next time somebody needs to go with me so I don’t lose my temper. Oh, girl, when they told me they were ‘looking into it,’ I let them have a piece of my mind. Ten, twenty pieces. Losing Carla’s paperwork? Gimme a break! They better look into it fast.”

  “I’m sorry, Florida,” Stu said. “I’ll try to go with you next time if I can.”

  “All right. We need to keep those prayers going.” Avis glanced around the group. “Chanda, we’ve been praying for you since you put your prayer request on the e-loop. Any . . . news? Have you been to the doctor?”

  Everybody looked at Chanda. As usual, she’d been sitting mute, her gray skirt and dark top blending into the dusky color of the room. Her hands started twisting the handkerchief she held in her lap. “Uh-huh, I did g
o, Friday . . . Ruth kept calling me up till I made an appointment at the St. Francis Clinic. But I don’t got no insurance. Don’t know how I’m going to pay for it—not ’less my numbers win.”

  Oh, brother. Not likely, I thought.

  “The doctor, what did he say?” Ruth prodded.

  “She. Doctor was a she, which helped some. She said it felt like a cyst thing. But she wants to stick a needle in it to make sure, and wants me to get one o’ those mammogram things.” Chanda’s eyes filled, and her hands twisted the handkerchief tighter. “Oh God, I’m scared. Even if it’s not . . . not . . . you know . . . I heard those mammogram machines flatten your breast like a pancake and it hurts. And I’m scared of needles. Even in my arm! But in my . . . in my . . .?”

  “Oh, honey.” Adele rolled her eyes. “You can do it. You a normal size. Now, me? They hardly know what to do with these things.” She spread her arms and puffed out her large bosom. Thank goodness I wasn’t the only one who laughed.

  “The aspiration they do with the needle’s not so bad.” Avis chimed in gently. “Really. One of us will go with you to hold your hand.”

  “What do you mean, not so bad? How do you know, Sista Avis?” Chanda looked doubtful.

  Avis was silent for a moment, as though she hadn’t intended to go this far, and suddenly the group seemed to hold its collective breath. Then she said quietly, “Because I’ve been through the whole nine yards.”

  Chanda’s eyes widened. “You had breast cancer? Did you . . . did they take . . . ?”

  Involuntarily ten pairs of eyes strayed to Avis’s chest. She always wore loose-fitting things—tunics, big stylish tops in bold prints. Did that mean—?

  “Whoa! Slow down, everybody.”Avis shook her head. “No, I did not have a mastectomy. I did have a lumpectomy, because I did have cancer—but they found it early. It hadn’t spread anyplace else. But even that . . .” Avis’s mouth twitched, almost smiled.