2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  Florida had said, “Listen!” I listened. I wanted the lyrics to drown out the terrifying words still knocking around in my brain.

  A killing . . . not murder . . . felony . . . misdemeanor . . . prison . . . fine . . . not guilty . . . guilty . . .

  I concentrated on the next song. “Where would I be? You only know . . .”

  Did God know I would make such a mess of my life?

  “I’m glad You see through eyes of love . . .”

  Exactly what Florida had said.

  The voice on the CD seemed to be singing from inside of me, capturing every thought, feeling, and dread of the past two horrible weeks.

  “A hopeless case, an empty place . . .”

  O yes, God! That’s me, that’s me!

  “. . . if not for grace.”

  My eyes, wet with tears of self-pity, flew open. I hit the “repeat” button and listened to the song again. There it was.

  “. . . if not for grace.”

  I played the song again . . . and again . . . and again.

  “. . . if not for grace.”

  SOMEONE FROM UPTOWN COMMUNITY sent home a wonderful Sunday dinner with Denny—chicken stew with dumplings along with homemade rolls, crunchy coleslaw, and peach cobbler for dessert. For the first time since the accident, I actually felt hungry.

  Then, true to his word, Denny got me and my crutches in the candidate for Rent-a-Wreck and drove up to Evanston’s lakefront, where we walked slowly along the jogging path for about half an hour then sat on a bench and gawked at all the bikers, in-line skaters, stroller pushers, and dog-walkers enjoying the lakefront park.

  I told Denny I’d read the lawyer’s e-mail. He looked pained. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

  I took as deep a breath as my ribs would allow. “Can’t hide my head in the sand forever, can I?”

  The walk wore me out completely, and I practically collapsed into bed when we got back home around four o’clock and fell asleep. I had a dream that I was lying in a plain wooden coffin, but I wasn’t dead, and the lid wasn’t on. And stamped all around the outside of the wooden coffin was the same word again and again: Grace . . . Grace . . . Grace.

  I woke with the dream still clear in my mind and lay there thinking about it. The funny thing was that in the dream I wasn’t panicky, but I just lay in the coffin, peaceful-like.

  As I lay on the bed in that twilight between sleep and being awake, I thought I heard voices . . . and laughter. Now I really was awake. Who on earth could be here?

  I looked at the clock beside the bed. Five-thirty. Reluctantly, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and got my crutches. I didn’t really want company. But I was curious. I hobbled down the hallway, but even before I got to the living room, I could pick out voices: Florida bragging on Carla while Delores kept exclaiming, “Oh! Es wonderful!” . . .

  I stood in the archway leaning on my crutches, giving the living room a once-over. Practically everybody from Yada Yada was there . . . except Chanda and Edesa. And Stu. I cleared my throat. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty waketh!”Yo-Yo called out over the hubbub.

  Yeah, right. Though I did look a little bit more like a normal human being today, after getting a shampoo from Denny last night. The bruising on my face was almost gone, too; I’d even put on a little makeup for our afternoon outing. And the denim skirt and sleeveless top I was wearing hid the scars on my leg and abdomen.

  “Why aren’t you home with Carla?” I growled at Florida.

  “You think I’d be here messin’ with Yada Yada if I still had Carla? Ha. I had to take her back by three this afternoon. If I was home, I’d just be blubberin’ on my sleeve, so I might as well be here.”

  “It’s the Sunday Yada Yada is scheduled to meet,” Avis explained.

  “Knew you wouldn’t come out,” Ruth butted in, “so . . . to you we brought the Yada Yada!”

  Gosh, she looked smug. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I asked, exuding patience.

  “You? You would’ve said no; that’s because why!”

  “That’s it” . . . “Got that right.”

  Florida snickered. “So we asked that soft-hearted husband of yours, who we got wound around our little fingers.”

  Figured. Wasn’t Denny supposed to be protecting me from overstimulation? But I let slip a grin. I was glad to see everybody, in spite of myself. My sisters. All of them. Even Adele. A few weeks ago, I could never have imagined that this group of women—like so many pairs of crazy, colorful socks—would become the kick-off-your-shoes-and-let-it-all-hang out kind of girlfriends I desperately needed. Yet God put us together in time to help me through the most difficult days of my life.

  Yo-Yo scrambled up. “Okay, everybody. Off the couch. Peg-leg, here, needs a place to prop it up.”

  “No, no.” I moved quickly toward a chair. “Just give me that footstool. I’ll be fine.”

  “You sure?” But Yo-Yo dragged over the footstool, and I sat in one of the dining room chairs Helpful Denny must have carried in.

  “We won’t keep you long.” Avis was sitting on one end of the couch with her big Bible in her lap. “But tonight seemed like a good night to keep you covered in prayer.”

  So. Everybody has probably heard about the preliminary hearing tomorrow. I sighed. Couldn’t keep it under wraps forever. Well, they were here, and I certainly did need the prayer. I cast a glance at Adele filling the La-Z-Boy, remembering her comment:

  “Maybe Jodi doesn’t need our prayers.”

  She’d been right. I hadn’t felt any real need for Yada Yada’s prayers, though I’d been willing to scratch out some prayer requests. But now . . . Oh God, yes, yes, I desperately need their prayers big time—especially since I really don’t have a clue how to pray right now.

  Avis opened her Bible. “Just wanted to share a short parable that Jesus told about how we should pray.”

  I didn’t have my Bible, so I just listened as she read the familiar parable from Luke 18 about the two men who went to the temple to pray. The Pharisee—upright citizen, religious leader— stood tall and thanked God that he wasn’t a sinner like other men. He didn’t rob banks or commit adultery or plot evil. He wasn’t even a lowlife like the tax collector standing nearby. And the things he did do! Why, he fasted (twice a week!) and was faithful to pay his tithes down to the penny.

  But (Avis continued reading) the other man—a tax collector, generally assumed by everyone in that day and age to be padding his own pockets—bowed his head and beat on his chest in remorse, crying out, “God, have mercy on me, a sinner!”

  Avis shut her Bible, but those last words rang in my ears: “God, have mercy on me, a sinner!”

  Florida had said I didn’t really know what it meant to be “just a sinner, saved by grace.” Did she mean . . . I was like that self-inflated Pharisee? The realization was shocking. Everybody knew the Pharisees were self-righteous bad guys.

  But it was true. I was proud. Hey, God, it’s me, Jodi the “good girl”! God, aren’t You proud of me? I’ve been married almost twenty-years— unlike Ruth, who’s on her third husband, or Chanda, who has kids by several daddies. And thank You for my kids, off on their mission trip to build houses for Mexico’s poor—while Yo-Yo’s brother is sneaking off to those teen raves and doing who knows what. You should be proud of me, God, because I know the Bible from cover to cover (even though I forget those pesky references). And don’t forget, God, I’ve never done drugs like Florida or even smoked a lousy cigarette! Have never forged a check like Yo-Yo . . . or played the stupid lottery like Chanda. But I’m no fuddy-duddy, God—why I occasionally drink wine on special occasions, but of course I’d never get drunk . . .

  But Jesus had said that it was the other man, the one who knew he was “just a sinner,” who went home forgiven.

  That “other” Jodi, the one who’s basically selfish and petty . . . who flies off the handle at her husband . . . who was “driving angry” a couple of weeks
back . . . the one who was driving too fast for weather conditions . . . who hit a young kid . . . and killed him . . . killed him . . .

  “Oh God! Have mercy on me! I’m just a sinner! Have mercy!”

  I didn’t even realize I’d cried those words aloud, except that everybody looked startled and stared at me. Both Avis and Florida moved quickly to my side and began to pray. I couldn’t stop the tears, but they didn’t stop the prayers. Someone stuck a tissue into my hand, and then I felt Yada Yada gathering around my chair, as first one hand and then another was laid on my stuck-out foot, my head, even a gentle hand touching my belly.

  “Thank You, Father, for Your great mercy!”

  “Thank ya, Jesus!”

  “Gracias, Father God . . .”

  Nony’s voice rose above the rest, and I recognized the psalm Avis had pushed me to read. “Thank You, Father, that You are compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love! You will not always accuse, nor will You harbor anger against us forever! You do not treat us as our sins deserve . . . so great is Your love for those who fear You—”

  I heard a strange sound out in the hall. Others heard it, too, and glanced at one another. It sounded like Denny . . . weeping.

  I suddenly felt afraid. Why was he crying? I didn’t think I’d ever heard my husband sob like that. I wanted to get up and go to him, but I saw Florida leave the huddle around my chair and head for the hallway. In a moment, she was back, her arm around Denny, pulling him into the middle of the circle.

  Denny fell to his knees beside my chair, head bowed, hands on his knees, and continued to weep. I felt confused, but I reached out and laid my hand on his hair. Soft dark hair, flecked with gray. Beneath my fingers, I could feel the heaving of his body . . .

  After several moments, his sobs quieted, and he pulled out his handkerchief, wiped his face, blew his nose, and looked at me. Around us Yada Yada seemed to hold its collective breath.

  “I . . . heard you cry out . . . for mercy.” Denny reached for my hand. “But I’m the one who needs to ask forgiveness—from God and from you. Because—” He swallowed. “Because I did have too many beers the Sunday of the accident. Four to be exact. It was . . . stupid. I was irritated that you’d gone off to visit Nony’s church instead of coming to Uptown with the family, jealous that Yada Yada was taking up half of our Sunday evenings . . . and scared, too, scared that I was going to lose my job and that we’d made a big mistake moving into the city. So while I was out playing ball with the guys, I thought, What the heck? What difference does it make? Live a little, Baxter.”

  “Uh-huh,” Florida muttered. “Been there.”

  I couldn’t believe Denny was spilling our business like this in front of other people—a bunch of women at that. But . . . maybe it felt safer than just talking to me.

  “But I didn’t mean to make you late, Jodi. I thought you said to have the car back by five o’clock—”

  “I know, I know.” I was shredding the tissue I’d been given into little pieces on my lap.

  “But I did wait till the last minute. On purpose. I wanted to make you sweat—but still get the car back on time. But then you jumped all over me for making you late, and it made me mad. And it made me mad that you smelled beer on my breath and accused me of drinking too much . . . but—” His voice dropped to a whisper. “—you were right. I just couldn’t admit it. Didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t want you to be right . . .”

  The room was incredibly quiet. Denny seemed to have forgotten everyone else and just kept his eyes on me. “But when the hospital called and said you’d been in an accident, said there’d been a fatality, I was terrified, because . . . I knew it was my fault!”

  “No, no, Denny!” I moaned. It wasn’t fair, Denny taking all the blame. “I was angry. I was distracted. Too angry to be driving in that rainstorm.” I could hardly believe what I was saying, admitting how wrong I’d been to be “driving angry.” But for some reason it felt okay, even in front of Yada Yada. After all, I was “just a sinner”—just like everybody else. Except I was the last person to know it.

  But it was like Denny hadn’t even heard me. “Jodi, will you forgive me? I can hardly bear the suffering you’re going through— not just the surgery and your leg. That’s bad enough. But the charges they’re bringing against you, the hearing tomorrow . . . I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

  Behind me I heard Florida mutter, “Oh God, if you ain’t God all by Yourself. Glory!”

  I couldn’t say anything; the lump in my throat was too big. But Denny just wrapped his arms around me, and we cried together as Avis and Florida and Nony and the others started praising and shouting and crying and thanking God.

  Don’t know who put on the CD—probably Florida—but suddenly the song she’d made me listen to yesterday filled the room . . .

  We fall down, but we get up . . .

  For a saint is just a sinner who fell down . . . and got up.

  41

  I awoke Monday morning to sunshine trying to stick its fingers through the cracks in the miniblinds. The digital clock read only 5:32. But I knew I couldn’t go back to sleep.

  Today was the day of the preliminary hearing.

  Denny was still asleep, rolled over on his side, just a sheet covering the foothills of his hip and shoulder. I reached out beneath the sheet to touch him, to rest my hand on the curve of his hip, then pulled back my hand. I didn’t want to wake him—not just yet.

  I lay quietly on my back, thinking about Yada Yada last night . . .

  After Denny and I had quit crying on each other’s shoulder, the group insisted that Denny stay. He’d settled down on the floor beside the footstool, his back leaning against my chair. Avis asked us straight out what was going to happen at the preliminary hearing the next day. Denny laid it all out, everything we knew.

  “You scared, Jodi?” Yo-Yo never waited for niceties.

  Nothing like ripping open my emotional walls. “Terrified.” To my surprise, it felt so good to admit it. “If I’m convicted even of a misdemeanor, it could still mean—” I’d swallowed hard. “—jail time.”

  “Yeah?” said Yo-Yo. “Well, you won’t be the first person in this group who’s spent time in jail, will ya? And . . . here I am.” She’d spread her arms out. “Still in one piece. And wiser, too.”

  “But . . . my kids.” I was close to weeping again.

  “Uh-uh.” Avis had shaken her head emphatically. “We are not going to go straight to the worst that could happen. What are we going to pray for, Hoshi?”

  Hoshi had been very quiet, as usual. But she’d perked up at Avis’s question. “A miracle.”

  “Delores?”

  “I pray that Jodi and Denny have God’s peace, no matter what.”

  “Adele?”

  Adele had shrugged. “Might as well go for the gold . . . and pray that the charges would be dropped.”

  Avis had seemed satisfied. “All right. That’s what we’re going to pray for—a miracle, God’s absolute peace, and that the charges will be dropped.”

  “And that God will get all the glory,” Nony had added.

  And so they’d prayed, and toward the end it seemed like everybody was praying at the same time, just thanking God for His salvation, His mercy, His grace . . . and I realized after a while that it was no longer about me. Florida, Avis, Delores . . . each one was thanking God for His mercy and grace toward herself . . .

  Willie Wonka’s nails clicked on the floor as the dog came into the room and nuzzled Denny’s hand hanging over the side of the bed. Time to let me outside, people! his eyes seemed to say.

  Denny rolled over on his back then turned his head and looked at me. “You awake already, Jodi?”

  “Um-hm.”

  “You okay?”

  “Um-hm.”

  He rolled over onto his other side, facing me, and stroked my face, tracing the still tender scar under my bangs where my head had hit the side window. “What are you thinking?”

  I was quie
t a moment, relishing the gentle touch of his hand on my face. “I’m thinking I want to go to the hearing.”

  “What?” Denny sat up so fast he whipped the sheet off my prone body. “Jodi, you don’t have to go—not till you’ve healed more. The lawyer said he could ask for a continuance.”

  “I know. But why wait? Maybe it’s more important to face my demons.”

  “Your . . . demons.”

  “My demons . . . my fears. If I stay home, I’ll just be hiding. Not wanting anyone to know it’s Jodi Baxter who killed that boy. Not wanting to face the accusations against me.”

  Denny stared at me as if I were a stranger who’d crawled into bed with him. “But, Jodi. What if Jamal’s family is there?”

  I nodded slowly. “That, too. I . . . hope they are.” The look on Denny’s face was so odd, it was almost funny. But I didn’t laugh. “Will you go with me?”

  “Go with—?” Then he did laugh. “How else would you get there, you goose—hitchhike?”

  THE HEARING WAS SCHEDULED for ten o’clock at the Second District Circuit Court of Cook County in Skokie. I’d been surprised it wasn’t at the big county courthouse on the South Side, but Mr. Farrell had told us the Skokie court handled all the North Side Chicago cases.

  Denny let me out as close as possible to the entry of the sprawling two-story red-brick building at nine-thirty then disappeared into the parking garage. The courthouse was surrounded by one of the local forest preserves, almost parklike . . . except for the police cars driving in and out. I wondered how I was going to get through the revolving door with my crutches, but a security guard on the inside waved me over to a regular glass door marked with the blue handicapped logo.

  As soon as Denny came through the revolving door, we got in line to go through security, but I set off the metal detector when I hobbled through it, and a security guard made me pass through again. The third time he made me hand over the crutches and I hopped through. The alarm still went off.

  Exasperated, Denny barely kept his cool. “Look, she broke her leg, and it’s got a metal rod in it. Can’t you just wand her and let her go?”Which they did, but they made Denny empty his pockets and pull off his belt. They kept his penknife and said he could pick it up on the way out.