2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  I felt guilty for about one second. Yes, I would return it— tomorrow. Tonight I was going to enjoy feeling like a “babe.”

  Our waiter, whose name sounded like “Belay Wuhib,” set down the steaming bowls of spicy lamb, strips of marinated steak, hummus, and vegetables we’d ordered, along with the ever-present injera flat bread and small dishes of cucumber and lentil salad in spicy vinegar, and we fell to. Between dripping bites, I prattled on about our wedding weekend twenty years ago when Denny’s sophisticated Episcopalian parents from New York met my very conservative mom and dad in Des Moines, Iowa, for the first time, somewhat akin to a summit of East meets West. Now it was funny, but back then, it was hard to tell who was more shocked: the New York Baxters, trying without success to envision a wedding reception in the basement fellowship hall of the plain, nondenominational church my family attended, or the Midwestern Jennings, stuttering in dismay when Denny’s folks offered to purchase the wine and beer for the reception “dinner.” “Oh, uh, that won’t be necessary,”my mother had spluttered. “We’re, um, well, there’s not really a dinner, just simple refreshments with Red Zinger Tea punch—it’s really good.” I almost choked on a piece of injera bread, remembering how Denny and I had howled later.

  Denny didn’t smile, just nodded absently and said, “Uh-huh.” In fact, I realized that for the past ten minutes I had been doing all the talking.

  I picked up the cloth napkin and wiped my mouth. “Earth to Denny.” At least that got his attention. “Are you okay?”

  He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Sorry, babe. It’s just . . .”

  I waited, but he’d already retreated behind his eyes.

  “Denny, talk to me.” I reached across the table and took one of his hands. “Is it what happened this afternoon at Adele’s shop?”

  He sighed. “I just can’t get it out of my mind. She was so angry at me, and I don’t have a clue about why.”

  “Well, it’s obvious—I mean, she’s got you mixed up with somebody else. It’s not you she’s mad at, Denny. I know it’s upsetting— we were all upset—but you can’t take it personally.” Or I’ll get upset that a little old woman suffering from dementia is messing with our anniversary.

  “I know that—in my head, anyway. But who is she so angry at—and why? And why does she think whoever-it-is is me?”

  I didn’t want to think about MaDear and her problems—probably part of her “hard life” Adele referred to this afternoon. Whatever it was, it was past, nothing to be done about it—at least, nothing we could do about it.

  I patted his hand, feeling more like Mother Hen reassuring Chicken Little than Denny’s lover-friend-wife of twenty years.

  “Look, we’ll call Adele tomorrow and ask if she’s figured out what’s going on with her mother, okay? Maybe that’ll help you put it aside.”

  Denny nodded, though he didn’t seem at all sure. I decided it was time to spring my surprise. Hopefully that would take his mind off MaDear’s tantrum this afternoon.

  I reached into my shoulder bag, pulled out an envelope, and slid it across the table. Denny looked at the envelope then looked up at me. “What’s this?”

  “Open it.” I smiled, feeling impish and smug that I’d managed to pull off a surprise, too, in spite of crutches and being stuck in the house most of the summer. God bless Web sites that let you make reservations online.

  Denny pulled out the paper and unfolded it. A good fifteen seconds went by as he read. I sucked in my breath. Maybe he didn’t like the idea after all, like my Yada Yada “advisers” today had predicted. Then Denny looked up . . . and grinned.

  “You rascal. When did you plan this?”

  I let out my breath. “Several weeks ago—soon after the trial. I wanted to do something special to thank you for . . . for standing by me through, you know, everything.”

  His eyes registered pain. “Oh, Jodi, don’t. Don’t thank me for anything.” He leaned forward and took both my hands, looking in my eyes so intensely I could almost feel their heat. “I’ve been to hell and back because of that stupid fight we had that day. But God has seen us through, is seeing us through, and you’ve forgiven me and . . .”

  “Oh, Denny. You’re not still blaming yourself, are you? It was me . . .”

  We both just looked at each other, overwhelmed at the memories and feelings that were still healing. A stupid fight . . . me, late for a Yada Yada meeting, driving angry . . . a drenching thunderstorm . . . and now, a boy was dead. Charges had been filed against me: manslaughter with gross negligence. If the Yada Yada Prayer Group hadn’t held both of us and showed us how much God loves us, even when—especially when—we don’t deserve it, we might not have made it even this far.

  “If you want to thank somebody, Jodi, thank God.” Denny’s voice was husky. “Where would we be without grace?”

  I swallowed. The waiter cleared our dishes while we sat holding hands without speaking. “Coffee?” he asked. “Dessert?”

  “Just coffee.” Somehow the simple words dislodged the lump in my throat. We had to go forward, and forward at this moment meant Starved Rock this coming weekend—just Denny and me, no kids, no dog, no laundry, no cars gunning their engines at two in the morning, no apartment buildings crowding out the sun.

  “Okay, my thanks go to God,” I agreed, “but it’s you I’m taking to Starved Rock Lodge. Deal?”

  This time he laughed. “Deal.”

  4

  Denny was up early and back to work on Thursday, leaving me with a second cup of coffee and a quiet house— momentarily at least, till the kids got up. I sat on the back porch steps, enjoying the relative coolness of early morning in the wake of a nighttime thunderstorm, mentally reviewing what I needed to do in the next two days in order to be gone for the weekend. I’d made the reservation for Friday and Saturday nights, but the earliest Denny could get off would be five o’clock on Friday. Day camps started early and ran late as zillions of Chicagoans parked their kids in summer programs—sports camps, arts camps, drama camps, sailing camps, a little-bit-of-everything camps— filling every moment of every day with activity.

  Whatever happened to lazy summer days watching ants on the sidewalk, sucking “Popsicles” your mom made in little plastic freezer molds, or playing question-answer games with your best friend while swinging on the deserted school playground swings?

  Probably a myth by now, created in simpler times when kids had daddies, and moms stayed home. Summer day camps were no doubt better than all those kids sitting in front of the television all summer.

  Denny and I had always been grateful we both had school-year jobs that let at least one of us be home when the kids were out of school. Yet now that they were both teenagers, it drove me a little nuts that Josh and Amanda could easily sleep till noon if we let them. I wasn’t a big fan of hanging out at the mall either. Denny solved that little problem by stopping their allowance in the summer. Any spending money they wanted they had to earn.

  So far it was working pretty good with soon-to-be-fifteen Amanda. She kept up quite a cash flow with baby-sitting and “mother’s helper” jobs—mostly families from Uptown Community Church. She enjoyed the independence of buying her own clothes and not having to beg us for money when she got invited to Six Flags Great America.

  Josh was a different story. By the time he and Amanda got back from the youth-group mission trip to Mexico in July, most of the available summer jobs had been taken. Denny got him on as a sub at the park district, but so far that had only averaged one day a week of actual employment at pitiful wages. And the ancient garage behind our house had only so many sides that could be painted in one summer. I loved my tall, gangly son, but Willie Wonka was plenty when it came to inert bodies lying around the house.

  One good thing: my recovery from the accident and lame leg finally forced the kids to do their own laundry. We probably pushed up the water bill doing it that way instead of combining loads, but it was worth it. I’d been guilty of either nagging them to d
eath about their laundry or finally giving up with an okay-I’ll-do-it-myself martyr complex. But now? Couldn’t do it; I couldn’t do the basement stairs. If they didn’t do their laundry, they had to wear it dirty. Ha!

  Sometimes I wondered why it took a big crisis in my life to get some simple stuff straight, like not doing chores my kids should be doing.

  On the other hand, they’d be happy doing some things for themselves I wasn’t ready for yet—like staying home alone this weekend while Denny and I went away for our anniversary. I knew they’d both nix the idea of having somebody come to stay at the house. I could hear them now: “Mo-om! We’re too big for a baby-sitter!”— though Amanda might acquiesce if I suggested Edesa Reyes, the black Honduran university student in the Yada Yada Prayer Group who tutored her in Spanish. Amanda and Edesa had hit it off big-time, but Josh was just old enough (seventeen) and Edesa just young enough (a very attractive twenty-one) that that didn’t seem appropriate. Not for a whole weekend. I decided against it.

  I heard the bathroom door bang back in the house. Shoot. I’d missed my chance for a leisurely shower. I better get off my duff and get on the phone. “Come on,Willie,” I said to the dog, who was already into his morning nap on the back porch. “Let’s put some rubber under these wheels.”

  TEN DISCOURAGING PHONE CALLS LATER—was everybody we knew out of town this weekend?—it was Amanda who came up with a solution that made everybody happy. Well, almost everybody. “Edesa said I could come spend a weekend with her sometime,Mom. I’d love to visit her church—it’s in Spanish! And I’d get to see the Enriques kids too. Just ask her. I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Amanda had quickly taken on the role of honorary “big sister” to several of the kids whose mothers were part of Yada Yada. Maybe this would work, though I felt a little nervous at Amanda spending a whole weekend on the Near West Side. José Enriques, Delores’s teenage son, had been shot in a park in Little Village—only a mile from where Edesa lived— while we were at the Chicago Women’s Conference, an event that solidified our ad-hoc conference prayer group into an ongoing prayer filibuster. Yet I knew Avis or Florida would say, “We can’t live in fear!” So I dialed Edesa’s number.

  By the time Denny got home that evening, I’d walked over to the Fitzhughs’ to return Sheila’s dress, Edesa had agreed to keep Amanda for the weekend, and Josh had argued reasonably that he should stay home because “somebody’s got to take care of Willie Wonka.”Which was true.

  Denny thought it was a good plan—until I told him Edesa offered to bring Amanda back on the El Sunday afternoon. “She and Delores are coming up anyway for Yada Yada—we’re meeting at Nony’s house.” Denny frowned. “Uh, I offered to give Edesa and Delores a ride to Yada Yada after she brings Amanda back— it’s the least I can do.”Nony Sisulu-Smith was hosting Yada Yada’s bimonthly meeting this week at her home in north Evanston near Northwestern University, where her husband was a professor. I wanted to see where she lived. The only other time Yada Yada met at Nony’s, I never made it.

  Denny’s frown deepened. “Did Dr. Lewinski say you could start driving yet?”

  I shrugged. To tell the truth, I didn’t want to get behind the wheel again ever, but I had to sometime. “Isn’t the wreck we’re driving an automatic? I should be okay. There’s nothing wrong with my right leg.”

  “Going to Yada Yada just seems a bit much after a weekend away,” he grumbled.

  Ah. So that was it. I let it pass. Denny had apologized for getting jealous of our diminished Sunday evenings together, now that the Yada Yada Prayer Group had decided to meet every other week, but he still struggled.

  After supper, Josh took off for Touhy Park to shoot some hoops, and Amanda had another baby-sitting job. I was feeling pretty accomplished lining up the weekend when Denny asked, “Did you call Adele today?”

  I looked at him stupidly. I’d totally forgotten.

  He winced. “This is important to me, Jodi. Maybe I should just call her myself.”

  I could tell he was frustrated—even more so when he had to go hunting for the phone, which he finally found in Amanda’s room. I got him Adele’s number and apologized for forgetting to call— but to tell the truth, I felt relieved he was going to do it. What would I have said anyway? “Say, Adele, got any explanation for why MaDear went off on Denny yesterday? Nice little fiasco.”

  Denny dialed Adele’s number, but I could tell from the tone of his voice that he just got her answering machine. “Uh, Adele? Denny Baxter here. Could you give me a call? I need some help understanding what happened yesterday with MaDear. I hope she’s okay. Thanks.” He hung up and stared at the phone.

  “I’m sure she’ll call you back,” I encouraged, rubbing his shoulders. I certainly hoped so—tonight, while he was still home.

  Yet Adele hadn’t called by the time Denny left for work the next morning, taking Josh with him, who’d gotten a call at 6:30 a.m. to sub. So he asked if I’d please call the beauty salon and talk to Adele.

  I thought of a half-dozen things I had to do before I could call Adele, but I eventually ran out of excuses. I picked up the phone.

  “Adele’s Hair and Nails,” said a young voice. Sounded like Corey, the girl who did nails.

  “Um . . . hi, Corey. Is Adele available? This is Jodi Baxter.”

  “Just a minute.”

  I could hear a CD playing in the background and indistinct voices. Then Corey came back on. “She’s with a customer right now.”

  “She’s with a customer right now.” That was it? Not, “Can she call you back?”

  I stumbled. “Uh, okay. I’ll try again.” Dolt! I scolded myself. You should have left a message for her to call.Well, I hadn’t, so I’d just have to try again later. But how did I know when she’d be free?

  I was packing the clothes Denny had washed last night when I heard the phone ring and Amanda pick up. “Mom! For you.”

  Whaddya know, I thought. Adele had called back after all. Yet when I said, “Hello? This is Jodi,” it was Avis on the line.

  “Hi,” she said. “Just wanted to say good-bye before you and Denny take off for the wilderness this weekend. Will you be back in time for Yada Yada Sunday evening?”

  “Yeah, planning to.” I rattled off our weekend plans, including driving Edesa up to Nony’s after she brought Amanda home. “You can pray for me! First time behind the wheel since—you know.”

  “You’ll be fine.” There was a slight pause. “You and Denny okay after what happened Wednesday?”

  “Yeah.” Okay, Jodi, be honest. “Well, maybe not. Denny is still pretty upset. He tried to call Adele last night to talk about it but only got her machine. He wants me to call today. I did once, but she was busy. Was going to try again in a while.”

  Another pause. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You might want to give it a rest for a few days—at least till you get back from Starving Lodge or wherever you’re going. Adele might be ready to talk about it then . . . but I’m not sure.”

  At any other time I would have guffawed at Avis’s misstatement about Starved Rock, but something in her hesitation to have us talk to Adele set off alarm bells in my brain. I mean, I thought Adele would probably apologize for her mother’s tantrum, assure Denny that he was just a victim of his mother’s dementia, and say that MaDear didn’t even remember it had happened. Surely that’s what Denny needed to hear. So why . . .

  “What do you mean?” My tone was sharper than I intended it to be. Then it suddenly occurred to me that Avis knew. She’d stayed behind to help Adele with MaDear; now she was urging us to “give it a rest” and not push Adele on it. “Avis, what’s going on? Why did MaDear freak out when Denny showed up at the shop? Why doesn’t Adele want to talk to us about it?”

  “I think Adele should be the one—”

  “You just said Adele doesn’t want to talk about it,” I was dangerously close to shouting, “but that leaves Denny and me hanging, filling in the blanks with . . . wit
h . . . I don’t know what!” I had no idea what she was talking about, but knowing my active imagination and Denny’s despondency over what happened, I was pretty sure we could work up a pretty good stew over it.

  “All right. I’ll tell you what Adele told me, but promise me you won’t try to talk to Adele about it just yet. Give her some time.”

  I tried to control my voice. “Okay. I promise.”

  As Avis filled me in on what happened after we left Adele’s Hair and Nails last Wednesday, I slowly slid down the doorjamb of the kitchen doorway that I’d been leaning against until I was sitting on the floor, my elbow on my knee, my head in my hand.

  When she finished I hardly knew what to say. Finally I whispered, “Okay. Thanks, Avis.” I clicked the Off button and just sat in the doorway, hardly noticing Willie Wonka’s wet nose in my face.

  How was I ever going to tell Denny?

  5

  It took us almost an hour to get out of Chicago that evening—and that was after we dropped off Amanda at Edesa’s apartment on the Near West Side.

  Denny walked Amanda into the apartment building, carrying her sport bag of clothes for the weekend while she clutched her pillow and threadbare Snoopy dog she still slept with at fourteen. I watched from the car, double-parked in the street, as she waved and disappeared into the foyer. A few minutes later Denny was back. “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh.” He eased the clunker down the on-ramp into traffic on the Eisenhower Expressway as we headed back toward the Dan Ryan, where we would pick up I-55 heading south.

  I bit my lip. Didn’t he know when I ask if everything is “okay,” what I really want to know is what Edesa said when they got to her door, and what he said, and did Amanda say good-bye or send any messages back to me? Did she seem nervous or anxious about us going away?

  Probably not. What was one measly weekend when she’d weathered two weeks in Mexico without Mom and Dad just fine?

  Friday night traffic was snarly as usual, with construction on I-55 backing things up for miles. I doled out turkey sandwiches and carrot sticks as we crept along behind a big truck, reading and rereading the stupid little sign on the back that said, “How’s my driving?” and an 800 number.