2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  I dug in my tote bag for my datebook to jot it down and realized with a jolt that two weeks from today was Labor Day weekend. Chicago schools would begin right after Labor Day, and I hadn’t even started to prepare.

  Huh. I was gonna need prayer for sure.

  THE NEXT WEEK rushed at me like a NASCAR video game— especially when it hit me on Monday that Amanda’s birthday was only three days away, and I’d been so busy trying to pull off my Starved Rock surprise that I hadn’t planned a thing. But while furiously sewing a set of curtains for a family at Uptown Community— I was going to pay off our Starved Rock getaway before school started or die trying—I got an idea: I’d make new curtains for Amanda’s room for her birthday; maybe get her a new comforter too. The bedrooms in our two-flat were rather small and dark. Maybe she’d like to paint it a sunshiny yellow—though they probably called it “lemon chiffon” or “sunrise mist.” Maybe I could talk Josh into helping me with painting.

  Denny thought it was a great idea, though I’m not sure he really heard me. Every spare minute he wasn’t at the high school getting ready for his new coaching year, he was looking in the Tribune for a good, used minivan. Besides, I knew he’d probably get Amanda a little something “just from Dad.” He always did that. I’d be thinking our Christmas gifts to the kids were from both of us, and then little things we’d never discussed would show up under the tree “from Dad.”

  Monday night was the first evening we’d sat down to supper as a family in four days. I made chicken fajitas—tasty and easy, twin requirements for a five-star rating at the Baxter household. “Oh, Mom,” Amanda groaned, holding up a store-bought flour tortilla that I’d lightly seared over the gas flame on the kitchen stove.

  “This is truly pathetic.”

  “Pathetic? I thought you loved fajitas.”

  “I do. Did.” She flopped the thing onto her plate. “But that was before I ate real tortillas in Mexico.” She pronounced it “Meh-he-co,” showing off her new aplomb at conversational Spanish.

  “You don’t want that?” Josh reached across the table with his fork and speared the lonely tortilla on his sister’s plate, flopping it next to his own overflowing fajita.

  “Give it back!” she screeched.

  “Hey!” Denny yelled. “Josh, give the tortilla back to Amanda. Amanda, eat—and spare us the food critique.”

  Denny and I exchanged looks. These two were supposed to be young adults?

  I passed Amanda the chicken fajita filling. “Speaking of food, what would you like for your birthday dinner?” For years that had been a safe question, since the answer was usually pizza or spaghetti. Last year, though, Josh had requested shrimp kabobs and twice-baked potatoes. I might have to ask for three choices and pick the one I could actually cook.

  By now Amanda had stuffed half a fajita into her mouth. “Oh! Could I invite Edesa and Emerald to my birthday supper?” At least, that’s what I think she said. It came out rather garbled. She swallowed. “And ask Edesa for her recipe for enchiladas. She made them for me this weekend, and they were sooo good.”

  That was different. Usually Amanda wanted a sleepover with some of her friends—but that had been back in Downers Grove, where she’d practically grown up with the same pack of girls from kindergarten through middle school. Last year at this time we had just moved to Rogers Park, and she’d settled for just one friend from our old church to come spend the weekend.

  Now she was asking for her Spanish tutor and Delores Enriques’s daughter, who was two or three years younger, to be her birthday guests. Was this the same teenager who’d been on the verge of failing first-year Spanish just a few months ago?

  “Sure, but I’m not making any promises about the enchiladas.” I caught Denny’s eye again. “Go ahead, tell them,” I mouthed at him.

  Denny cleared his throat. “Got good news,” he said, refilling his own plate. “My contract at West Rogers High has been renewed.” “Great,” Josh said. “Is there any more chicken?”

  Denny opened his mouth then closed it again. Obviously the kids hadn’t wasted any time worrying about it.

  After supper, Josh took Willie Wonka for his evening walk, Denny and Amanda went out to look at used cars, and I tackled the final set of curtains for the Gage family. When would I be able to get to Vogue Fabrics up in Evanston to get some material for Amanda’s curtains? Denny had preseason soccer practices at the high school, which meant no car during the day. Maybe tomorrow evening—if I could interrupt the car hunt—and then I’d have to find time to sew when Amanda wasn’t around.

  This might be more complicated than I thought.

  I was almost done sewing the rod pockets when Denny and Amanda came in. “No luck on the car,” he said and disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later he was back in the dining room, where I’d set up the sewing machine. “You about done?” He held up two sweating glasses. “Decaf. Iced.” He headed for the back door with both coffees. “Come on out to the back porch when you can.”

  I sighed. I wasn’t quite done, but Denny obviously wanted to talk. I turned off the sewing machine. Probably a good thing.My leg and midsection were starting to throb.

  Denny was sitting on the back steps sipping his iced coffee. The cicadas were putting on a thunderous concert—if you call sawing away on one note a “concert”—but I liked it. Nature’s refusal to take a backseat to urban noise.

  He handed me my glass as I lowered my aching body to the steps. “Did, uh . . . did Adele or Avis say anything to you last night about MaDear?”

  I shook my head. “Adele wasn’t even there. Made me feel funny. Like she was staying away on purpose. I kinda hoped somebody would bring it up—after all, Florida and Stu were there too. But nobody said anything, so I didn’t either.”

  Denny spit out an expletive under his breath. “Well, I’m gonna call Adele. It’s driving me nuts. I feel bad for MaDear—but it’s killing me, her thinking I’m some redneck racist who killed her brother. We gotta set this straight somehow.” He stood up.

  “Now? I mean, it’s kinda late.” I squinted at my watch. Nine-forty, to be exact. I wanted Denny to call—and didn’t want him to call. Adele wasn’t the easiest person to “get real” with.

  Denny went inside to call Adele, and I prayed fervently into my iced coffee. Jesus, we need some help here. Give Denny some peace about what happened—maybe erase MaDear’s memory again.Wouldn’t that work? Don’t let Adele blame us for something that’s not our fault—

  The back screen door banged. “No answer.” Denny sat back down beside me. “I left a message.” His shoulders hunched as he leaned his elbows on his knees. We both knew she wouldn’t call back.

  WITH AMANDA’S BIRTHDAY COMING UP, my sewing projects to finish, and school just around the corner—which meant shopping for school supplies and clothes for the kids, getting my classroom ready, updating my lesson plans, and attending the obligatory Professional Development days next week—temptation pulled me in two directions the next morning: roll over and go back to sleep, or hit the floor running.

  Willie Wonka helped me decide by licking my hand and face—whatever skin he could reach with his doggy tongue—then clicking rapidly on the wooden floors toward the back door for his morning pee.

  Okay, so I was up. As I waited for Willie Wonka to finish his business, I faced my next daily struggle: grab my to-do list or grab my Bible? Avis constantly reminded the Yada Yada sisters that the busier we got, the more we needed to “stay in the Word” and to pray. I knew for a fact that a morning devotional time would be hard to come by once school started, so as the dog came back into the house I muttered, “Okay,Willie. I’m gonna slow down these last two weeks long enough to get a half-hour for Bible reading and prayer before the rest of the family gets up. Hold me to it, okay?” Not that the deaf-as-a-doornail dog could hear my vow, but it felt good to tell somebody.

  With a mug of fresh coffee in one hand and my Bible in the other, I draped myself in the recliner by the fan in the fron
t window while Willie Wonka plopped down at my feet to start work on the first of his many daytime naps.

  Prayer . . . It was still a challenge for me to get beyond my laundry list of “Dear God, bless so-and-so and please do such-and-such,” a prayer routine perfected by family devotions as a kid, not to mention forty-plus years of Sunday school and church. Avis and Florida had given me several gospel and praise CDs when I was laid up after the accident, and that helped me focus on who God is and do some praising. But I couldn’t exactly play loud praise music at six o’clock in the morning, or the neighbors upstairs would be knocking on the floor with a broom handle. And turning the volume low enough not to bother anybody didn’t do justice to Donnie McClurkin or CeCe Winans.

  My other challenge was a mind that skipped around like a pinball— and today was no different. Two weeks till school starts—sheesh. I’m sure not ready for that emotional marathon. I tried to tell myself that I enjoyed teaching, that I loved third graders, but my first year at Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary hadn’t exactly been a stellar experience. Half the kids in my room spoke something besides English at home, which made parent-teacher conferences like a debate at the UN—without the headphones and translators. If the parents bothered to show up. The no-show parents really made me mad. Out in the suburbs, I’d been used to a close partnership between school and home, but here, a good percentage of kids came to school without the supplies they needed. Or breakfast. A few of my students could barely read or write, but the school district seemed to push them along year after year, regardless of skill. And classroom management—don’t even get me started.

  My primary saving grace had been Avis—“Ms. Johnson” to the staff—who was the principal of Bethune Elementary. Yet she couldn’t hold my hand all the time; she had eight grade levels and a large staff to oversee.

  Trying to corral my thoughts, I opened my Bible to the Gospel of Mark, which I’d been reading in bits and pieces over the summer. Several of the women in the Yada Yada Prayer Group could quote reams of Scripture promises from the Old Testament—even from those pesky Minor Prophets—but my motto tended to be: “When in doubt, check out what Jesus said. And did.” And right there alongside the little black ribbon that marked my place was the story of Jesus blessing the children: “ ‘Let the children come to me!’ . . . Then he took the children into his arms and placed his hands on their heads and blessed them.”

  Sudden tears filled my eyes. I’d read that story a zillion times at least. This week, though, it seemed like Jesus was giving it to me because I needed to carry it with me as I started my second year at Bethune Elementary.

  The phone rang. So early? I could hear the shower running— Denny must be up—but someone answered, so I just shut my eyes, squeezing tears down my cheeks. Okay, Jesus, You love the children. I guess that’s why I’m at this school, so You can love them through me. But it was hard to love some of those kids last year, and now I’m going to have a whole new class. Everything from “sweeties” to “beast-ies.” You’re going to have to help me big-time—

  “Mom?”

  I opened my eyes. Josh, pushing six feet, towered over my chair in a T-shirt, sweat shorts, and bare feet.

  “Uh, Pastor Clark is asking if I’d take some kids to the beach today. He’s helping their mom get signed up for Section 8 housing or something. I know I said I’d go with you to pick out paint for ’Manda, but . . .” He stared at me. “You okay?”

  I gave him a bleary smile. “Yeah. God’s just getting me ready for school.”

  9

  Amanda’s birthday dinner was a great success. At least if you count that we laughed a lot. Edesa brought Emerald, who seemed delighted to be the only member of her large family invited.

  My enchiladas, however, didn’t measure up to Edesa’s, even though she gave me her recipe—I could tell by the way Amanda politely said, “Good, Mom.” Usually what I got from Amanda when I tried something new was either, “Eeewww, gross!” or “This is so to die for!” Guess company brought out her manners.

  I’d taken the El up to Main Street Evanston to get material for Amanda’s new curtains from Vogue Fabrics, and Denny and I got out to Home Depot in the evening to choose paint on the way to look at another used car. “Are you sure she’ll like yellow?” Denny had asked—after the clerk had already mixed two cans of “summer sunflower.”

  I glared at him. “She better.”

  I had hoped to shop for a matching comforter, but Denny wanted to look at a promising Dodge Caravan he’d seen in the paper. The Caravan was only a couple of years old and in great shape, but the family who was selling it had decided they “only” needed two cars. “Understandable,” Denny had said with a straight face. We bought it on the spot and drove it home—well, Denny drove it, and I followed in the clunker. By the time we returned our borrowed car to the Uptown family—bless ‘em— who’d kindly loaned it to us after I totaled the Voyager, it was too late to shop for a comforter.

  So I just made a coupon—“Good for a New Comforter!”—and stuck it in Amanda’s birthday card. Josh paid for one of the cans of paint and promised to help paint her room—though I had a momentary heart palpitation when she said, “Can I exchange the paint? I was thinking of doing my room in red.” But she gave it up when we said she’d have to pay for that herself.

  My “fruit pizza” dessert with fifteen sparkle candles did go over big, as did Edesa’s birthday gift: a Spanish-English New Testament. Emerald, looking like a Latina Alice in Wonderland with her thick mane of dark hair tied back with a baby blue ribbon, gave her a cloth bookmark that she’d stitched herself with Amanda’s name. The way Amanda carefully put the bookmark in the Spanish Bible then hugged the book to her chest, I knew Amanda’s fifteenth birthday would be held in her heart a long time.

  And of course there was the “little something” from Denny: an ankle bracelet. How cool was that?

  Denny and Amanda gave “The Two E’s”—Josh’s shorthand for our guests—a ride home in our “new” minivan while I cleaned up the kitchen. Emerald gave me a hug before she left and whispered, “When I’m fifteen, my parents will give me a quinceañera—a big fiesta. You will come, si?”

  “Si,” I replied, which used up my entire Spanish vocabulary, though I could only guess what a quinceañera was. “See you Sunday?” Emerald nodded happily before scurrying out the door after Amanda.

  Visiting Edesa’s and Delores’s church on Sunday would be a treat.Wonder who else from Yada Yada will show up? Does Adele even know about it? I was usually the communicator to folks who missed a meeting, but I hadn’t e-mailed Adele yet.

  I gave the kitchen counter a last swipe with the dishrag, turned out the kitchen light, and limped into the dining room. My leg was really tired today. Maybe that physical therapy tomorrow would be good stuff. I lowered myself into the chair in front of the computer, turned it on, and called up our e-mail.

  I scrolled past several birthday greetings for Amanda and the usual spam that made it past our blocker. Then I called up a note from Nony.

  To: Yada Yada

  From: BlessedRU@online.net

  Subject: Hoshi’s parents

  Dear Sisters . . . By the grace of God Hoshi’s parents arrived Wednesday. Mark and I and the boys (Hoshi, too, of course) picked them up at the airport. We offered our guest room to them during their stay, but Mr. Takahashi bowed quite formally and said they had instructed Hoshi to make reservations at the Orrington, so we just took them to the hotel.

  Well, that made sense, since the Orrington in downtown Evanston was within walking distance to Northwestern’s campus. On the other hand, so was the Smiths’ house. Nony didn’t sound offended, but it made me curious. Had Hoshi told her parents that her mentors were African-Americans? If this was their first visit to the United States, they were probably already in a state of culture shock.

  The rest of Nony’s e-mail was just a reminder to pray for Hoshi and to remember her birthday next week.

  I called up a new messag
e and typed in Adele’s address:

  To: Adele Skuggs

  From: Jodi Baxter

  Subject: YY church visit this Sunday

  I stared at the blinking cursor for several minutes, wondering what to say. Just tell her about the church visit? Say nothing about MaDear? We’d left at least three phone messages for her, asking her to call. Surely she knew we wanted to talk about what happened last week. And why hadn’t she come to Yada Yada last Sunday?

  God, why does this feel like a minefield? I don’t know what to say.

  I need some help here!

  It took me ten minutes of writing, deleting, and rewriting, but I finally ended up with:

  Hi, Adele. Jodi here. You were missed Sunday evening! Delores and Edesa invited Yada Yada to visit Iglesia del Espirito Santo this coming Sunday (last Sunday of August). Can you make it?

  Also, if you get a chance, Denny and I would like to talk about what happened last week at the shop. Avis told us a little bit about why MaDear was so upset. We are truly sorry your mom experienced such a tragedy in her past, but it feels bad to just leave it as is, given such a huge misunderstanding about who she thinks Denny is. Let us know when would be a good time to talk. Thanks.

  I read it over at least twenty times . . . and finally hit Send.

  SUNDAY MORNING wasn’t too bad for Chicago in August: heading for the low eighties and humid. I had no idea what kind of church building Iglesia met in, but I tucked a couple of bottles of water in my tote bag along with my Bible and notebook just in case. Uptown Community wasn’t air conditioned, just ceiling fans, and sometimes all those bodies in that second-floor room on a hot day could get stifling. And rather smelly if it was potluck Sunday, which always drew more street people with bathing issues.

  I knew Amanda was eager to go with me this morning, even though she’d just been to Edesa’s church last week. I was surprised, however, when both Denny and Josh said they’d like to come too. Denny hates to miss any Sundays at Uptown. But he’d spent all day Saturday there, coordinating the crew of volunteers who came from suburban churches to participate in Uptown’s outreach to the homeless, so I guess he figured he could be absent with a clear conscience. He’d been one of those “commuting” volunteers for eons till last year, when the Baxter family had moved into the wildly diverse Rogers Park neighborhood near the church—a move I was still trying to reconcile with the girl who grew up with picket fences around our all-white neighborhoods in Iowa.