by Neta Jackson
“Oh, Hoshi. I am so sorry.” I felt so helpless. The cut on Mrs. Takahashi’s hand would heal long before the cut in Hoshi’s heart.
The corners of her mouth turned upward politely. “It is not your fault, Jodi. You are kind to invite me to dinner. Can I help?”
It was Amanda’s turn to set the table, but I let Hoshi carry out the plates and utensils to give her something to do. I did drag Amanda out of her bedroom, though, and sent her out to the garage to fetch her father and brother, who were still tinkering with our “lightly used” minivan. Finally everyone was corralled in the dining room.
Hoshi, bless her, smiled like a saint at Josh, light bulb and all. We held hands around the table, and I marveled how long and smooth Hoshi’s fingers were as Denny prayed. “Lord God, bless this food, bless the hands that prepared it, bless our sister Hoshi, and we also ask Your blessing on her family in Japan. Amen.” Denny was not long-winded when it came to mealtime prayers.
Hoshi looked up. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter.”
“Just Denny, please. Hey, this looks great, Jodi.” Denny passed the pasta dish to Hoshi, followed by the salad bowl and garlic bread. I was glad to see Hoshi fill her plate. The kids had been right to keep it simple.
Amanda, of course, asked Hoshi what meals were like in Japan. Hoshi laughed. “Fish. Lots of fish. And rice. Japan is an island, you know. So fish is one of our main sources of food.”
“Like sushi?” Amanda wrinkled up her nose.
“Well, yes, but we eat much fish, many kinds. Lots of shrimp, scallops, oysters. Also ika-yaki—grilled squid. And hanpen, a steamed fish cake. Also seaweed salad, called kaisou.”
I wanted to laugh. Josh and Denny were practically drooling, while Amanda looked like she’d just gagged on a fly. Yet I had to give her credit for not spewing the usual, “Eewww. Gross.”
“Maybe you could fix us some Japanese food sometime.” Josh was nothing if not direct.
Hoshi beamed. “Yes! I only wish I could cook like my mother. Now, she is good Japanese cook.”
At the mention of Hoshi’s mother, the table got quiet and the smile drained from Hoshi’s face. I was tempted to cover up the silence with my usual blather, but instead I let it sit a moment. Then I said, “I wish we had gotten to know your mother, Hoshi— your father too. I am sure they are wonderful people.”
She lowered her eyes and blinked rapidly. “Yes. Yes, I wish this too.” Then to my surprise, she abruptly changed the subject. “Tell me, Jodi, about your school.”
I was impressed. Hoshi obviously felt deeply about her parents, but she also seemed eager to move forward. So I launched into the saga of my first week of school, including Ramón’s threat to “smack” anybody who bullied other kids, and Britny matter-of-factly accepting my suggestion to visit England someday, since that was the meaning of her name. That brought a smile to Hoshi’s face. When I talked about Hakim and the shell he seemed to carry around him, her expression grew thoughtful.
“I wonder,” she said, “if he is sad about something. Sad children do not volunteer to do things.”
“Oh. Oh my.” That was a thought. I laid down my fork. “Like what?”
“Maybe his mother and father just got separated or divorced,” Amanda chimed in. “That would make me sad.”
I caught Denny’s eye. Did Amanda ever worry about that? We’d never given her cause—had we?
But Hakim, now. “That could be . . .” I murmured. Hakim had been the only one who didn’t want to find his name on the Welcome Bulletin Board that first day. “I wanted to encourage him, so I told him his name meant ‘wise healer.’ Even suggested he might be a doctor someday. But he almost got angry. Said, ‘Don’t want to be a doctor. They ain’t no good anyway.’ ”
“Hmm,” said Denny. “Maybe his mom is sick or in the hospital.”
“Or maybe his family lost someone they know in the 9-11 tragedy,” Josh suggested. “It’s the first anniversary this week, you know.”
I nodded. What Hoshi said made so much sense. Whatever was making Hakim sad, I hoped I could show him I cared and that our classroom was a safe place to come out of his shell.
HOSHI’S COMMENT stayed with me the rest of the week as I observed Hakim. He didn’t react in any special way to the moment of silence our school observed the next morning in memory of the 9-11 victims. He didn’t seem motivated at all, though when he did apply himself to his work—with constant nudging from me or Christy—he was bright enough. He balked when it was his turn to read in reading group, but he would read aloud if Christy sat with him one-on-one. “He knows most of the words,” she reported. “Just doesn’t seem to care what they say. If I ask him questions about meaning, he just shrugs.”
I knew it. There was a smart kid underneath all that stubbornness. We were going to dig him out, I told Christy, inch by inch, like archaeologists carefully exposing rare bones with a toothbrush. And as the weekend finally arrived, I decided to ask Yada Yada to put Hakim on their regular prayer list.
I was glad Yada Yada was scheduled to meet this Sunday evening—the first time since Bandana Woman had terrorized us. We needed to get together (not at my house, though, thank goodness!) to catch up with each other and pray. Hoshi needed some healing, for sure. All of us did, for that matter.
Today was Saturday . . . what else was happening this weekend? I jolted my mind awake with a cup of hot coffee and checked the kitchen calendar. Whoa. It said, “Jodi PT 11 a.m.” I had totally forgotten I had a physical-therapy appointment this morning— and Denny was out in the alley washing the car. I mentally rearranged my morning as I studied the calendar. Today was the fourteenth—almost two weeks since Bandana Woman had been arrested.
Was Saturday different than any other day at Cook County Jail? The sergeant had said B. W. was in detox, but had she been arraigned yet? My arraignment had been two weeks and one day after the accident—but then, I’d been in the hospital. How soon would her trial date be set? Soon, I hoped. I wanted my wedding ring back!
I refilled my coffee mug and wandered out to the alley, where Denny was hosing down the minivan behind our garage. “Hey, Denny. Forgot to tell you. I’ve got an eleven o’clock at the physical therapist. Will the car be done?”
“Guess so. I was gonna wax it, but I guess I’ll do that next time.”
I watched as he took a soapy brush to the front grill. “Um . . .
would you be willing to call Sergeant Curry this morning and ask if a trial date has been set for Bandana Woman?”
He snorted. “Bandana Woman? Is that what you call her?”
Did I really say that out loud? “Well . . . yeah.”
“Smarty. Same initials as her real name, huh?” he grunted, moving the bucket to the side and starting in on the wheels.
I frowned. Bandana Woman. Becky Wallace. B. W. Sheesh. It had never occurred to me. “Whatever. Will you call?”
“They said they’d call us, Jodi.”
“I know, but . . . Yada Yada meets tomorrow night, and I’m sure people will want to know—especially if they’re going to be called to testify.” I picked up the hose and rinsed the still-soapy grill.
Denny sighed. “All right. I’ll try.”
“Great.” I let the hose fall and headed toward the house.
“Or you could do it!” he called after me. I pretended I hadn’t heard him.
THE THERAPIST put me through a bunch of range-of-motion exercises with my left leg, which I did pretty well except for a leg lift lying on my side, which nearly killed me. “That’s the one you need to be working on,” she said, jotting some notes for me. “One more session. Two weeks okay?”
I wanted an excuse to put it off. Only two weeks? I’d never be able to do that leg lift in such a short time. Yet I couldn’t use my birthday and my folks coming as an excuse, since that was this coming week. I sighed and accepted the appointment card.
A thunderstorm rolled through our neighborhood that afternoon, watering our pathetic patch of straw-colored grass and le
aving the air smelling like it’d just come out of the wash. Denny asked if I was up for a walk to the lake after supper. “We could stop at the Heartland Café on the way back,” he tempted.
On the way to the lake, cars full of young Latinos passed us, honking and waving and flying huge Mexican flags from their windows—a sure sign Mexican Independence Day celebrations had started. I did okay on the walk to the lake, but I was glad to collapse at one of the Heartland’s sidewalk tables on the way back. We ordered their homemade salsa and chips to split between us. The café was full, a buzz of conversation and laughter going on all around us. I sipped my ice water and watched people strolling by, enjoying the last weekend of summer with their babies or dogs or just their own selves before fall officially arrived next week.
“I called Sergeant Curry,” Denny said.
“Huh?” I turned back to my husband. Our chips and salsa had arrived and I hadn’t even noticed. “Oh . . . great! What did he say?”
To my surprise, Denny didn’t answer right away.
“Denny? Did a trial date get set?”
He shook his head. “There isn’t going to be a trial.”
I couldn’t have been more startled if he’d thrown his glass of ice water in my face. “What?”
20
I must have screeched, because several heads turned in our direction. I shrank down into my chair. Denny let out an exasperated sigh. “There’s not going to be a trial, Jodi, because she pled guilty at the arraignment yesterday and she’s gone. They took her to the women’s prison in Lincoln today.”
“Oh. I thought you meant they were going to let her go.” I thought about what he’d said. “Doesn’t everybody get a trial? You know, America and all that.”
Denny shrugged. “Why waste time and money on a trial if a person pleads guilty? Guess the judge sentenced her right then and there.”
“But we didn’t even testify! How does the judge know what sentence to give if he hasn’t heard the evidence?”
“The police took our statements, you know.”
A big mad was building inside of me. Not good enough. I wanted a judge to hear firsthand how B. W. had barged into my home and terrorized all my friends. Hear Hoshi describe her frightened mother and that wicked knife, how the long-awaited visit had been cut short. Wanted Bandana Woman to have to listen too. Now she’d pled guilty and denied us the privilege.
All I knew was, she better get more than Yo-Yo’s eighteen months.
I sucked in my breath. “So. Did Sergeant Curry say what her sentence was?”
“Yeah. Ten years for assault.”
I took a sip of water to steady my nerves. “What does that mean? That she’ll be out on parole in a measly five years?”
Denny shook his head. “Dunno. They’ve got ‘truth in sentencing’ now. Not sure when her parole could come up.”
The waiter refilled our glasses of ice water, and we munched on the chips and salsa for a while in silence. So Bandana Woman got a short ride to prison. Wasn’t that good news? Why did I feel so disturbed?
Denny and I held hands as we walked down Lunt Avenue toward our house, past the houses hunched between the newer apartment buildings. Had to admit he’d been pretty tolerant with my reaction to the news. I wondered what the sisters in Yada Yada would think. Should I e-mail them tonight or just tell them tomorrow? Guess tomorrow is soon enough.
As we reached our front walk, I stopped short. “Wait a minute.
If Bandana Woman has gone to prison already, does that mean we can get our jewelry back?”
Denny shrugged. “Probably.”He saw me open my mouth again and beat me to the punch. “No, you can call Sergeant Curry and ask him.”
AMANDA WAS WAITING FOR US when we came in, nervously bouncing in her socks. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. Can I go to Iglesia tomorrow for church?”
I tried to catch Denny’s eye, but he chose that moment to squat down and greet Willie Wonka, who assumed we were all standing in the hall for his benefit. Okay, if Denny wasn’t going to deal with this, I would. “Honey, you were there two weeks in a row in August. A visit now and then is fine, but we need to be faithful at our own—”
“I’ve been at Uptown the last two Sundays!” she wailed. “Besides, the Mexican Independence Day parade is tomorrow— maybe Edesa would take me and Emerald after church.” I’m sure she sensed that Denny and I were wavering, because she moved in to nail the deal. “We get extra points in Spanish for cultural activities, you know.”
How Amanda talked us into letting her take the el to Iglesia del Espirito Santo by herself, I’m not sure—especially since she had to transfer. But she did the good-grief-I’m-not-a-baby-anymore bit and promised, “I’ll take the cell and call you when I get there, okay?”
She must have gotten on the phone with Edesa because a short while later she popped her head into our bedroom and said, “All set!”
YADA YADA took Ruth up on her invitation and met at her house Sunday evening. I didn’t want to leave before Amanda got home from the parade, but she called around four-thirty just as she was transferring to the Red Line, so Josh met her at the Morse Street station, and they walked from there to Uptown Community for youth group. Denny and I would have to hear all about the parade later.
Denny got the bright idea to drive me to the Garfields’ and get Ben out of the house. For a drink? I wondered. Ben Garfield certainly liked his beer, and it wouldn’t be the first time if he asked Denny to join him. But I needed to let Denny handle that. I’d gotten myself in enough trouble nagging Denny about it and jumping to conclusions.
The Lincolnwood area where Ruth lived wasn’t easy to reach by public transportation, so everybody got a ride with somebody. Chanda called us at the last minute saying she needed a ride, so Denny and I swung by her apartment building in Juneway Terrace, a depressing concrete jungle that straddled south Evanston and Rogers Park.
“Ooo, that Ruth got herself a real cute house!” Chanda gushed as we parked in front of the Garfields’ twenty minutes later. I glanced at the small brick bungalows lined up along the street like square Monopoly pieces. Frankly, they pretty much looked alike to me: Three concrete steps up to the front door, a tidy bay window on the right, one window on the left. The only variations were the curtains in the windows and what flowers or shrubs flanked the steps. Ruth obviously had a green thumb, because a profusion of black-eyed Susans, decorative grasses, and fall mums brightened up the front of her house.
Ruth’s husband—number three—opened the door when we rang the doorbell. Ben Garfield’s silver hair was brushed back from his broad forehead in a wave reminiscent of Itzhak Perlman. “Where all of you women are going to sit in this shoebox is beyond me,” he grumbled, waving us into the small living room behind the bay window, “but that’s your problem. Denny, here, has taken pity on an old man, and we leave you to your prayers.”
“Oh, take yourself out of here, Ben Garfield,” Ruth fussed. “Thank you, Denny.” She pecked Denny on the cheek. “Now shoo, both of you.” Ruth shut the door behind them and rolled her eyes. “Men.”
“Humph. Should be t’ankin’ God you got a mon,” Chanda pouted, plopping down in a big easy chair.
We chattered for about ten minutes, emptying the bag of day-old rugelach Yo-Yo had brought from the Bagel Bakery while waiting for the latecomers. Chanda downed at least six pieces of the rich Jewish pastry as the others straggled in.
“Hey, Jodi. How ya feel?” Florida gave me a quick hug in passing as she and Avis shed their coats. We hadn’t had much time to talk that morning at worship—she’d brought the kids again—and I wondered how her second week had gone with Carla at home. Figured I’d find out soon enough.
Stu arrived last with her carload; they’d been delayed by Mexican Independence Day traffic. Somehow we all found places to sit in the small living room. It felt odd to be together again after the robbery two weeks ago. We hadn’t talked about it much online or even by phone. But it was comforting too. Hoshi got a lot of hugs and seemed a
little overwhelmed by the attention. “I think everyone’s here,” Avis said finally.
“ ’Cept Adele,” Chanda said with her mouth full. “She not comin’.”
I’d pretty much guessed as much when Chanda called us for a ride. My feelings were mixed—again. With Adele not here, at least I could relax about that whole mess. On the other hand, wondering why she didn’t come left me feeling annoyed. Like we’d done something to her.
“We should get started then,” Avis said. “Does anyone have a song of praise to start us off?”
For some reason the hymn that had been bouncing around in my head the last two weeks popped out of my mouth. “Does anyone know, ‘Take your burden to the Lord and leave it there’?”
“Oh, sure.” Avis hummed a few bars. “One of Charles Tind-ley’s hymns.”
“Wait a minute. You know who Charles Tindley is?”
“Of course. Famous African-American preacher from Philadelphia. He wrote hundreds of hymns.”
“My mama used to sing Tindley hymns when we was comin’ up,” Florida chimed in. “She was so proud of that man. She’d tell us the story—born a slave, taught himself to read, ended up the preacher of a huge church in Philly. My mama said they called him the Prince of Preachers. Ain’t you never heard of him, girl?”
I shook my head.
“Huh. Well, I ain’t surprised. White folks ain’t been givin’ black folks any credit if they can help it.”
That stung. Yet I couldn’t argue with her. We’d sung his songs, all right—at least the two in our red hymnal. Maybe more. But no one had ever bothered to mention that the songwriter was black or tell his story when they told stories about other famous hymn writers like Charles Wesley and Fanny Crosby.
“I’m sure Tindley wrote his hymns for everyone,” Avis said, saving me from having to respond to Florida. “Whoever knows it, join in.”Without further ado, she began to sing the words to the first verse, which I didn’t know by heart, but I joined in with several others on the chorus: