by Neta Jackson
Yo-Yo guffawed. “Ha! Ya got that right.”
“What are Carla and the boys doing today, Flo?” I asked.
Florida sighed. “Carla goin’ to her foster family again today— s’posed to be the first and third Saturdays every month for a while. I know they care about her, but don’t see how these visits help us none.” She was silent a moment. “Still, it’d be harder to make this trip if she was home. So maybe just as well . . . say! I usually have a cig with my morning coffee—mind if I light up? Just kidding, Jodi! But we’ll be stoppin’ along the way, right?”
Denny glanced in his rearview mirror. “Just say the word, Flo.”
“Hey, those trees are real pretty,” Yo-Yo said. A cold snap the preceding week had turned the usually boring countryside along the interstate into a kaleidoscope of color. Golden elms and maples, rusty brown oaks, crimson sumac bushes, and the occasional brilliant red maple flashed by, resembling a colorful afghan tossed on a large, flat bed. “Wish Pete and Jerry coulda come. Don’t think they ever been out in the country.”
“My babies neither,” said Florida.
I twisted in my seat again. “You mean . . . they’ve never been outside Chicago?”
Florida and Yo-Yo answered like a chorus. “Nope.”
I was flabbergasted into silence. We’d always taken some kind of vacation when I was a kid, even if it was just visiting my grandparents on the farm. And then there was that memorable car trip West one summer, to see the Grand Canyon splitting the earth like a gigantic gash to the bone, then heading north to gawk at Old Faithful and the bears at Yellowstone National Park. I could still remember the rotten-egg smell of the sulfur hot springs and the amazing mud pots going blop, blop, blop—marred only by my brothers’ incessant teasing that they were going to push me in.
I couldn’t imagine never setting foot outside Chicago in my whole life. Oh Jesus. If you ever plop a million dollars into my lap, I’m gonna buy a huge bus, hire a driver, and take Florida and Yo-Yo and Chanda and all their kids and whoever else wants to come and see the whole country . . .
The other half of my brain put on the brakes. Oh, right, Jodi. All those kids? Sounds like a recipe for disaster. Well, it wasn’t like I was going to actually get a million dollars—though for half a second I felt tempted for the first time in my life to play the lottery.
We stopped twice at roadside rest stops to stretch our legs and get some cold drinks. It took a little longer than usual, because Florida and Yo-Yo sat out on a picnic table for a cigarette break both times. So it was almost eleven o’clock by the time we drove up to the gate of the Lincoln Correctional Center. We had to state our business, open the back of the minivan, and get out while a security guard did a cursory check of the car. Then we were permitted to drive into the parking lot.
Chain-link fences and rolls of razor wire stretched out on all sides of us as far as I could see. Beyond the wire, off in the distance, lay a typical Midwest town nestled among the colorful trees, church steeples sticking into the blue October sky. So close, yet so far. I swallowed. Is this where I’d be if the charge against me of vehicular manslaughter had stuck? My knees felt rubbery as the four of us walked toward the main entrance.
A lot of visitors were checking in at the main desk, but finally it was our turn. We immediately ran into trouble. Each of us was asked, among other things, if we had ever been convicted of a crime or incarcerated. Now it was Yo-Yo’s turn to gulp as the truth came out.
“We can’t let you visit an inmate without special permission of the chief administrative officer,” the freckle-faced security officer at the desk said flatly.
We all looked at each other.
“Sir, we’ve driven all the way from Chicago.” Denny was exceedingly polite. “Would it be possible to get that permission, uh, today?” He turned to Yo-Yo. “Ms. Spencer was a former inmate here at Lincoln—her records must be available. Given the nonviolent charges against her and her clean prison history, I’m sure you will see that she does not present a risk.”
Florida kept her mouth shut, but “You tell him, Denny!” was plastered all over her face. I wasn’t so sure Denny’s charm was going to work with this buster, though. The man gave us an impassive stare, excused himself, and left us waiting.
It took another hour to get clearance for Yo-Yo, but somehow it happened. “Thank ya, Jesus!” Florida crowed, which earned her a funny look from the freckle-faced guy. We were then ushered into security areas—this way for women, that way for men—to be searched. Florida, Yo-Yo, and I had to take off our shoes, which were shaken and examined before we were allowed to put them back on. We were each assigned a locker for our purses, jackets, and personal items. Then we were patted down by a female guard and made to walk through a metal detector. Sure glad I wore a pair of jeans, I thought. I could hardly bear to think about being patted down under a skirt.
We met Denny outside the visitors’ room and walked in together. The room was devoid of any color or decoration—just gray walls, beige floor tile, gray plastic tables, and gray plastic chairs. At most of the tables, a female inmate wearing street clothes—mostly jeans, sweatpants, and T-shirts—was surrounded by mothers or sisters and kids of all ages. At two of the tables, a man—boyfriend or husband—held hands with a woman across the gray plastic tabletop. Not a DOC uniform in sight.
The four of us sat at an empty table, pulling over another chair so we’d have five. And waited.
I hardly recognized Becky Wallace when a guard let her in the room. In fact, I didn’t realize who she was until I saw the guard point toward us. A wiry woman wearing a shapeless T-shirt and baggy sweats walked slowly in our direction. Instinctively, all four of us stood up.
Florida thrust out her hand. “You Becky Wallace?”
The woman nodded, her dark eyes darting from one person to the next. Her dull brown hair was cut short; her skin was sallow, devoid of makeup or natural color. She looked tired, like an old woman who wasn’t getting enough sleep.
Except she was young—not more than twenty-five. Her birth date must’ve been on that file I’d pulled up on the computer, but somehow her age hadn’t registered.
“Well, I’m Flo Hickman. This here’s Yo-Yo Spencer. And them two is Jodi and Denny Baxter.”
We each shook her hand, which she extended reluctantly, and we all sat down. For a moment no one spoke. Oh God, I moaned inwardly, this is so awkward.
Finally Becky spoke. “You all at that house the night I got busted?”
Denny nodded. “Except Yo-Yo. She had to work that night.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed in Yo-Yo’s direction. “Why you here then?”
Yo-Yo stuck her hands behind the bib of her overalls and slid down the chair into her customary pose—feet straight out, fanny and back resting at two points on the chair. “Wasn’t there that night,” she said, “but I been here and came out better’n I went in. I’m thinkin’ the same about you.”
The woman’s lip curled. “Why should you care?”
Yo-Yo didn’t blink. “ ’Cause somebody cared about me. Made a difference.”
I was still tongue-tied. My emotions bounced around like little pinballs. Why did we come anyway? Wasn’t she going to apologize for terrorizing us that evening?
Becky looked Denny up and down. “You the guy that pinned me down?”
Denny nodded. I could see a little twitch at the corner of his eye. Ha! Denny was nervous too. “I . . . hope I didn’t hurt you.”
“Nah. Ya did whatcha had to do.”
The silence stretched out long again. It didn’t seem the right time for small talk. Finally Florida spoke. “You finish detox?”
Becky’s eyes dropped. “Huh! Got out of Cook County ’fore my three weeks’ detox was up. Hit withdrawal big-time when I got here.” She cussed under her breath. “Worse pain ever had in my life.” She eyed Florida. “You?”
“Uh-huh. Writhin’ all over the floor, screamin’ for somethin’, anything. Sure been there.”
&nbs
p; “You clean now?”
Florida grinned. “Yes, thank ya, Jesus! Five years saved and five years sober!”
The woman’s lip curled again. “You all religious types?”
“Yep! That’s what we was doin’ when you came in the door— havin’ a prayer meetin’.” Florida nodded at Denny and me. “At their house.”
Becky Wallace squirmed in her chair. “Guess I gave y’all some-thin’ to pray about, huh.”
That’s it? That’s all she’s going to say about what happened that night? I swallowed the sharp retort that rode the tip of my tongue.
“Yes. We did too. Pray for you that night, I mean. And ever since.”
Becky’s mouth twitched. “Don’t bother,” she muttered. “Ain’t worth it. Save your prayers for that lady what got her hand cut.”
I noticed she didn’t say, “. . . for that lady whose hand I cut.”
“Oh, we prayin’ for her too,” said Florida. “And her daughter.
They was all shook up.”
Becky shot us a wary glance. I could practically read her thoughts: Knew it! Knew you guys are just itchin’ to tell me how what I done made you feel.
But nobody said anything more. Finally she seemed to slump inside her ill-fitting clothes. “Didn’t mean ta cut that lady,” she mumbled, staring at the table. “Didn’t want ta hurt nobody. Jus’ . . . jus’ needed money for a fix.”
“I know,” Florida said. “We all know that.”
We asked if she had family. She shrugged. “Somewhere. Ain’t heard from ’em in a long time.”We asked if she had kids. Her eyes twitched. She gave a short nod. “Lil’ boy. Don’t know where he be, though. His daddy took ’im away from me. Said I wasn’t fit.” Did she need anything? She shook her head. “Nah. What’s ta need? I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
The clock on the wall inched its way toward 1:00. My stomach was rumbling. Maybe Becky Wallace had missed lunch too. But if Avis were here, no way would she miss an opportunity to pray. Why not? I had absolutely no other idea how to end this awkward visit. “Could we . . . uh, pray for you before we go?”
That seemed to unnerve her. She stood up. “Ya can pray all ya want after ya get on outta here. I gotta go.” She started to leave, then she turned back. “Don’t know why y’all come on down here, but I . . . I ’preciate it.” Without waiting for a reply, she strode quickly across the room, motioning to the guard to let her out the locked door.
And then she was gone.
30
None of us said much as we left the prison and climbed back into the car. I felt irritated that my mental image of Bandana Woman didn’t stand up to the dull-eyed, pathetic creature we’d just left. But I didn’t want to feel sorry for her. Isn’t some anger appropriate, God? After all,Hoshi’s relationship with her parents is a wreck now, thanks to B. W. If we’re going to actually relate to this woman, she needs to face that somehow. With a twinge of satisfaction, I felt my level of anger—righteous anger, of course—nudge back up a notch.
She was so young, though . . .
“How old do you think she is?” I said to no one in particular.
“Dunno,” Yo-Yo said. “Maybe ’bout my age.”
“Which is?”
“Uh . . .” She paused, like she had to think about it. “Gonna be twenty-three in a week or so. Say, we gonna eat? I’m hungry.”
We found a McDonald’s in the town of Lincoln and got milk-shakes to go with the sandwiches and apples I’d brought along. Got the coffee thermoses filled up again too.
Florida eyed the wheat bread suspiciously as she took a sandwich. “You got somethin’ against white bread, Jodi?”
I stifled a snort. She probably meant that cheap spongy stuff in long “family-size” loaves that passed for bread in the grocery store. Might be good for something—like maybe caulking leaky windows in an emergency. I smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Flo. Just used what I had on hand.”
We munched in silence for a while before I noticed that Denny had not gotten back on the interstate. “Taking the back roads home?”
He shrugged. “Thought we might find a roadside stand that sold pumpkins.”
“They sell ’em at the store, Denny,” Florida said, her mouth full of sandwich.
Denny grinned. “I know, but it’s kinda fun to buy them right off the farm.”
“Josh and Amanda still carve pumpkins? Them big kids?”
“Sure,” I piped up. “We do it every year.” Or was it Denny and me who carved the pumpkins now?
Sure enough, we saw a hand-painted sign boasting “Pumpkins, Apples, Squash.” Denny pulled into the farm driveway. “Pick out a pumpkin for Carla and the boys, Flo. My treat.” He eyed Yo-Yo. “You want a pumpkin? Take your pick.”
Yo-Yo got out of the car, taking in the rows and rows of pumpkins lined up on the ground like so many Munchkins from the Land of Oz with big orange heads and little green hat-handles, sorted by size behind signs that said, “Large $5, Medium $4, Small $3.” She jammed her hands in the low pockets of her overalls. “Never had an honest-to-God real pumpkin before.”
I stared at her. “Never?”
Yo-Yo shrugged. “My mom wasn’t big on holidays. Maybe Christmas now and then—if she was sober.”
“What about birthdays? She made a cake, that kind of thing, right?”
Yo-Yo shook her head. “Nah, but it’s okay, ya know. I try to do somethin’ for Pete and Jerry when it’s their birthday. But we never had a pumpkin.” She moved over to the rows of “Small” pumpkins. “If I get one, would one of ya tell me how ta, y’know, make it glow?”
I laughed, but I felt like crying. “My mom wasn’t big on holidays . . .” How much I took for granted! Never thought that some families— families I rubbed shoulders with—didn’t even do birthdays. “Sure. Maybe we should have a pumpkin-carving party. You wanna, Florida?”
“Cool. I’ll bring Carla. Chris and Cedric gonna think they too big. Can I have this big ’un here, Denny?”
“Yeah. They gotta be big for carving. You guys pick out three big ones. I’ll go pay.” Denny headed for the outdoor counter.
“Pay for four, Denny!” I yelled after him. “I’m gonna get one for Chanda’s kids too.”
As we pulled back on the road, Yo-Yo stared at the field next to the roadside stand, where pumpkins dotted the ground, still clinging to their sprawling wilted vines. “Huh. So that’s how they grow.” It was a statement of wonder, like the way I felt watching Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon on my TV screen.
We finally got back on I-55. Denny didn’t ask me to drive, and I didn’t offer. One of these days I needed to muster up the courage to drive at highway speeds again. But not today. Nobody talked much about our visit to Becky Wallace on the way home. Maybe we all needed to digest the experience for a while.
I stuck in a Songs4Worship Gospel CD and glanced back into the second seat as the Colorado Mass Choir filled the car with “Let everything that has breath praise Him!” I turned the volume down a notch. Florida was sleeping in spite of all that coffee; Yo-Yo just stared out the side window of the minivan, nursing her own thoughts.
An idea began to percolate in my head . . .
AS FAR AS I COULD TELL, our kids had handled the day pretty well. Amanda volunteered that she and Edesa had gone over to the Enriqueses’ house to make “real” tortillas with Delores and Emerald. And to see José, I guessed. Yet did it really matter, if the whole family was together? What harm was there in that? Josh and Yo-Yo’s brothers played video games, ate the two frozen pizzas I had in the freezer, cleaned us out of ice cream, and left all their dishes in the sink. So what else did I expect? Though I was a little rattled by the cigarette butts I found out by the garage. Who’d been smoking—Pete? Well, so did his sister-guardian. Not much I could do about that.
At Uptown Community the next morning, Florida got up during the testimony time and shared briefly about our visit to Lincoln Correctional, mentioning the robbery that had preceded it “at the Baxters’ house.
” I saw heads swivel as people looked at us, no doubt surprised that they were just now hearing about this. “That girl needs some serious prayer,” Florida said. “So I’m askin’ the church to keep her covered. God saved me, so I know He can save her too. Pastor?” She handed the mic to Pastor Clark and started to sit down, but Pastor Clark motioned her to stay up front and asked Avis and Stu and the Baxter family to join her and be included in his prayer.
Funny. I hadn’t really thought about asking Uptown to pray about stuff related to Yada Yada. For one thing, Yada Yada was women from a bunch of different churches—not really an Uptown thing. And prayer requests shared in the group were confidential. Yet maybe Florida was right. This was bigger than any of us, bigger than Yada Yada. My eyes misted as Pastor Clark prayed for protection, for healing of the experience, for Becky Wallace’s salvation.
Well sure, let’s pray for her salvation. Just don’t turn her back out on the street, God, I added as we sat down again.
Once back into the school week, though, I didn’t have time to think much about Becky Wallace. On Monday I congratulated myself that my third-grade class was starting to gel. On Tuesday, Terrell tripped Darian as they came into the classroom, and the day seemed to unravel from there. Chanel was absent for three days, and we had to send a note home to all the parents that said, “A case of lice has been reported in your child’s class, so please take the following precautions . . .” When Chanel returned with her head wrapped in a blue scarf, all the kids knew who the “case of lice” was, and I had to keep her in the classroom during lunch to prevent the inevitable meanness, in spite of the lecture I’d given the class on respecting others’ feelings.
The week wasn’t a total loss, though. I turned Christy James loose to plan our reading segment for the next couple of weeks, since that seemed to be of special interest to my student teacher. She started reading the story of Johnny Appleseed to the class, then she encouraged the students to write a poem using the letters of his name as an acrostic. The results weren’t terribly creative, but some were pretty cute. Most of the kids seemed proud of their “poems,” decorating their papers with round red blobs that were supposed to be apples.