2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  I found her out on the front porch “having a cig.” I grabbed my coat from the front hall and joined her outside. She acknowledged me but returned to staring at the trees lining our street. “You okay, Flo?”

  She didn’t answer for a long minute, dragging on the cigarette and blowing smoke into the nippy air. Finally she stubbed it out and leaned against the porch pillar, hands in her pockets. “Don’t know if me and Carl gonna make it, Jodi.”

  Oh God, not this. “What’s wrong, Flo? Did something happen?”

  She shrugged. “Nothin’ in particular ‘happened.’ It’s just . . . things ain’t fallin’ together for us.” She was quiet for a few moments, and I just waited. “It’s hard on a man when he don’t have no job, know what I mean? He gets ugly—takes it out on me and the kids.”

  “Not . . .?” I couldn’t say it.

  “Hit us? Not me or Carla, anyway. But he whup those boys sometimes. Not that I don’t think they need a good whack from time to time, but he yells—a lot. Makes the kids cry. Chris—he’s just getting mad.”

  My heart was sinking. “Oh, Florida. You guys just got Carla back!” Oh God. What would a bust-up in that family do to that little girl?

  Florida nodded. “I know. And if anything good in Carl’s life, it’s getting his baby back. She’s his angel, but . . .” She didn’t finish, just leaned on the post and shook her head.

  I couldn’t help it. I pulled Florida’s hands out of her pockets and started to pray—out loud. Her usual “Thank ya!” was absent— just a muted “Oh Jesus” now and then. At the end of the prayer she squeezed my hands and said, “Thanks, Jodi. Just keep prayin’. That’s all I know to do right now. Pray.”

  WELL, DENNY’S NOT HERE to rescue Ben Garfield tonight, I thought as we piled out of Avis’s car in front of Ruth’s house a couple of hours later. Denny had offered to drive Florida’s kids home if we could get a ride with somebody. Yo-Yo showed up with another bag of day-old Jewish pastries from the Bagel Bakery, which we demolished in record time—some of us still had our mouths full when Avis called us to prayer. The prayer-and-praise time was a little muted till everyone had swallowed and got their voices back, then it was “praise as usual”—at least as usual for Yada Yada. Everyone talking to God at once, some clapping, some phrases sung from favorite praise songs, punctuated with “Glory!” and “You’re a good God!” And we hadn’t even shared our prayer needs yet.

  Yet something was missing. Then I realized what it was: I missed Nony’s rich voice praying Scripture verses, translating them in midprayer to make them personal. Where was Nony right now? How was her mother? Did she say when she was coming back?

  “Did anyone hear from Nony?” I asked when the praise time was over and we had scrunched together on Ruth’s small flowered couch, a couple of overstuffed chairs, and a bunch of folding chairs. “How about you, Hoshi?”

  Hoshi, her willowy body almost swallowed up in Ruth’s fat easy chair with the little lace doilies pinned to the back and arms, shook her head. “Nony has not contacted me. I did speak to Dr. Smith after class on Thursday, but he just said it would be awhile.” She shrugged her shoulders, encased in a soft, baby-blue sweater set that set off her silky black hair. Her dark eyes shone with moisture. “I miss her,” she added.

  I could’ve kicked myself. Had I called Hoshi? Checked up on her since Nony left? How hard would that be, Jodi? Nony and the Smiths were the closest thing to family Hoshi had in the States— but she couldn’t very well go over to the Smiths’ home with Nony and the kids out of the country and Mark home alone.

  I made a mental note to call Hoshi at least once a week, maybe twice—but knowing me, a mental note wouldn’t do it. I fished in my tote bag for a pen and some paper to make a to-do list, almost missing Hoshi’s quiet voice as she continued.

  “ . . . have been thinking about what Jodi said about talking to the woman in jail, face to face . . .”

  My head jerked up. Said? What had I said?

  “ . . . that the fear was gone after talking to the woman as a person— a person with a name.” Hoshi tilted her chin up. “I’m thinking it would be good for me to go to the prison with you next time—if there is a next time.”

  “Alabanza Jesús!” Delores breathed. “Oh, Hoshi, that is . . . is . . .” She seemed to be searching for the right word. “. . . valiente. Si, muy valiente.”

  “Very brave,” Edesa translated, smiling at Hoshi.

  Ruth shook her head. “Brave, maybe. But necessary? Why must she go? Three Yada Yadas already visited that Becky person in prison—like the Bible says we should do. Represent us, they did. Everybody doesn’t need to go.”

  “That’s right, Ruth,” Avis said gently. “Everybody doesn’t need to go, but if the Holy Spirit is prompting Hoshi to go, it may be an important step in the healing God wants to do. As she said, facing her fear. Because fear is not of God. Also”—she began thumbing through her big Bible—“it might prepare the ground for forgiveness.” Avis found what she was looking for. “From the Lord’s Prayer, the model Jesus gave us to pray: ‘Forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.’ ”

  The living room was quiet, except for the sound of a TV from somewhere in the back of the house. As we forgive . . . Yeah. That was one of those sticky little things Jesus said which we piously recited as part of the Lord’s Prayer, but when you came right down to it was hard to swallow. Almost sounded like a contract: “God will treat our sins in the same way we treat other people’s sins.” Ouch.

  The silence was broken by a little laugh from Hoshi. “Do not talk me out of it—I will accept any and all excuses not to go!” But she leaned in my direction. “Jodi, will you write another letter to . . . to the woman, and ask if she will put my name on her visitors’ list?”

  Well, yeah, but that means you need a ride down there, so either Denny and I need to go again, or somebody else with a car needs their name on the list. I tried the back-door approach. “Sure, I’ll write the letter. Anybody else want their name on the visitors’ list?” I was hoping someone with a car would speak up, like Stu or Avis, or even Ruth—not likely—but no one volunteered. Great. Just great.

  Avis moved on, collecting other prayer concerns. Florida didn’t say much, just, “Pray for the Hickmans. Lot goin’ on, not all of it good.” We put Nony on the prayer list, and Avis volunteered to call Mark Smith to find out when she was coming back.

  Chanda piped up. “Mi not get even t’ree words out of Adele at church dis mornin’, but someone say it be her birthday week from tomorrow—four November. Yada Yada didn’t visit nobody’s church all month. Why don’t ever’body come to Paul and Silas Apostolic next Sunday? Be a big surprise for Adele’s birthday.”

  “Ahh . . . maybe too big a surprise, Chanda,” Stu said diplomatically. “I think it would be very awkward. Avis said to give her space, remember?”

  Heads nodded around the room, including Avis.

  Yo-Yo spoke up from the floor, squeezed between Ruth’s chair and a corner of the flowered couch. “But showing Adele we haven’t forgotten her—that’d be good. Maybe we could all send her birthday cards.”

  “A good idea, that is!” Ruth beamed. “Kill her with kindness.”

  Stu groaned. “We’re not trying to kill her, Ruth.”

  Humph, I thought. It’d take a lot more than kindness to kill Adele anyway.

  34

  Avis dropped me off after Yada Yada, and I let myself in the front door, dumping my tote bag and hanging up my jacket.Hope Denny has changed all the clocks by now. I kicked off my shoes and headed toward the light in the dining room. No way do I want to show up at school tomorrow an hour early.

  Josh was at the computer, surfing the Net for college info. So much for writing that letter to Becky Wallace—not that I minded putting it off. With a hint of glee I noticed that Josh’s head sported a brown shadow, like a thin mat of Astroturf. He was probably getting tired of having to shave it every two to three days. “Where’s your dad?”
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br />   Josh grunted. “Living room, I think.” He resumed clicking the mouse, intent on the computer screen.

  The living room? It was dark when I came in. I headed to the front of the house. “Denny?”

  “Yeah. In here.” His voice came from the recliner near the bay windows.

  “What are you doing sitting in the dark?” I shuffled in my sock feet toward the recliner, illumined only by the pale streetlights outside, and almost tripped over Willie Wonka, who was snoring right in my path.

  Denny held out a hand and pulled me down onto the arm of the chair. “Just thinking.”

  Yuck. He smelled like cigarette smoke. I almost said something but caught myself, hoping he’d let me in on whatever he was pondering. Besides, we might argue over his occasional beer, but I knew he wasn’t lighting up on the side. Not the way he jumped all over his student athletes if he caught them smoking.

  “Florida get home okay?” he asked.

  My perch on the arm of the chair was a little precarious, but I snuggled closer, in spite of how he smelled. “Yeah. She got a ride with Stu, who was taking Edesa and Delores home. Not really on the way, but you know Stu. Have car, will travel.” Listen to yourself, Jodi! Even though Stu got on my nerves with her “instant solution” to everything, I had to admit she was generous to a fault, picking people up, taking people home, giving of her time to make Yada Yada happen.

  “I met Carl.”

  “You met—oh! When you took Florida’s kids home?”

  “Yeah. Carla fell asleep in the backseat, so I carried her inside. Carl buzzed us in, but I’m sure he was expecting the kids to come up by themselves—at least he just stared at me when he opened the door and saw me standing there with Carla over my shoulder. I said, ‘Hi, I’m Denny Baxter. Where should I put her?’ And once inside . . . I dunno. Figured this was my chance to meet Florida’s husband beyond just hi and good-bye.”

  “Ah. That explains why you smell like an ashtray.” I sniffed pointedly.

  “That bad, huh.” He chuckled. “Well, yeah, he seemed pretty nervous. Must’ve smoked half a pack while I was there.”

  “Half a pack! How long did you stay? Did you guys actually, you know, talk?” Oh, wow, God. And I hadn’t said anything yet to Denny about what Florida told me out on the porch.

  “Yeah. Well . . . as much as guys talk who are sizing each other up like tomcats in an alley. Mostly we talked about his kids—I figured that was safe territory. Told him how much I enjoyed getting to know them; thanked him for sharing them with us. He seemed kinda surprised by that. We talked about Carla too—that opened him up a little. His face lit up talking about Carla.”

  “Did he say anything about needing a job?”

  “Nope. I think that’s kinda touchy. But I did invite him to church. Told him to come with Florida and the kids, that I’d be really glad to see him.”

  “And?”

  Denny shrugged. “He said, oh yeah, yeah, he would. But who knows. Still, now that we’ve talked a bit, maybe I’ll invite him to our next men’s breakfast at Uptown.”

  Now I was sure this meeting was God-inspired. I told Denny what Florida had said on the porch that afternoon. “Maybe knowing some guys who care will make a difference.”

  “Maybe.”

  I rolled off the arm of the recliner and pulled up the frayed ottoman. Ahh, much better. Somehow I wasn’t as flexible with a steel rod in my leg. “So why are you sitting here in the dark? I thought something was wrong.” By now my eyes had gotten used to the dim light of the streetlights, and I could see Denny’s face, puckered in a frown.

  He sighed. “I don’t know. Just started thinking on the way home. Thinking about a lot of things, stuff that’s happened. I’ve been involved in Uptown’s outreach for the last ten years, but that’s nothing compared to the stuff we’ve confronted since Yada Yada walked in our door. You’d think I’d know something by now, but you know what?” He smacked the arm of the chair so hard, even Willie Wonka jumped. “I feel pretty darn helpless to make a difference! Carl Hickman? It’s tempting to tell him to shape up and support his family, but what do I know about what he’s had to face in his life? And Becky Wallace . . . what does God expect of us in that situation? I still get mad when I think about all the danger my wife and daughter and our friends were in that night.”

  He fell silent again. I laid a hand on his knee, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Know what, Jodi? Want to know what bothers me the most?” His voice broke a little. “Adele. Adele and MaDear. Why did God let that happen? I’m not the man MaDear thinks I am—but it still rips me up that she thinks I am.”

  He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. When he spoke again, I knew it’d been a cover for the tears he was fighting back. “Heck. I don’t have a clue why we moved into Chicago. Thought I could make a difference. Ha.”

  I DIDN’T THINK OUR CONVERSATION in the dark was the best time to bring up the fact that Hoshi wanted—maybe needed—to visit Becky Wallace and face her fears, which obviously implicated Denny, since he and I were the only people with a car on B. W.’s visitors’ list so far. Unless I drove.

  Not sure I’m ready for that.

  I put off writing to Becky Wallace for a few days, caught up in a school week that included Halloween,TV specials about ghosts and ghouls, and an entire classroom that would be high on sugar the next day. Not the best week to see what Hakim could do with some one-on-one attention, but between Christy and me, we managed to spend at least twenty minutes a day working with him verbally or hands-on in different subjects. Working that way, he seemed to catch on quickly, came up with clever answers, and beamed when he solved problems. Once, to test him a little, I waited half an hour then gave him the same comprehension questions we’d just discussed written out on paper. He got angry, drew a big X over the paper, and refused to cooperate the rest of the day.

  “I think he has a learning disability,” I told my student teacher.

  “Makes me so mad his mom won’t get him tested.”

  “Maybe we can talk to her at parent-teacher conferences in a couple of weeks.”

  “We?” I pulled a face. “I was going to let you do that conference.” Christy’s eyes widened under her cap of dark curls. “Ms. Baxter! You wouldn’t!”

  Wouldn’t I? “Just kidding. Don’t worry. Got any ideas for something fun we can do on Halloween—besides bobbing for apples?”

  She grinned sheepishly. “We could let them ‘wrap the mummy.’ All we’d need is five or six rolls of toilet paper.”

  So on Thursday, Christy and I used the last half-hour of class time to divide into teams and let the kids “wrap a mummy.” It was loud and chaotic, but most of the noise was laughter and squeals of excitement—except for the moment when Ramón pushed over his team’s “mummy” because she wouldn’t stand still. We sent the winning team out the door with red apples and gave yellow apples to all the runners-up. My feeble antidote to the usual candy frenzy.

  Uptown Community sponsored a “Hallelujah Fest” at the church as a Halloween alternative—ghoulish costumes strongly discouraged—and Denny, Josh, and Amanda were shanghaied along with the rest of the youth group to help with games, eats, and a costume parade. I stayed home to answer the door for neighborhood trick-or-treaters, though I’d been told by Uptowners that “kids don’t trick-or-treat in Rogers Park—it’s too dangerous.” Last year—our first in Chicago city limits—we’d gotten a few in our neighborhood, which still boasted a lot of houses, so I decided to have treats on hand “just in case.”

  At the last minute I remembered to light the jack-o’-lantern in the front window as daylight faded. Ugh, it was starting to rot. “Hang in there for a few more hours, buddy,” I told the pumpkin, propping it up on the windowsill. “Then you can rot to your heart’s content out in the garbage can.”

  The doorbell rang a few times, but the bowl of Tootsie Roll Pops and bubble gum pretty much stayed untouched. So I figured this was as good a time as any to write Becky Wallace. Redeeming
the time, so to speak. As I called up our e-mail, my heart did a leap as a new message joined the clutter in our Inbox: a note from Nony! I could hardly click it open fast enough.

  To: Yada Yada

  From: BlessedRU@online.net

  Re: Hello from Kwazulu-Natal!

  Dear Yada sisters,

  Please forgive me for not writing sooner. Mark says, “Please e-mail Yada Yada! They keep calling to ask if I have any news about you!” I feel glad for your concern. My brother finally helped me access my e-mail online at his office, so now I can let you know how things are with us in South Africa.

  What a joy to see my mother! She is still in hospital, but she improves a little bit each day. However, visits tire her, so we are limited to only one hour. I am not sure when she will be able to come home. I would like to stay until she is released from hospital, to help make arrangements for her care and see that she is settled.

  Hmm, I thought. Wonder how Mark feels about that? Her return date sounds rather vague.

  In the meantime, I am getting reacquainted with my country. Kwazulu-Natal is called “The Garden Province” with good reason! The summer season has just begun, so everything is in bloom. Lilies everywhere! African lilies, bugle lilies, lion’s tail . . . the flowers must enjoy the humidity (though I confess, I don’t). My mother is in hospital in Pietermaritzburg, but I am hoping to take the boys to visit their cousins who live along the coast and maybe even take a “safari” into the savannah—like real American tourists!

  But, dear sisters, my heart is also heavy. It is one thing to read statistics about the AIDS pandemic in Africa. It is quite another to learn that my old school chum’s teenage daughter was raped by her uncle, because he thought he could be cured of the disease by having sex with a virgin. Now she is HIV. Myths and ignorance abound! Proverbs 13:16 is so true: “Every prudent man acts with knowledge, but a fool exposes his folly.” My brother, Nyack Sisulu, who does social research for the KZN Department of Health, told me that half of all fifteen-year-olds in South Africa and Zimbabwe will eventually die of AIDS. It is so hard to see the suffering and do nothing!