2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  I gulped for air. “No, no! Ms. . . . Ms. Porter, believe me! I had no idea Hakim was—”

  “Well, I won’t have it, do you understand me?” Geraldine Porter trampled my protest. “I . . . will . . . not . . . let . . . you . . . teach . . . my . . . son!” Each word hit me like a shotgun pellet.

  Suddenly she whirled, her eyes sweeping the room. “Where’s Hakim’s desk?” She marched up and down the rows, glaring at the names taped carefully to each one. “Don’t just stand there—show me where my son sits!”

  Barely trusting my legs to hold me up, I made it to Hakim’s desk then watched helplessly as she pulled out dog-eared pocket folders, pencils, a knit cap. “Ms. Porter, please, can we talk? Hakim is so bright, but he needs some special help. And I want to help him.” My words tumbled out, almost falling over each other in my urgency to salvage something from this disaster. “If he could be tested—”

  “Tested!” She slammed the top of the desk down. “Oh, yes, I know about this testing. It starts now, doesn’t it—tracking kids into dumb and dumber, prettying it up under fancy titles like ‘special needs.’ ” She was shouting at me. “Well, get this straight, Ms. Baxter. You don’t have to worry about testing Hakim, because I am going to transfer him out of this classroom! Out of this school! Jesus!” Suddenly her features crumpled and her words descended into a moan. “Jesus! How much can one person bear?”

  Instinctively, I reached out to her, but she jerked back, pulling her moment of vulnerability behind her flashing eyes. She straightened, and once again I saw the woman, hardened in her grief, who had faced me down in the courtroom after the charges against me had been dropped “for lack of evidence.”

  “Goodbye, Ms. Baxter. You won’t—”

  The door of the classroom opened. We both jumped. I caught a glimpse of royal blue as Avis Johnson came into the room and made her way quickly to where we were standing by Hakim’s desk.

  “Ms. Porter,” she said, her composed, authoritative voice spreading calm like foam over a wildfire. She extended her hand to Hakim’s mother. “I am Avis Johnson, principal here at Bethune Elementary. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  The woman seemed taken off guard. “Wilkins-Porter,” she corrected. “Geraldine Wilkins-Porter.” She lifted a determined chin. “I would like to have my son transferred out of this classroom immediately.”

  Oh God! My spirit sank. She really is going to take Hakim out. I didn’t know whether to try to explain to Avis, but by now I was fighting back tears. Did she recognize the woman? Avis had come to the hearing and sat in the back of the courtroom—to pray, she’d said. This woman had been there too. But if Avis knew what this was about, all she said now was, “Why don’t we go to my office, and we can discuss it.”

  Hakim’s mother tossed her head. “There is nothing to discuss. Hakim will not be back in school until the necessary arrangements have been made. I will call you.” She pressed the collection of items from Hakim’s desk against the front buttons of her trim, navy-blue suit and strode resolutely toward the classroom door.

  Out in the hall I heard Hakim wail, “Why we goin’ home, Mama?” and a sharp, “Because—that’s why!” before the door closed again.

  Avis and I just stared at each other. Finally, Avis broke the fragile silence. “That was . . . Jamal Wilkins’s mother?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The tears I’d been fighting back slid over the edges and ran down my cheeks.

  “Lord, have mercy!” Avis sucked in her breath as though gathering her wits about her. “How many more parent conferences do you have, Jodi?”

  I held up two shaky fingers.

  “Christy can do them—I’ll sit in with her. You go to the teachers’ lounge and pull yourself together. But don’t leave until we talk, all right?”

  I was so grateful, I wanted to throw my arms around Avis or fall down and kiss her feet. Nodding mutely, I found the box of tissues on my desk, blew my nose, and moved numbly toward the door.

  HOW I MADE IT THROUGH the teeming hallway without running into a distracted parent or an open door, I’ll never know. Mercifully, the teachers’ lounge was empty, and I collapsed on the lone, saggy couch just as the dam of frustration and humiliation burst in a flood of tears. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God . . . For some reason my desperate prayer got no further, and I let the silent sobs take over till they shook my whole body.

  Finally I mopped my face, blew my nose, and tried to corral my wildly bucking thoughts. What did she mean, ‘hiding behind a smokescreen’? I’d only signed that note ‘Ms. B’ because that’s what Hakim called me. My full name had been on room assignments mailed to each student’s family, hadn’t it? Surely she remembered my name from the hearing—probably kept it pinned to her wall and threw darts at it. Hadn’t I tried to reach out to her that day, tell her how terribly sorry I was? The helpless feeling washed over me once more. Oh God, what more can I do? I’d give anything if I could change what happened that dreadful day! But—

  “But you can’t, can you?” That’s what Jamal Wilkins’s mother had said to me after the hearing.

  I felt cornered. What good was God’s forgiveness if the person most affected by the accident that snuffed the life from her son wouldn’t—couldn’t—forgive me?

  The door to the lounge opened and shut. I barely looked up but saw Avis’s blue suit move toward me. I knew my eyes were puffy, my mascara probably smudged, my skin red and blotchy. I didn’t care. Avis had seen me worse in the hospital.

  Bethune Elementary’s principal sat down beside me on the couch; I caught a whiff of silky perfume. Avis’s presence, her smell, her voice usually filled me with a quiet joy, as though the Spirit of God within her filled the space wherever she went. Today, the sweet scent seemed dissonant, like rose petals wafting through a garbage-strewn alley. Ha! Even Avis couldn’t fix this mess. How many other parents and teachers had heard Hakim’s mother yelling at me? What were they thinking right now? Would this cause a scandal for Bethune Elementary?

  Geraldine Wilkins-Porter was right about one thing: it was some kind of sick joke.

  I started to laugh—harsh, unhappy laughter. My shoulders shook again, and I threw my head back against the couch and howled.

  “Jodi, stop.”

  I couldn’t. Jamal Wilkins . . . Hakim Porter—who could’ve known? I killed one. I was teaching the other. It was hysterical when you thought about it. I shrieked. I let it all come out. I didn’t care who heard me.

  “Stop.”

  I stopped. It was the slap that did it. Avis Johnson slapped me.

  “avis . . . slapped you?” Denny drew back and stared at me as I told him the whole sordid story an hour later.

  I nodded sheepishly. “I know what you’re thinking. Very unprofessional. Except we weren’t ‘Ms. Johnson’ and ‘Ms. Baxter’ at that moment—just Avis and Jodi. I deserved it, I’m afraid. I was getting out of control.”

  When I’d finally gotten home from school about nine o’clock, I pulled Denny away from Law and Order on TV—high-school conferences had been the previous week—and said I really, really needed to talk. Now we were sitting on our bed, backs propped against as many pillows as I could find, door shut against all intruders—except Willie Wonka, that is, who scratched and whined at the door till we let him in. Now the chocolate Lab sat with his white-whiskered chin resting on the side of the bed, brow wrinkled like tire treads, knowing in that peculiar way of dogs that something was wrong.

  “Frankly, I’m mad, Denny—really mad at God, because I prayed about these conferences, prayed for all my students, and . . . and I feel tricked. How could God let this happen?” Avis had just listened to me rant and cry for a while, and so did Denny. I finally blew my nose. “Then she hugged me and said we’d talk later and sort it out somehow. And she promised to call Hakim’s mother” —Jamal’s mother! a voice in my head accused—“to talk about the situation.”

  Denny nodded. “You’ve got to let Avis handle it, Jodi. I
t’s out of your hands. There’s nothing you can do.”

  He reached out and pulled me against him, and I tried to relax in the curve of his arm, but my emotions still bounced around like ping-pong balls. Was that true? It was out of my hands? There was nothing I could do?

  Denny’s just trying to comfort you, Jodi, trying to help you let go.

  But, my mind argued, hadn’t I started something with Hakim? Something good? Why wouldn’t God let me finish what I’d started? Hadn’t I been learning about His grace? Even my name: God is gracious. Yet maybe grace wasn’t enough—

  “—not if she won’t forgive me!” My loud voice in the dark quiet startled me. Good grief, I said that aloud.

  Then I heard Denny’s whisper muffled against my hair: “Yeah. Goes for me too.”

  37

  I had the nightmare again during the night, except the face lit up in my headlights kept shifting: Jamal’s eyes, wide with sudden terror . . . Geraldine Wilkins’s face, an ice sculpture of fierce anger . . . then Hakim, looking straight at me, betrayed, accusing. I made myself wake up and go to the bathroom, even chugged a whole glass of water. Yet the moment I laid down again, the three faces recycled behind my closed eyelids like a PowerPoint loop.

  I was exhausted when the alarm went off. Still, I put my body on autopilot, let Willie Wonka outside, started the coffee . . . and suddenly realized what Denny had meant last night when he said, “Yeah. Goes for me too.” He meant MaDear and Adele. The three of them, trapped in a tragic dance. Forgiveness would be so freeing, but . . . whom to forgive?

  When I got to school, the halls were empty. Good. I’d deliberately left home twenty minutes early so I wouldn’t run into any of the other teachers and have to explain what happened last night. I collapsed at my desk and tried to pray, but all I could do was mumble over and over, “Oh God, help. Please help me—”

  “Jodi?”

  Startled, I looked up at Avis’s voice. I hadn’t heard the door open. The royal-blue suit had given way to a casual pair of black slacks and mocha sweater set. She pulled up a chair beside my desk. “Good. I’m glad you came early. I wanted to talk to you a minute before the school day started.”

  I just looked at her, too worn-out to use up extra words.

  “You said last night that you’re mad at God,” she began. I didn’t need reminding. I was still mad. “But can you handle the truth, Jodi? God has promised that He is working all things together for the good of those who love Him, who are called according to His purpose. His purpose, Jodi. His purpose for you.”

  I recognized the scripture she was quoting: Romans 8:28. Oh sure. One of the bedrock verses I’d memorized as a kid, convenient to haul out whenever anything went south. But I wasn’t sure I really believed it at that moment.

  Avis rested a hand on mine, which were clenched together in front of me on the desk. “Be encouraged, Jodi. I know it’s hard to see right now, but if you have a minute before the kids come in, read Isaiah 55.” She stood to go then turned back at the door and smiled. “Frankly, I think God is doing something big—very big.”

  She was gone, although I could still feel the touch of her hand on mine. I didn’t move for a few moments, thinking about what she’d said. Then I glanced at the clock—five minutes till the bell rang. Christy would be here any moment. Curious, I dug into my tote bag and pulled out the small Bible I’d started to carry around, even at school, and flipped pages until I found Isaiah 55.

  I skimmed the passage and landed on verse eight. “‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,’ declares the Lord . . .” I almost snorted. Guess not! Wouldn’t mind if God checked with me before putting me through a meat grinder, though. I kept reading. “So is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.’ ”

  Hmm. That’s what Avis just said—that God was going to accomplish His purpose. It’d sure be nice if He gave me a clue now and then what that was.

  I heard voices in the hallway and was just about to shut the Bible when my eyes caught the next verse: “You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace . . .”

  The door opened, and Christy rushed in. “Sorry I’m late, Jodi. I’ll go out and bring the kids in.” My young student teacher, cheeks pink from the nippy air outside, looked at me kindly. “Are you okay after—you know, last night?”

  I nodded. Even smiled. Yes, I was going to be okay . . . I think.

  HAKIM WAS NOT IN SCHOOL that day or the next, and then it was the weekend. I tried to put him out of my mind and focus on the other children in my classroom, but they were all safe, just being their same squirrelly selves. But Hakim . . . what had his mother told him? Did he think I was some kind of monster? That I didn’t care about him anymore? What was he doing today? Did she really put him in another school? Or was he just sitting at home, watching TV, pulling back into his shell?

  My heart ached. Was this how the shepherd in Jesus’s parable felt about the one lost sheep when He left the ninety-nine others safely corralled in the sheepfold and went looking for it?

  I also read and reread the scriptures Avis had given to me that morning in my classroom until I thought the pages might fall out. On Saturday, after Denny left early to pick up Carl Hickman for the men’s breakfast at Uptown Community—we were both surprised he had agreed to go—I turned the verses into my version of a “Nony prayer” and wrote it in my prayer journal:

  “Okay, God. I’m going to trust that You are working all this mess together for something good, according to Your purpose—which, I admit, looks pretty foggy to me. Yet You made one thing clear: Your ways are not my ways. So I’m choosing to believe that ‘Your Word’ will accomplish Your desire and achieve Your purpose. Not just for my good, Jesus, but Hakim’s too.” I reread my prayer, then wrote: “And for Hakim’s mother too.”

  By the time Denny got back around eleven, I wouldn’t say I’d gotten all the way to “joy,” but I was starting to feel some of that peace Isaiah talked about—not because I had any answers, but because I decided to start trusting God to figure it all out.

  “Kids up yet?” Denny asked, opening the refrigerator door.

  I shook my head. “Still zonked. Haven’t heard a peep.” A weird thought crossed my mind. Both kids could’ve snuck out in the wee hours, and I’d probably never know it, because I never checked on them once they were in for the night.

  Stop it, Jodi! They’re teenagers—they’re just sleeping till high noon. I left Denny still rummaging in the refrigerator and did a quick room check. Two familiar lumps of covers in the dim bedrooms. See, Jodi? Don’t borrow trouble. I headed back for the kitchen. “Didn’t you guys just eat breakfast?”

  Denny was forking cold leftover spaghetti straight from the Tupperware. “Two hours ago.” His fork paused in midair. “Guess what? Mark Smith came too.”

  “Carl Hickman and Mark Smith?” Now there you had polar opposites. But if their wives—Florida Never-Been-Out-of-Chicago Hickman and Nonyameko World-Traveler Sisulu-Smith—could be sisters in the same prayer group, why not their husbands? I stared at my own husband with interest.

  Denny set down the empty plastic container and belched. “Asked Mark Smith to come for Thanksgiving—hope that’s okay.”

  “Thanksgiving! Don’t you think Nony will be home by then?” Thanksgiving was less than two weeks away, and she’d been gone five weeks already. Still, if she wasn’t . . .

  Denny shrugged. “I don’t think Mark knows yet. Said he would, unless his family comes home.”

  Thanksgiving. I hadn’t given it a smidgeon of thought—except that we wouldn’t be going to Iowa, since my folks had decided to drive to Denver to spend Thanksgiving with my oldest brother, Jim, and his family. Jim and Jeff . . . hadn’t seen either one of my brothers for a while. I felt a small pang. It was so easy for families to drift apart.

  Or fall apart. “Maybe we ought to invite Hoshi too,” I said suddenly. �
��If Nony’s not back, she won’t have any place to go either.” I sat down to make a list. Who else in Yada Yada might be alone? Not Avis—she’d be with her daughters and grandbabies on the South Side. Most of the others probably had family in the Chicago area. Anybody else? Stu?

  I suddenly realized I knew nothing about Stu’s family. She was single, she lived alone in Oak Park, she worked as a real-estate agent, and she’d latched onto Yada Yada and adopted Uptown Community as her church—that was all I knew. She had never offered information about any family, and I had never asked. Well, okay, I’d ask. Yada Yada was supposed to meet at my house the last Sunday of the month, just before Thanksgiving. If Mark and Hoshi were coming, I might as well invite a few more.

  AVIS CALLED ME AT HOME that Saturday afternoon while Amanda was running the vacuum cleaner. “I had a meeting with Hakim’s mother after school Friday.”

  “Just a minute—I can hardly hear you.” I headed for my bedroom and shut the door, then took several deep breaths till my insides calmed down. “Okay.”

  “I met with Hakim’s mother yesterday afternoon. She is adamant about removing Hakim from Bethune Elementary. However, school transfers are not that automatic, and I made it quite clear to her that further absence would be truancy. So we came to a compromise.”

  “What compromise?”

  “Hakim will return to school on Monday but will be placed in the other third-grade classroom while she pursues a transfer. And, Jodi . . .”

  “What?” That came out more snappish than I intended, but there it was.

  “I agreed that you would not try to talk to Hakim, interact with him on the playground, or create any activities that would bring Hakim under your supervision.”

  “Avis!” How could she betray me like that? “He’s going to think I don’t care about him anymore! That hurts, Avis. Really hurts.”

  “Mmm. I’m sure it does. But I want you to know that I didn’t promise that I wouldn’t talk to Hakim. Actually, it didn’t come up”—I could almost hear her stretching into a smile—“and I fully intend to talk to Hakim on Monday, maybe even check in with him daily. We don’t know yet how he is reacting to all of this, but I will let Hakim know that you do care about him.”