2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  “Ha!” Amanda swatted the back of his head with a glove. “Just drive, muscle man. I need to get to church early, remember?”

  Denny, riding shotgun in the front seat, didn’t bother to tell

  Josh that our short sidewalks—front and back—could practically be measured in inches, so forget a snow blower. In fact, Denny had been unusually quiet on the way home from the prison yesterday. Didn’t even ask many questions about the youth group’s service project at Jesus People USA last night, though both Josh and Amanda had said it was “cool.” Whether they meant serving a couple hundred meals to homeless men and women and scrubbing pots and pans afterward, or just hanging out with a bunch of “Jesus people” who all looked like they’d just been roped in off the streets, I wasn’t sure. By the time they got home from taking Pete and Jerry back to Yo-Yo’s house after dropping José off in Little Village, Denny and I were heading for bed.

  Not exactly the kind of youth-group activities I was weaned on, I thought as we headed up the stairs at Uptown Community, leaving Josh to go park the minivan. Bible sword drills . . . Youth for Christ rallies . . . an occasional roller-skating party—the “sanctified” substitute for dancing. I felt a pang. Nostalgia for a simpler time? Or realizing just how unprepared I’d been for how complicated and untidy the Christian life felt at the moment. Ever since the Yada Yada Prayer Group dropped into my life, frankly.

  Amanda disappeared to get ready for the Advent candle dance, and Denny and I had our choice of seats for a change. Even beat Stu getting to church—now that was a first. She came in a few minutes later, sat down behind us, and leaned forward. “How did the visit to the prison go yesterday?”

  “Good,” I said. “Tell you more later, okay?”

  I wanted to be quiet for a moment, to focus on the upcoming worship service. An Advent wreath was suspended from the ceiling by purpoe ribbons; four fat candles representing each Advent Sunday nestled among the fake greenery. Advent . . . the beginning of the Christmas season. Communion Sunday, too, by the looks of the small table off to the side, covered with the cloth embroidered with “children of the world” figures.

  The upstairs room filled. The lights dimmed. Three recorders began the familiar Advent hymn, and we all joined in on the words: “O come, O come, Emanuel . . . And ransom captive Israel . . .” Josh slipped into the seat beside Denny. Sheesh. He must’ve had to park six blocks away. And then someone else sat down. I leaned forward.

  José Enriques. Oh Lord, he must’ve come to see Amanda dance! This was getting serious.

  I was so distracted for a moment I almost missed Amanda and two other teenage girls coming down the aisle like bridesmaids at a wedding, bearing lighted candles—though the black skirts, white socks, and white tops kind of spoiled the “bridesmaid” image. As the music swelled—“That mourns in lonely exile here . . . Until the Son of God appears”—the three girls fanned out gracefully across the front, causing their tiny lights to flicker and dance in the darkened sanctuary.

  “Rejoice! Rejoice!” we sang. My eyes were glued to Amanda’s face as she lifted her candle heavenward. Her own eyes glowed in the candlelight as she lifted her face, following the light. And then, “Emmanuel . . . Shall come to thee, O Israel.” Amanda and the other two girls turned and dipped their tapers toward the wick of the first candle in the Advent wreath. The room seemed to hold its collective breath until the fat candle glowed, the dancers blew out their tapers, and the candle wreath shone with the first promise of Advent.

  Beautiful. I glanced at Denny. His eyes were swimming.

  The lights came on, and I expected Avis to get up and launch us into some spirited praise and worship. Instead Pastor Clark came to the front—Somebody’s got to tell him to lose that awful green tie—and said we were going to do things a bit different today. I swept my eyes around the room. Where was Avis, anyway? And then I saw her, sitting toward the back. And there was someone with her—a man. An older man, maybe late fifties, with graying hair at his temples. An African-American man at that.

  I faced forward once again, my spine tingling. Avis with a man? Calm down, Jodi. Maybe it’s her brother or cousin or uncle, here for Thanksgiving. I grinned to myself. Yeah, right.

  “ . . . not only the first Sunday of Advent,” Pastor Clark was saying, “but the first Sunday of the month, when we celebrate the Lord’s Supper.” And the two celebrations, he said, have a great deal to do with each other. “During Advent, we celebrate God’s promise to send the Messiah and ‘ransom captive Israel.’ Because not only Israel, but all of us are stuck—stuck in our sins. But in breaking the bread and sharing the cup of the Lord’s Supper, we celebrate the purpose for which the Messiah came: to sacrifice His own life, taking on Himself the penalty for our sin. He suffered whips, humiliation, crucifixion, and finally death—none of which He deserved. That was our punishment. For our sins, our mistakes, our oversights, our weaknesses, our failings.” He paused for a long moment, lost in his own thoughts, almost as if he’d forgotten about the rest of us. And then he said simply, “So that we might live. Forever.”

  I forgot about Avis and the mystery man. I forgot about José. I almost forgot to stand when it was my turn to go up to receive the bread and wine. For some reason Pastor Clark’s powerful words echoed something Mark Smith had said at Thanksgiving: “Both blacks and whites in this country end up living with the sins of the past.”

  Stuck. That’s exactly how I’d felt when Mark said that. Stuck with the legacy of sin hanging over our heads. If Jesus was our example, though, the way out was repentance . . . forgiveness . . . ransom . . . sacrifice. I felt on the verge of something incredibly important—but for the life of me, I wasn’t sure what it was.

  I put the piece of bread in my mouth. Christ’s body, broken for me. I took a sip of wine from the ceramic goblet. Christ’s blood, shed for me. I turned, and passed both bread and wine to Denny. “Christ’s body, broken for you,” I whispered.

  I’ll never forget the look in his eyes.

  WHEN WE GOT HOME AFTER CHURCH, the answering machine light on the kitchen phone was blinking. I pressed the Play button while I unwound my long neck scarf and unbuttoned my coat, still thinking about meeting Avis’s “old friend” from Philadelphia. “Jodi, this is Peter Douglass,” she’d said. “An old friend of Conrad’s.” I had tried to give her a meaningful look, which she totally ignored. But she wasn’t going to get away that easy.

  “Denny or Jodi. It’s Mark.” The answering machine sprang to life. “Nony’s mother has taken a turn for the worse. Nony called last night, asking me to come . . .”

  “Denny!” I yelled. “It’s Mark! Come listen!”

  “ . . . bit of a mess, with term papers and exams coming up,” Mark’s message continued as Denny appeared in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen, “but I think I need to go. So, as soon as I can make arrangements with my department, I’m leaving. Jodi, will you ask Yada Yada to pray? For Nony and”—I almost didn’t catch his next words—“for me.”

  The machine clicked off. “Wow. Wonder what that means? It’s good, I think. Don’t you, Denny?”

  Denny nodded. “Uh-huh.” He seemed deep in thought— thoughts he’d been carrying for days, it seemed, like Frodo Baggins, intent on getting that ring to Mount Doom in spite of all the obstacles . . . slowly, but surely. I gathered up my coat and scarf. Guess he’ll tell me when he’s ready.

  I started for the front hall to hang them up, but Denny stopped me. “Jodi, how long does Adele’s Hair and Nails stay open on weeknights like tomorrow?”

  41

  Monday. Back to school after the Thanksgiving holiday. Christy James’s last week as my student teacher. Back to kids already revved up for Christmas . . . and Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa, and the TV-commercial glut otherwise known as “the holidays.” Back to seeing Hakim from a distance, lining up with the other third-grade teacher, hardly daring to wonder what he must think of me now.

  The lady who’d killed his brother.

&
nbsp; “Okay, God, I know it’s not just about me,” I muttered out loud as I hustled to school with my tote bags, trying to keep warm. The rod attached to my left femur ached in the cold. “So please give Hakim what he needs in the other classroom. Finish what You started in him, okay?”

  Denny hadn’t told me what he had in mind for tonight, just asked if I would go with him if he went to see Adele and MaDear at the shop. “But why?” I’d argued. “Adele made it clear we would only upset MaDear.”

  He had stood hunched in the middle of the dining room, one hand in his pants pocket, the other rubbing the back of his head. “I just know it’s time. And today during Communion, God gave me peace that it’s going to be all right.”

  I pulled open the double door of Bethune Elementary and headed into the welcome warmth of the hallway. Problem is, “our time” and “Adele’s time” might be light-years apart. I peeked into the office to see if Avis was there. I was dying to know more about the “old friend” from Philadelphia—he didn’t look so old to me—but the inner office was empty. Oh well. I’d get her later.

  I realized how much I was going to miss Christy when I sent her out to bring in the kids from the playground while I set up the day’s lessons. The kids trooped in noisily, shedding coats, mittens, and scarves to a cacophony of, “Hi, Miz Baxter!” “That’s my hook.” “Stop steppin’ on my scarf!” “See my new mittens?” Thank heavens the snow had fizzled. At least we didn’t have to deal with a pile of boots as well.

  I was helping Kaya and Chanel stick their mittens in their coat sleeves when I heard Avis’s voice behind me. “Mrs. Baxter? Could I see you a moment? Hi, Britny. Yes, I see your new mittens. So sparkly!”

  I motioned to Christy to take over the mitten situation and hastened to the door, which Avis was holding slightly ajar. Sounded like “business”—guess I’d have to ask her about Mr. Philadelphia later. She motioned me out into the hall.

  A child, still bundled in a brown-and-black padded winter jacket, its hood up and tied with a long, red knit scarf, was sitting in the chair that stood outside the classroom door, swinging boyish athletic shoes against the chair legs. Thump. Thump. Thump. I peered around the hood to see who Avis had brought. A new student?

  Familiar dark eyes peered out at me. “Hakim!” Startled, I looked at Avis.

  Avis smiled pleasantly, as if this was really not a big deal. “Hakim is coming back to your classroom. Is his desk still available?”

  My heart was thumping so hard I could hardly get my breath.

  “Uh . . . yes! Absolutely!” I beamed at Hakim. “It’s been waiting for you.”

  Hakim jumped off the chair and took my hand. “Tol’ Miz Johnson no other kid better be sittin’ in my desk.”

  My head was spinning. What had brought about this miracle?

  I let Hakim lead me back into the classroom, but not before I jabbed a finger at Avis and mouthed, “You wait right here! I’ll be back in a sec!”

  I handed Hakim over to Christy to deal with the jacket-scarf-mittens routine, ignoring her dropped jaw, then poked my head back out into the hallway. “What in the world?” I asked.

  Avis was leaning against the wall, perfectly calm in her two-piece gold-and-black dress. “It was Hakim. He kept telling his mother he wanted to go back to ‘Miz B’s class.’ Made such a fuss—‘raised holy hell’ was the way she put it—she finally let him come back. Plus, he was acting out big-time in Ms. Towers’s class. Ms. Towers came to me last week looking a bit frazzled and highly recommended he be placed back ‘in his own classroom.’ ” Avis was grinning big-time now.

  “But you didn’t say anything to me!”

  She shrugged. “Didn’t know anything for sure, but Hakim showed up this morning with the aunt and a note from his mother. I don’t think she’s happy about it, but at least she’s considering what’s best for Hakim.” Avis pushed off from the wall and headed down the hall with a wave. “Have a great day, Jodi.”

  WOULD WONDERS NEVER CEASE? I was so happy to have Hakim back in my class that the whole day felt like a Christmas gift from God, wrapped in gold ribbon. Hakim seemed happy too. Even asked for me to read with him one on one while Christy led group-reading time.

  Couldn’t wait to tell Denny, but only Willie Wonka was there to greet me when I got home. “Guess what,Wonka?” I said, taking the dog’s face in my hands and kissing his soft brown forehead. “God is gracious! God is soooooo gracious!” Willie Wonka had natural urges on his mind and wiggled free, heading for the back door. I let him out into the backyard but felt like I wanted to dance, so I hunted around till I found the iWorship CD we’d been listening to lately and put on the first track by Darrell Evans.

  I’m trading my sorrows

  I’m trading my shame

  I’m laying them down

  For the joy of the Lord

  I was right in the middle of hopping around the living room to the spunky vamp—“Yes, Lord, yes, Lord, yes, yes, Lord!”—for about the umpteenth time when the Baxter crew all showed up, raiding the kitchen and giving me looks that said, “Mom’s gone off again.” I just laughed at them, turned down the music, and told them about my miracle.

  “That’s great, Mom.” Amanda actually gave me a hug. “When’s supper?”

  Denny wrapped his arms around me and held me for a few moments. “I’m glad, Jodi. Really glad,” he murmured into my hair. Then he pulled back, but I could see he was frowning slightly. “Uh . . . what time did you say Adele’s shop closed?”

  Good grief. I’d completely forgotten about promising to go with Denny to Adele’s Hair and Nails. “Seven,” I said. “Can’t we do this another evening? I don’t want to spoil this great—”

  “I gotta do this today, Jodi. Before I lose my nerve. Please?”

  Every nerve in my body wanted to protest, but something told me that if I didn’t go, Denny would go by himself. I sighed. “I’ll go. As soon as we eat supper, okay?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t think I can eat. Maybe when we get back.”

  So I pulled out Sunday’s leftovers for Josh and Amanda, tanked up Denny and myself with some fresh coffee to take along, and headed for Clark Street.

  We pulled into a parking space across the street from Adele’s shop about six-forty. The white twinkle lights around the shop’s window had been replaced with multicolored ones and wound with silver tinsel, giving a festive holiday air to the shop. Through the window, we could see a customer still in the chair getting a comb-out. And so we sat, motor running so the car didn’t get too cold.

  I had no idea what we were going to say when we got inside. But maybe MaDear wouldn’t remember a thing about the previous incident, wouldn’t even recognize Denny. After all, sometimes MaDear even forgot who Adele was! That would be the best scenario of all, as far as I was concerned. We could all just start over, clean slate.

  The customer left about ten minutes later, calling back cheery good-byes. Denny turned off the engine and we got out, walking across the street hand in hand at a break in the traffic. We both hesitated at the door, then Denny pulled it open.

  42

  The air was warm with the pungent smell of hair perm— and cinnamon. A wreath of cinnamon pinecones hung on the inside of the door, underneath the bell tinkling our arrival. A gospel version of “O Come,All Ye Faithful” pumped out of the small speakers above the wall of mirrors.

  Adele’s other hairstylist—Takeisha, if I remembered her name right—looked up from the counter where she was writing in the log book. She looked slightly puzzled. “We’re closed in ten minutes, but I’d be glad to give you an appointment.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Denny said. He cleared his throat. “We actually just came to see Adele Skuggs for a moment.”

  The young woman turned to give the familiar yell—“Adele! Someone to see you!”— but at that moment Adele herself appeared. Her short “natural” was no longer red but black tipped with gray, which looked like a mat of tiny silver springs. I tensed, not sure what sh
e would do. Yell at us? Throw us out?

  She did neither. Just looked at us, surprised. Finally she spoke. “Jodi and Denny Baxter. What can I do for you?” Her tone was calm but guarded.

  “Adele, could I please see MaDear?” Denny spoke quickly, as though afraid he’d lose his nerve. Adele started to shake her head, jingling the big gold loops in her ears, but Denny rushed ahead. “Adele, this is so important. Tell her . . .” His grip on my hand tightened. “Tell her it is the man who killed her brother, come to ask forgiveness.”

  I whipped my head around to stare at my husband. I opened my mouth to cry, “No, Denny!” but the words stuck in my throat. My brain was scrambling. We should have talked about this! Why feed into the old woman’s delusions? How would that help? Didn’t MaDear need to see that Denny was not the evil man who killed her brother? Wouldn’t that lay this whole mess to rest?

  Almost as if I’d said my thoughts aloud, Denny said, “That’s what MaDear thinks. We have to start there.” He was speaking to Adele, who was staring at him, lips parted, revealing the small space between her front teeth.

  To my utter astonishment, Adele suddenly said, “Well, hang up your coats” and motioned for us to follow her. At the doorway to the back room she held up her hand for us to stop. Then she went inside, and we heard her say, “MaDear, the man who killed Uncle Larry is here. He has something he wants to say to you.”

  I sucked in my breath, but the salon did not erupt into mayhem. In fact, all I heard was mumbling, something like, “Huh. What he want?” A moment later, Adele motioned us into the back room.

  MaDear was sitting in a wheelchair, hunched birdlike over a lapful of curlers and rollers, picking them over, like she was sorting green beans. She looked up sharply as we came in, eyes flashing.

  She stared at us angrily for a moment, then her lip began to tremble, and I thought she was going to cry. It may have been only a few seconds, but it was like time slowed to slow-frame . . . and suddenly I saw Jamal and Hakim’s mother sitting there, confronting the person who had killed a loved one. This isn’t just about Denny. I, Jodi Baxter, was “MaDear’s white man” to that other mother. We could talk till we were blue in the face—Denny really wasn’t that guy; it really was an accident that killed Jamal—but generations of racial division, injustice, pain, and distrust made subtleties hard to distinguish, facts almost irrelevant.