by Neta Jackson
“First day of school in 2003, what else?” Amanda smirked, beating me to the punch. Hmm. My kids knew me well.
“So. What’s new at Lane Tech?” Denny piled the creamy potatoes on his plate and sprinkled them with grated cheese. Ever the optimist.Whenever I asked that question, it was like talking to empty air. How could a whole school day be summed up as “Nothin’ ”?
Amanda shrugged. “Not much. Oh. I joined the Spanish club. Meets on Thursdays after school.”
Denny and I looked at each other. Why weren’t we surprised? “That’s great, kiddo,” he said.
“Just so you don’t have to come home in the dark,” I added.
Amanda gave me the “look”: Parents. So predictable.
Josh helped himself to seconds. “What about you, Josh?” I asked, trying not to notice how the candlelight danced on his shaved head.
He chewed thoughtfully a few moments. Then . . . “What do you guys think about the death penalty?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You know—it’s been in the news a lot. Governor Ryan’s just about to sign a bill turning over the verdicts of everybody on death row. All the kids are talking about it at school.”
“He’s gonna let them all out?” screeched Amanda.
“Yeah, and they’re all going to come after you, Piglet.”
Amanda swatted her brother with her napkin.
“That’s enough,” growled Denny. “Not ‘turning over’ the verdicts, Josh. ‘Commuting their sentences’—probably to life without parole. I think a moratorium would be good; there are too many holes in the system. If you’ve got the money for a big-name lawyer, you’re not going to end up on death row. The whole system needs an overhaul.”
My mind scrambled. I did remember hearing something about the debate going on in Springfield—especially after a couple of verdicts got overturned when new DNA evidence proved the guys were innocent. “I . . . don’t know what I think. Someone like John Gacy, who killed all those teenage boys?” I shivered. “He was a monster.”
“Yeah, well, who are we to take someone’s life?” Josh’s voice raised a notch. “That’s playing God, don’t you think? It’s pure and simple revenge—an eye for an eye. I agree with Dad. Life without parole is sufficient to protect society from people like Gacy.”
“I don’t disagree, Josh—”
“Anyway. The debate club at school is looking for new members to debate current events. I signed up to support doing away with the death penalty, period.” He gathered up his dishes. “Can I be excused?”
I stared at my son’s back as he took his dishes to the kitchen and then disappeared in the direction of his bedroom.When did Josh Baxter suddenly get political?
Denny corralled Amanda to help load the dish-washer, so I commandeered the computer to check e-mail while I had a chance. I scrolled through the list—aack! I hated all that spam!—till I came to one addressed to “Yada Yada” from “BlessedRU.” Ha! That was Nony.
To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Re: YY at my house?
Dear Sisters,
THANK YOU to everyone who has called or e-mailed a “welcome home” since we’ve been back. Sorry I haven’t been very good about contacting you all individually. There’s SO much to do after being gone for two months!
But how about having our first Yada Yada meeting of the New Year at my house this Sunday? I brought gifts for everyone—smile.
Love, Nony
Gifts? Yum. Anything Nony picked out would be fabulous. As for Yada Yada meeting at her house . . . I racked my brain. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember if someone else had volunteered. Better check with Avis; otherwise, why not?
I skimmed through the rest of the Inbox till I found one addressed to Baxter Bears—Denny’s too-cute “addy” when “Da Bears” were actually playing good football—but who was [email protected]? That wasn’t Hoshi—oh, wait. Mark Smith! I clicked it open.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Nony’s birthday
Dear Jodi,
Thought Yada Yada might like to know that Nony’s birthday is coming up January 20, two weeks from today. She’ll be 37. (I’m in trouble now!) I know she wants the prayer group to meet at our house this coming Sunday—that’s a week early, but thought you’d want to know.
Mark Smith
I grinned. That was cute—Mark letting us know about Nony’s birthday. It fell between two Yada Yada meetings, but why not celebrate at the first one? Kind of a “welcome home” and “happy birthday” rolled into one!
I forwarded Mark’s e-mail to everybody else on the Yada Yada list, adding, “Why don’t we surprise Nony with a card shower? Anyone want to volunteer to make a birthday/welcome home cake? She won’t be expecting anything since we’re meeting at her house.” I hit Send.
“Mom? You done yet? I want to research some stuff about the death penalty.” Josh loomed over my shoulder.
“Give me five more minutes, okay? Sheesh.”
The Hulk disappeared, muttering under his breath. I sent the spam e-mail to oblivion, called up the Internet, and clicked on Favorites. There it was . . . my “Meanings of Names” Web site. A brief search found nothing even close to “Nonyameko.” Figured. Maybe I could Google it—why not? I called up the search engine and typed “South African names female.” Sure enough, there it was. Within a few seconds, I was looking at the meaning of Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith’s name:
“Truth and Justice.”
Ohmigosh. Could anything fit Nony better than that?
“Mom!”
“Okay, okay.” I shut down the window and turned the computer over to Josh, an idea for Nony’s birthday already percolating in my brain.
BY MIDWEEK, CHICAGO’S TEMPERATURES hovered in the midfifties. Unbelievable! It felt like spring. I almost expected to see tiny lilies of the valley or crocuses peeking out of the grass as I walked to school each morning. Then again, Chicagoans had a pessimistic attitude about their weather: “Wait five minutes; it’ll change.”
But the unseasonably warm weather quickly lost the contest for shoptalk by the end of the week with head-lines that trumpeted: US TROOPS DEPLOYED TO THE GULF and ILLINOIS GOVERNOR COMMUTES SENTENCES OF 167 ON DEATH ROW. Josh could hardly talk about anything else.
For some reason I felt heavy in my spirit as I drove to Nony’s house late Sunday afternoon to meet with the Yada Yada Prayer Group. It sure felt like the country was gearing up for war—and Josh was eighteen. What if they reinstituted the draft? Or what if he joined the army? He’d teased us about it when he turned eighteen last September. But with the possibility of a real war on the horizon, it wasn’t funny.
Oh God, I’m not ready for my kids to grow up! I moaned as I parked the van along the curb in front of Nony’s house. Several cars were already there, and the el was just a few blocks away for those without wheels. Then I noticed a car I hadn’t seen in months: Adele Skuggs’s blue Ford Escort.
Adele had come back to Yada Yada! We’d only had one meeting in December and still no Adele—probably too soon after our reconciliation with MaDear. But seeing the blue Escort lifted my spirit. I wanted to shout, “Thank ya, Jesus!” like Florida, right there on Nony’s front sidewalk. I settled for a whispered, “Thank You, Jesus,” as I rang the doorbell.
Within twenty minutes, everyone had arrived and we were talking nonstop like a bunch of windup toys. When I saw Delores, I suddenly remembered I’d never called her to talk about the quinceañera. “Gotta talk to you,” I buzzed in her ear, “about . . . you know.”
Delores beamed. “Sí. Anytime. I’m home by three o’clock this week.”
“Hallelujah!” Avis said, finally calling for attention. “Look at this—all twelve of us!”
“Like de twelve dee-sciples,” Chanda George cracked, generating a ripple of laughter. Her Jamaican accent was always fun to decipher.
“Adele, we are so glad to see you again.” A
chorus of “Mm-hm” and “Yes!” met this statement.
Adele’s bulk was parked on a straight-backed chair from Nony’s dining room, arms folded across her chest, the gold hoops in her ears dangling as she nodded her short, reddish, natural ’fro. “Didn’t plan to come back,” she shot back, “but guess God had other plans.” She grinned, revealing the little space between her two front teeth.
My heart squeezed, and I suddenly felt close to tears. Would I ever really understand the miracle that had taken place when Denny asked MaDear—poor, con-fused MaDear—to forgive him for something he hadn’t done? Except . . . Denny had meant it. The reconciling power of owning the sins of our people.White people.
Before we do anything else,” Avis said, “let’s give the Lord some praise for bringing us all back together again, and for all He’s done to sustain us in these past few weeks.”Without missing a beat, she began to praise. “Yes, thank You, Lord Jesus, for coming to earth as a little babe, knowing ahead of time what it was going to cost You—humiliation, suffering, your very life. Thank You, Jesus, thank You!”
Others joined in, Delores breaking out in Spanish, Chanda babbling something—speaking in tongues or just a heavy dose of patois from the Islands, I couldn’t always tell which—and Nony turning something from the Psalms into her own prayer of praise.
I pinched my eyes shut. Oh God, I prayed silently, it’s so good to be back “home” with Yada Yada. Though I’d still like to put in a petition for a couple months of “dull and boring”—
A sharp poke in my side brought my eyes open with a start. “Psst. They want you,” Florida hissed in my ear, jerking her head toward the doorway that led from Nony’s family room into her kitchen. Yo-Yo and Ruth were beckoning at me behind Nony’s back. I got up from my end of the couch as quietly as possible and tiptoed out.
“There!” Ruth said, indicating a large, rectangular bakery cake sitting on the counter. “A good job Yo-Yo did, yes?”
I stared at the cake. Yo-Yo worked at the Bagel Bakery, and I’d shanghaied her to see what she could do with my idea for Nony’s birthday. Nonyameko’s name was written in beautiful green icing across the top. A fairly decent “drawing” of Lady Justice in flowing icing robes, blindfold, and holding a black balance scale—Black icing? Cool!—took up most of the cake, with two words on either side: Truth and Justice.
“Perfect,” I murmured. “Nony is going to be so surprised.”
“What are you sisters up to?” A deep male voice made me jump. Mark Smith, dressed casually in sweats, poked his head around the corner.
“Shh. Nony’s cake.” I grinned. “We’re celebrating her birthday early. Thanks for the heads-up.”
Nony’s husband, smiling big, walked over to the counter and looked at the cake. His smile faded. He pinned me with his dark eyes. “What’s this?”
I was so startled, I almost couldn’t find my tongue. “Uh . . . Nony’s name.What it means: ‘truth and justice.’ ”
“Really.” His eyes drifted back to the cake a moment. Then he walked out of the kitchen, pausing to say flatly, “You’re only encouraging her, you know.”
8
Yo-Yo frowned and stuck her hands into the bib of her denim overalls. “What was that about?” I had a pretty good idea what it was about—but was he serious? Or just joking?
“Men, schmen.” Ruth waved her hand as though brushing Mark’s words out of the air. “Who knows? Half the time what they say makes no sense. Jodi, did you bring candles?”
Ruth’s question shook me out of my stupor. “Yes . . . oh, rats. They’re in my purse in the other room!” I pulled open one drawer after another along the kitchen counter till I found what I was looking for: a kitchen junk drawer. Aha. There they were—birthday candles. The skinny, sparkly kind. I quickly stuck about eight of them in various places on the cake, and Yo-Yo was right behind me lighting them with her cigarette lighter.
I suppressed a giggle. Smokers had at least one redeeming quality: a ready light.
“Come on, come on,” Ruth hissed, standing ready to open the door to the family room. “The praise time is pooping out.”
This time I did giggle as the three of us pushed through the door with the tall, skinny candles spitting sparks in every direction. “Happy birthday to youuuuu . . .” we began singing, a bit off-key, and stopped in front of Nony, whose large, dark eyes widened as the rest of the Yada Yada sisters chimed in. “Happy birthday, dear Nonyyy . . . May Go-od bless youuu.”
“Oh, my sisters,” she sputtered. “It’s not even my birthday yet—oh!” Her eyes read the cake. “Truth? Justice? What’s this?”
I felt a flush creep up my face, remembering Mark’s reaction. But I plunged ahead. “It’s what Nonyameko means: ‘truth and justice.’ ”
Murmurs of “Oh” and “That figures” and “Amazing” mixed with smiles, hugs, and general laughter as Nony digested this information.
“Blow! Blow!” bossed Ruth, setting a stack of little paper plates, napkins, and plastic forks alongside the cake on the glass coffee tabletop, which rested on a graceful sculpture base. “Just don’t spit on the cake—I want to eat some of that truth and justice.”
Nony blew, which got her nowhere, and she finally had to pinch out the sparklers. “Will I still get my wish?” She smiled, looking amazingly girlish in her simple rose-colored tunic top over black velour pants.
“Me bet she does!” Chanda crowed. “A winnuh-woman.” Her grin widened in her plain brown face. “Lak me, when me lucky numbers win de Lotto dis year.”
I thought I heard Avis heave a big sigh.
Ruth deftly cut the cake. Yo-Yo passed paper plates around as Avis said, “Why don’t we go ahead with some personal sharings or prayer requests while we eat? We have some catching up to do and don’t want to go too late because—”
“—tomorrow’s a workday,” sang out three or four voices. Avis was pretty predictable.
The next half-hour skimmed past like an express commuter train.Nony jumped up and passed out the gifts she’d brought back for each of us—long hand-dyed silk scarves in amazing bright colors, no two alike. For a few minutes, we all tried tying them around our hair, draping them around our necks, or using them like a sash. Yo-Yo sat looking at her yellow and green scarf a long time, then finally tied it around one strap of her overalls and let it hang down. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Not exactly a fashion statement—but Yo-Yo was actually an attractive young woman underneath the spiky hair and shapeless overalls she always wore. It was almost as if she hid herself inside her dreary wardrobe.Was she afraid to be pretty and feminine?
Florida said it was Carla’s ninth birthday next week-end—the first birthday they’d celebrate with her since she was two years old . . . and Florida couldn’t remember if they’d even celebrated it back then. “Lot of stuff I don’t remember from those days.” Her mouth twitched, overtaken with a momentary sadness. Then she flashed a grin. “But this year I’m goin’ to give her the best party I know how to give. Because—oh, thank ya, Jesus!— God has been so good to bring her back home.”
Stu, who had helped find Carla in the foster-care system, leaned over and gave Florida a quick hug.
“Chanda, can you bring Cheree and Dia? Carla likes your girls. Thomas too. My boys will be there . . .”
After Florida got promises from several of us that we’d come to Carla’s party, Avis moved us on. Delores said things were pretty much the same at the Enriquez household, meaning her husband Ricardo was still looking for a job—“Yeah, throw Carl in that pot too,” Florida muttered. Edesa and Hoshi were both back in the thick of university classes.
When it was Ruth’s turn, she said, “Ben got a big kick out of seeing all those youngsters do the Polar Bear Plunge on New Year’s Day—though he’d never admit it, big grouch that he is.” She laughed.
“Youngsters!” Stu protested. “What about me, and Jodi’s husband, and Yo-Yo?”
“Oh, you.” Ruth tapped the side of her head and shook it
slowly back and forth as if breaking bad news. Even Stu laughed.
“Hey. That reminds me,” said Yo-Yo. “What was you sayin’ that day, Florida, about being washed in the blood of Jesus? I’ve been wonderin’ about that.”
Florida nodded, suddenly serious. “See, it’s like this. I saw all those young people going in the water, going down, coming up, yelling all excited—and it’s like I had a vision that it was like a baptism, and one day all those teenagers, or some of them, or most, were goin’ to be wading into that water—oh, help me, Jesus—to be washed in the blood.”
“Mm! I stand in agreement with that,” Avis said, and for a few moments, she and several others broke out in some spontaneous hallelujahs.
Yo-Yo was still frowning. “But . . . what’s blood got to do with it?”
The group was suddenly still. When we first met Yo-Yo—brought by Ruth Garfield to the Chicago Women’s Conference—she had declared she wasn’t into “this Jesus thing,” though she was “cool with it” for the rest of us. Then a few months ago, she’d started asking a lot of questions about what it would mean to be a “Jesus fol-lower.” As far as I knew, the Yada Yada Prayer Group was as close as Yo-Yo got to going to church, because she worked at the Bagel Bakery, which closed on Saturday for the Jewish Sabbath but was open all day Sunday.
“That’s an excellent question, Yo-Yo,” said Avis. “Next time we meet—do we know where we’re going to be? Jodi, your house, isn’t it?—let’s talk about that very thing. In the meantime, Yo-Yo, I want to give you some Scripture passages to read.”
Yo-Yo squirmed. “Uh, I don’t really know how to find stuff in the Bible.”
“So? I’ll help you,” said Ruth, and that was that.
“Anyone else before we begin our prayer time?” Avis asked.
Stu tossed her hair back and leaned forward. “Uh-huh. Two things. Have we heard yet from Becky Wallace? I don’t know if the box I ordered from Estée Lauder got to her at the prison.” She looked around. I shrugged and shook my head; other heads wagged no. “Well, anyway, I still need four dollars each from some of you—but if it’s a problem, just let me know. Not a big deal.” She sat back against the couch.