by Neta Jackson
“Spanish club?” I could hear the pleasure in Delores’s voice. “Muy bueno! She’ll be bilingual before you know it, Jodi. A lot of service jobs want someone who can also speak español. After all, Hispanics are the fastest growing minority in the—”
“Yes, I know.” I tried to focus on the reason I’d wanted Delores to call—and on my resolve to talk honestly about our concerns. “Delores, could we talk about José wanting to give Amanda a quinceañera? Denny and I have been thinking about it . . .”
“Oh, sí! Sí! He is so excited about it and has so many plans.”
I stifled a groan. This was not going to be easy.
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Delores. He really needs to not make any plans until Denny and I can make a decision. That’s why I need to talk to you.”
“Ah. Of course. I understand.Tell me what you need to know.”
I took a deep breath. “Well, I did read some stuff on the Internet about the background of the Mexican quinceañera, and all the traditional ways to celebrate a girl becoming a woman—but of course you know all that.”
Her laugh tinkled in my ear. “Oh, sí. My quinceañera . . . so special!” And for the next few minutes, Delores chatted on and on about the fiesta her parents gave for her fifteenth birthday in Colima, Mexico. “Except my parents were Pentecostal, not Catholic, so we modified the religious service.”
“Really? I mean, you can do that?”
“Sure.” Delores chuckled. “Of course, the abuelas y tías—grandmothers and aunties—rolled their eyes and beat their bosoms. ‘What? No mass? No veil?’ For the old ones, it has to be ‘just so’—meaning just like their own quinceañera. They are . . . well, never mind.”
“What?”
“Nada, nada. I mean, it’s a long story. The tension between traditional Catholics and the ‘new Protestants’ in Mexico has broken apart many families. I . . . my abuela hasn’t spoken to me since I married Ricardo in a Protestant wedding.”
“But Ricardo . . . is he . . . I mean, he doesn’t attend church with you at Iglesia.”
“He used to . . . but you know how it is. He had to drive the trucks on Sunday. Then José got shot, and Ricardo’s angry at God. Then he lost his job . . .”
I’d only met Delores’s husband one time; he was sit-ting like a bump on a log in José’s hospital room last May, barely speaking. “Oh, Delores. I’m sorry.”
“Just keep praying for Ricardo, Jodi. Now, where were we—oh, sí! La quinceañera for Amanda. For you it should be easy! She is the first one in your family, so there are no traditions, no expectations you have to live up to.”
“Except José’s,” I grumbled.
Delores laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about José. He just wants to get a band together and play Latino music and dance with Amanda.”
“That’s it? Play music and dance? What about—”
At the other end of the house, I heard the back door slam. “Mom! We’re home! What’re all the boxes doing on the back porch?”
“Aack! Delores, I can’t talk now,” I hissed into the phone. “The kids just got home. I’ll call you when the coast is clear, okay? I’ve got some more questions.”
I pressed the off button and hustled toward the back of the house. Maybe—just maybe—this quinceañera thing would be doable after all.
TO MY CREDIT, i did try a couple of times in the next few days to catch my upstairs neighbors at home to ask if they’d found a renter, but it was Friday evening before we actually connected. It was one of those nights the Baxter family galloped off in all directions: Denny had to coach back-to-back basketball games at West Rogers High; Josh picked up Yo-Yo’s brothers and took them to the game on Denny’s pass; and Amanda was babysitting for one of the Uptown families. That left Willie Wonka and me to fend for ourselves with a big bowl of popcorn and a video of The African Queen.
Just as well.Whew! What a week. Avis and I barely saw each other at school except for a brief stop in the hall, when she told me she’d talked to the school social worker about some sessions with Hakim. “But we do need to get parental permission,” she’d warned. “So keep praying, Jodi.” So . . . I’d been praying. Praying for Avis too. About the pain she carried for her cousin in prison, for her private struggle with God. I wanted to tell other Yada Yada sisters to pray too—but I put a lid on it. Avis’s struggle was hers to share . . . or not.
I’d eaten to the bottom of the popcorn bowl when I heard enormous thumping, like rugs had been rolled up and furniture was being moved across bare floors. Yikes! The Bennetts were moving out, and I hadn’t asked if they’d found someone to sublet! “I really would like to know who’s moving in,” I muttered to Willie as I put the video on pause, stuck my feet in a pair of scuffs, and grabbed my jacket from the coatrack. The dog followed me to the kitchen, his tail drooping like a limp noodle as I unlocked the back door. “Don’t worry!” I said, bending down and giving him a smackeroo between his wrinkled brows. “Be back in less time than it takes for you to chew up a newspaper.”
I scuttled up the outside steps leading to the upstairs apartment and almost fell on my face on a treacherous icy patch. “Should have taken the front stairs,” I grumbled, pulling myself up gingerly by the handrail.When I got to the top, the kitchen curtains had been taken down and bright light spilled out onto the small porch. I rapped tentatively on the window in the door. Nothing. I rapped again, louder. Someone peered into the kitchen, dis-appeared, then what seemed like a full minute later, Rose Bennett appeared wearing old sweats and a bandana around her hair and unlocked the door. “Yes?”
I was sweating inside my jacket. Guess she wasn’t going to invite me in. “Uh, hi, Rose. I heard you packing and, uh, wondered when you guys were actually leaving for Atlanta.”
“Is there a problem?”
“No, no! Just didn’t want you to leave without saying good-bye.” Well, that was kinda true. Even if we hadn’t been cozy neighbors, we could at least have a decent farewell. “Did you find someone to sublet your apartment?”
“Huh! Unfortunately not. And the movers will be here Tuesday, and we’re going to end up in Atlanta paying double rent till our lease runs out if we don’t find somebody—Jesus Christ!”
I cringed . . . but decided this wasn’t the time to ask her not to vent on God’s name. At least she’s not mad at me.
“I’m sorry, Rose. I was hoping that would work out for you.” Should I say, “I know someone who needs an apartment” ? But what if Stu had already found some-thing this week? Then Rose would be mad at me for get-ting her hopes up.
“Yeah, well, if you know anybody needing an apartment . . .” She closed the door.
Yeah, well . . .
I gingerly made my way back down the icy stairs and locked our back door behind me. Willie Wonka stood right where I’d left him, his tail waving big-time now. He followed close to my heels as I made myself a cup of mint tea and returned to my movie in the living room.
Somehow, Katharine Hepburn wading through the swamps pulling The African Queen while Humphrey Bogart smirked at her had lost some of its mesmerizing power.
Just call Stu and ask if she’s found an apartment yet.
Sheesh! Pinocchio had nothing on my Jiminy Cricket.
So what if she hasn’t? I argued in my head. Then I’ll have to tell her about the one upstairs! And, okay, I don’t want Leslie Stuart living next to me. Is that so bad? She’ll find something—this can’t be the only sublet in Rogers Park! And then we’ll both be happy.
Willie Wonka nosed my hand. Why did the dog always sense when my hackles were up? “What do you think, Wonka? Why should I deliberately invite Stu to move in one short staircase from me? Look how she shot me down at Yada Yada last Sunday. And whenever I toss out an idea, Stu’s always got a better one. Maybe she doesn’t do it on purpose, but I end up feeling like two cents anyway. If she moves in here, she’ll probably rearrange my kitchen, tell me how to teach third graders, and become ‘Cool Aunt Stu’ to my kids, in whose
eyes I’m slipping anyway. Grrr!” I threw a small pillow across the room, startling the chocolate Lab, who scrabbled after it and brought it back to me.
“Huh. Thanks.” I took the pillow and hugged it a long time.
I WOKE UP EARLY THE NEXT MORNING—early for Saturday—and let Willie Wonka outside while I started coffee. All was quiet upstairs, though the thumping had gone on till almost midnight. All was quiet downstairs, too, which was fine by me. Amanda got in at eleven thirty, and Denny and Josh came in around midnight after taking Pete and Jerry home. Let ’em sleep. Saturday was about the only day I got any morning time to read the Bible and pray. Even then, I had to fight with my mental to-do list.
Settling down in the recliner with a mug of coffee, I opened my study Bible to the purple ribbon, which marked where I’d been reading in the book of Isaiah. I was determined to become more familiar with the Old Testament books Avis and Nony quoted from so often. At least I’d made it to Isaiah 43, which was fairly familiar.
As I started to read, I felt as if I’d been slapped upside the head. “Fear not!” the very first verse said. “For I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are Mine!”
Fear not . . . Inside my head, a little voice seemed to say, “What are you so afraid of, Jodi?”
Afraid? I’m not afraid.
“Yes, you are. You’re afraid to let Stu into your life.”
Oh, that. I’m not afraid, just—
“Yes, that’s fear. Fear she’s going to melt you down to size.”
So? Why should I put myself in a position where—
“Position? I have redeemed you! That’s your position! I have called you by name! You are Mine!”
Even though I hadn’t moved a muscle, I felt like I’d fallen flat on the ground and gotten the wind knocked out of me. Called me by name . . . With stark clarity I remembered what I’d discovered about the meaning of my name: “Jodi: ‘God is gracious.’ ”
“That’s right. I am gracious—toward you! And Stu . . . And the Bennetts . . . But you need to get out of the way. Stop protecting yourself. Let Me be gracious.”
I did not like the way this conversation in my head was going. Doggedly I read on, determined to finish the chapter. But words kept leaping off the page: “Since you are precious in my sight . . . Do not fear, for I am with you . . . Behold, I will do something new . . .”
I shut the Bible with a thump. All these verses were prophecies for Israel—not Jodi Baxter, Lunt Avenue, Chicago, Illinois, in 2003. Besides, didn’t good fences make good neighbors? Wasn’t that in Proverbs or some-thing? Keeping your boundaries clear was just common sense, not fear.
Brrriiing! The ringing telephone at my elbow made me knock over my coffee cup, balanced precariously on the arm of the padded chair. I punched the on button before the phone could ring again and wake everybody up. “What?” I snapped, trying to mop up the spill with a wad of tissue before it soaked into the rug.
“Jodi?” The voice on the other end sounded confused. “Am I callin’ too early?”
I winced. “Florida! Can’t believe I answered the phone like that. Sorry. It just startled me.”
“Oh. Okay. Listen . . . you comin’ to Carla’s birthday party today?”
Carla’s birthday! I smacked my forehead with the heel of my hand, still holding the soggy tissue. I’d completely forgotten. “You bet.What’s the time again?”
“Two o’clock. Do you have some small paper plates and plastic forks I could borrow?”
I giggled. “Borrow? Sure. Just be sure to wash the plates before you return them. Anything else?”
“Smart aleck. Oh, yeah, do you have some crepe paper streamers I can have? And can Amanda come? She’s so good with the kids—she’d be a big help. But I’ll only borrow her—you can have her back.”
By this time both of us were laughing.
“Not sure. I’ll have to ask when she wakes up. Sorry—we didn’t talk about it.”
“Okay. See you around two, then.”
“Wait! Florida?” I had no idea why I was doing this, but I blurted, “The apartment upstairs is being vacated. Do you . . . do you think I should tell Stu about it?”
“Do I think . . . ? What’s the question, Jodi! Of course you should tell her about it! Thank ya, Jesus! What an answer to prayer!”
I sighed. “That’s what I thought. See you at two.”
I hung up and stared at the phone in my hand for a full minute. Then I dialed Stu.
11
Stu answered on the fourth ring, just as the answering machine kicked in. “Hi! Sorry I missed your—” “Jodi? Wait a minute . . . how do I turn this darn thing off? . . . There. Okay. Kinda early for you, isn’t it? Anything wrong?”
I rolled my eyes. Mental note: never get one of those videophones. “Hi, Stu. Hope I didn’t get you up. I thought you might be interested to know that our upstairs neighbors are moving on Tuesday. They need someone to sublet—”
The shriek on the other end made me hold the phone at arm’s length.When I brought it back, Stu was babbling. “For real? When? How soon could I move in? Is it like your apartment? What kind of shape is it in? Is it too early to call? I don’t want to miss them . . .”
I glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. Still kinda early for Saturday. But I gave Stu the number—let her figure it out.
Denny poked his head into the living room. “Done with the phone? Carl Hickman said he might come to the men’s breakfast at Uptown if I picked him up.”
Men’s breakfast? Oh yeah. They were doing it every third Saturday of the month now. But if Denny took the car . . . I shook my head. How was I supposed to get Carla a birthday present with no car?
As it turned out, I got the car after all. Carl had begged off because of “gettin’ ready for Carla’s birthday,” so Denny decided to go for a run and end up at the church in time for the breakfast. I could tell he was teed off. “Always some excuse,” he muttered as he went out the door.
What was he so huffy about? Carla’s birthday seemed like a good excuse to me.
To my surprise, Amanda said she’d love to go to Carla’s birthday party—she even wanted to go shopping with me to pick out a birthday present.
“Yeah,” I ribbed. “Anything to get out of cleaning your room.” I hugged her just the same.
SINCE DENNY LET ME have the car in the morning, Amanda and I took the el down to the Hickmans’ that afternoon, lugging a shopping bag with snack-size paper plates, plastic forks and spoons, rolls of yellow and green crepe paper, and two gifts for Carla. I’d wanted to get a “chapter book” for her to read but got discouraged wandering around the Barnes and Noble bookstore. All the books for children of color seemed to be biographies of great African-Americans or historical fiction about slavery or recounting the Civil Rights struggle. Important stuff—but heavy.Where were the books young girls liked to read about school friends and annoying brothers and mysterious disappearing cats and begging to get their ears pierced—ordinary books with children of color as the main characters?
I wavered between a couple of Coretta Scott King Award books: Almost to Freedom, a clever story of the Underground Railroad from a rag doll’s point of view, and a rollicking tall tale about Thunder Rose. Which would Florida want Carla to read? One was historical, hopeful, and sad at the same time; the other just for fun with a dynamo young black heroine. “Mo-om!” said Amanda, pulling me toward the cashiers. “Just get both.”
I’d thought we were done, but Amanda insisted we also had to get something fun and girlish. So we ended up at Target for bubble bath, nail polish with glitter in it, and some colorful barrettes. Sheesh. It all added up. But then . . . this was Carla’s first birthday party since she’d come home to her biological family.
Every time the el made a stop and opened its doors, the heat seemed to sneak out among the disgorging passengers, leaving plenty of room to trap the blast of arc-tic air blowing off Lake Michigan as the doors closed. “It’s really getting cold, Mom,” Amanda grum
bled, put-ting up the hood of her ski jacket until only her nose showed. Fine by me. I didn’t like the looks of that young man with all the tattoos and a ring piercing his lip who kept leering at her. Lord, give me strength!
We got off at the Bryn Mawr stop and hustled the few blocks to the Hickmans’ apartment building. It was getting colder. Amanda pushed the buzzer labeled HICKMAN, and a few moments later a voice cackled on the intercom. “That you, Jodi? Get up here. I need some help!” Amanda grabbed for the door handle as a loud blaaaat filled the foyer.
Florida had her door open by the time we climbed the stairs to the second floor, a cigarette in one hand, urgently waving us in with the other. “Crepe paper! Did you bring some? Gotta get it up quick!” She waved smoke away from the air space between us. “Sorry about the cig. I’m so nervous I can’t even spit. Hey, baby! How ya doin’?” Florida gave Amanda a big squeeze.
The apartment was silent except for our footsteps as we walked down the long, dim hallway to the square room that served as eating, study, and play space. “Where are the kids? Where’s Carla?” I dumped the contents of the shopping bag on the round table in the middle of the small room.
“Carl took Carla out, and I tol’ him not to bring her back till two thirty—give folks time to get here. But that man—he could show up any minute. Hey! Yellow and green! That’s real nice.”
“Well, it’s great he could get her out for a while.” Amanda and I taped yellow and green streamers to the light fixture in the center of the ceiling, then twisted and strung them to various corners of the room. “Denny called him this morning, wanted him to go to the men’s breakfast at Uptown, but he said he had to help with Carla’s party.”
“He said that?” Florida muttered something short and not sweet under her breath as she brought out a pretty grocery-store cake with Happy Birthday, Carla in pink icing script. “Huh. Had to drag that man out of the bed at noon and practically dress him myself so he could take Carla out for a while. So help me, Jodi, that man gonna land on his butt outside this door one day.” She arranged the small party plates and plasticware around the cake.