by Neta Jackson
“What’s for supper?” Denny started to pull open the oven door.
“You’ll see. Wash up first.” I raised my voice. “Josh! Amanda! Come eat!” I felt pretty smug as I grabbed a couple of hot pads to take out the baked soufflé. A made-from- scratch hot meal on a Friday night was no mean accomplishment.
The back door buzzer was so unexpected I nearly tripped over Willie Wonka turning to see who it was. Stu waved gaily on the other side of the door window. I stepped over Wonka and opened the door.
“You guys haven’t eaten yet, have you?” Stu’s eyes danced, merry blue lights beneath a warm knit hat and matching neck scarf. “I thought I saw Denny just pull in.” She was balancing a liter of root beer and two big pizza boxes with Giordano’s written in the familiar red script across the top. “Ta-da! Supper! My thank-you to the Baxters for all the help you’ve been this past week!”
16
Pizza?” Three heads appeared out of nowhere in the kitchen doorway. “All right!” Stu, pizza boxes, and big grins disappeared into the dining room.
Pulling the bubbling cheese-and-bread soufflé out of the oven, I fought down a nasty urge to set the casserole on the dining room floor in full view of present company and let Willie Wonka enjoy . . . and blew out a long sigh. After all, I told myself, setting it on the counter to cool, Stu meant well. She always meant well. “Which is just the problem,” I muttered to Wonka, who was watching my every move, hoping for something besides dog food for dinner. “She’s so darn thoughtful, she tramples all over my plans, and I end up feeling like a whiner.”
“Jodi? You coming?” Denny’s voice was upbeat. “Bring that salad you were making—just what this pizza needs!”
I didn’t move. Didn’t anybody realize I’d been busting my butt to make supper for them? I considered my choices: Old Jodi response . . . or New Jodi? Did plastering a smile over my annoyance count as “New Jodi”? Probably not. Jesus, help me here. I really do feel walked over. But I know she meant to do something nice. And You said ‘love covers a multitude of sins’ . . . so give me some of that love right now.
I picked up the salad and took a deep breath. The cooling soufflé was starting to sag—wouldn’t make very good leftovers.Wonka might get it after all.
God came through, and I was able to enjoy the pizza and root beer, in spite of my neglected soufflé. Josh took off after supper to catch the Jesus People band playing a gig somewhere, and Denny and I left Stu playing chess with Amanda—who for some odd reason had “nothing to do” this particular Friday night—and walked down to the Heartland Café for mocha decaf cappuccinos. The Heartland was a favorite hangout in the Rogers Park neighborhood—just a few blocks down our street, stubbornly unchanged from its birth in the sixties, still offbeat, still good food, still a fun place to hang out. Not being totally self-effacing, I told Denny how I felt when Stu had bopped in with her surprise supper, “after I’d mustered up the energy to actually cook on a Friday night!”
To his credit, Denny apologized for being oblivious to my efforts. “Though you have to admit, Jodi,” he added, “Friday night is usually catch-as-catch-can, so I didn’t realize you’d gone to any trouble.”
“I know.” I cupped my cold hands around my cappuccino. “That’s what was hard. For once I had—and Stu upstaged me.”
He grinned. “Yeah. It’s hard to compete with Giordano’s.”
“No,” I shot back, “it’s hard to compete with Stu.”
“That’s what you think this is—a competition?” I shifted under his scrutiny. “Jodi. It was just a misunder-standing. Tell her to let you know next time!”
“Right,” I said glumly. “Then she’ll feel bad that I didn’t appreciate her surprise.”
I knew that look on Denny’s face—now he was get-ting annoyed. “Know what?” he said, slapping the table. “Let’s talk about something else. Spring vacation—why don’t we take the kids to visit my folks in New York? We didn’t get a vacation last summer—it’d be fun to take a road trip.”
A ROAD TRIP . . . THAT would be fun. New England in springtime. Even if it did mean visiting my East Coast in-laws, who still made me feel like a stray Denny had brought home on a whim.
I chuckled, making the soapy bubbles of my bath-water dance like a field of dandelion fuzz. It was Saturday morning, and I was finally getting my long soak in the tub. I’d even found some strawberry bubble bath and dumped in the whole thing.
The senior Baxters tried hard; they really did. But the only time they’d visited us when we first moved into the city, they passed up our invitation to come to Uptown Community Sunday morning and instead found a nice upper-crust mainline church somewhere on the North Shore to attend. Didn’t bother me—I was just as glad not to have to worry about their reaction to our rag-tag congregation—but it hurt Denny.
I sighed, and the bubbles danced once more. Did God mind if I used my bath as prayer time? I decided it counted as “pray without ceasing” and let my mind wander over my heart concerns . . .
Amanda’s quinceañera—God, I hope we’re doing the right thing. She’s pretty excited. Denny says he’s going to take her out for milkshakes this weekend and talk about the “service” part—some idea he’s got . . . And Hoshi—as far as I know, God, she still hasn’t heard from her parents. Have they truly disowned her because she became a Christian? That must hurt so much—and yet, she has a quiet stubbornness that seems determined to see this through. But, Lord, soften her parents’ hearts to at least talk to her again . . . And what’s up with Josh, Lord? He seems more interested in hanging around Jesus People on weekends than doing college visits—and he’s gotten so political! Sheesh! Maybe it’s good; maybe not. I don’t know . . .
The bubbles of my bath were fading away, and I saw the scars on my body from the surgery to remove my damaged spleen and from the rod they’d inserted into my left thigh. Scars . . . would they eventually fade? Or would they always remain as a reminder . . .
A reminder of what? Of my stupid anger, my failure to be the kind of Christian I thought I was? A constant reminder of the boy who died in front of my car?
A reminder of My grace, Jodi. And a reminder to pray.
Pray?
Yes, pray. I have forgiven you; remember that. You some-times forget. But the scars can remind you to pray for Jamal’s mother, who is still grieving and confused. And for Hakim. Because I put him in your classroom for a reason.
I sat up suddenly, splashing water over the side of the tub and soaking the bath mat. It was like a revelation. God put Hakim in my classroom, not as some cosmic joke, but because He is a Redeemer! Didn’t the psalms talk about God “redeeming our life from the pit” and “renewing our youth like the eagle’s”—or something like that?
I climbed out of the tub, eager now to look up that verse and see what it said. Yes, that’s what I would do. Every time I saw these scars, I would pray that prayer for Hakim and his mother.
As I toweled myself dry, I heard the doorbell ring and padded footsteps running to answer it. Kinda early for Saturday morning . . . probably Stu wanting to borrow something. But right then I didn’t care. I hummed as I pulled on underwear, jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and a fleece vest, then plugged in the hair dryer.
“Mom? Mom!” Amanda’s cries were accompanied by loud bangs on the bathroom door. “You gotta come see—it’s terrible!”
I turned off the hair dryer. “What’s terrible?” Yet she was already gone, footsteps running back to the living room, where I could hear the TV being flipped through channels. Unlocking the door, I ran in bare feet to the living room where Stu, Amanda, Denny, and Josh in various stages of half-dress stared at the TV screen.The newscaster was saying, “—disintegrated over Texas during reentry around 9 a.m. this morning. All astronauts on board the space shuttle Columbia are presumed dead.”
Oh God, no! Not again!
I slowly sank onto the couch, pulling Amanda down with me and holding her close. I’d been only twenty-six years old, an ideali
stic whippersnapper in my first class-room, when schoolteacher Christa McAuliffe accompanied the crew of the space shuttle Challenger. My third graders had been so excited to watch the launch on TV, I’d passed out party whistles and kazoos to celebrate. And then . . . the shuttle had exploded during its launch, right in front of our eyes. I was so shaken and the kids so traumatized, I still have no idea how we made it through the rest of that Tuesday.
Amanda was dry-eyed but pale as the TV began giving short bios of the seven crewmembers. Denny had to leave to coach a basketball game between West Rogers High and the Lincoln Park Lions. Josh went out with-out saying what or where—leaving me to walk Willie Wonka. He was going to hear about that later. To tell the truth, though, the walk in the nippy air with the dog was just what I needed to work the kinks out of my unsettled spirit. We headed for Touhy Park, where I unsnapped Wonka’s leash and let the old dog nose around the trees and bushes to his heart’s content while I sat on a park bench, hunched up inside my winter jacket. My mind didn’t know what to think, and I found myself doing stream-of-consciousness prayers for the devastated families of those seven astronauts . . . for Hakim and his mother, who had lost their older brother . . . for Delores, who still had not heard from her family in Mexico . . . for Hoshi’s parents, who were probably not as cold and uncaring as they seemed, but hurt and feeling betrayed . . .
A sharp wind off the lake drove Willie Wonka and me back toward the house. Amanda, still in her PJs, was glued to the TV coverage of the shuttle disaster. I brought her some toast and cocoa, but when Stu rang the doorbell around noon, I noticed she’d barely touched it.
Stu handed me our mail, waving a long envelope addressed to her in familiar handwriting. “Heard back from Becky Wallace,” she said, trailing me into the kitchen. “She says she put me on her visitors’ list.”
“Huh. That was quick.” I started making a list for the grocery run once Denny got back with the car.
Stu settled herself on the lone kitchen stool, her long hair wound into a loose knot at the back of her neck, showing its dark roots. “Yeah.What do you think—could we go next Saturday?”
Whaddya mean “we”? You’re the Lone Ranger with the white horse. I cringed at my insulting thoughts. I did say, “You could really go anytime, you know—you don’t have to wait on the rest of us.”
Stu looked flustered. “But . . . when you went before, it was a group. I’d like to go with someone who’s been to the prison before. Really. I don’t want to go alone.” For the first time since I’d known Stu, she seemed uncertain, even vulnerable.
I softened. I wouldn’t want to go visit Bandana Woman by myself either. “Well, I might be able to go next Saturday—Denny can’t, I know. The others on the okay list are Hoshi, Florida, and Yo-Yo. Why don’t you call them and ask who wants to go?”
Stu slid off the stool. “Thanks, Jodi.” She headed for the front door. A moment later she was back. “Amanda shouldn’t watch that shuttle tragedy all day. She doesn’t look good. Make her clean her room or something.”
It was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes. Arrgh! Two steps forward, one step back with Stu. But . . . she was right—as usual. I needed to get Amanda busy.
WHEN I GOT TO school Monday morning, I wasn’t sure where the weekend had gone. Sunday afternoon Denny had taken Amanda to the new Steak ‘n Shake on Howard Avenue for peach milkshakes and a long talk about her quinceañera.When I asked him what they’d talked about, he’d just wiggled his eyebrows. “It’s a father-daughter thing. You’ll see.”
I’d decided to talk to my students about the shuttle tragedy—it’d been all over the TV all weekend. First thing in the morning, I gathered them on the Story Rug and told them about my third-grade class seventeen years earlier who had watched a similar tragedy on TV, right in their classroom. “Those children are grown up now, about the age of Ms. James, our student teacher the first half of this year—remember her? They had lots of questions and lots of feelings about what happened to the Challenger. How about you? Do you have some questions about what happened to the Columbia on Saturday? How do you feel about it?”
What I really wanted to do was grab them all in a big smother-hug and tell them it was going to be all right. That more bad things would happen in the world in their lifetime, but God would give them strength to see them through. Because there were lots of good things and good people in the world too . . .
Instead, I let them ask questions—“Did they blow up in the sky and come down with parachutes?” “Why did people let them go in the shuttle if it isn’t safe?” “Were they coming back from Mars?”—and answered them as best I could. Then Hakim raised his hand. “Were there any daddies or big brothers on the shuttle that blew up?”
For a moment I was speechless. Oh God, what shall I say? I swallowed. Finally I managed, “Yes, I’m sure some of them were daddies or big brothers. Some were mommies and sisters too.” I blinked rapidly, afraid I was going to cry.
Hakim stared at me for a long moment, the corners of his dark eyes twitching. Then he said, “I bet their little boys are sad.” He got up from the Story Rug, slumped into his desk with its jagged scar, and stared out the window.
17
For one brief moment, Hakim had given me a glimpse into his soul—a glimpse that stabbed like a hot knife into my own. Oh God! Will it ever stop hurting?
Somehow I made it through the day, beginning our new math unit on measurements and simple fractions. Chanté and Astrid, budding artists, got assigned to make a temperature chart for the month of February. Each student printed his or her name on a strip of paper that went into a jar to “take the temperature” each school day—all except Hakim, who said he didn’t want a turn. Terrell’s name came out of the jar to read the thermometer outside the classroom window today. Proudly he wrote down +15 in the Fahrenheit column and –10 in the Celsius column.
No surprises there. February in Chicago.
But I was worried.Was Hakim pulling back into his I-don’t-wanna-and-you-can’t-make-me shroud? And I had to send a report home to his mother this week for the second marking period! I fell back on my rule of thumb—“When in doubt, stall!”—and just left him alone while the rest of the class measured their desks, the window ledge, and the chalkboard with plastic rulers. I noticed Hakim pushed to the front of the group at the worktable when I brought out a package of store-bought cinnamon buns and a table knife, my shameless introduction to fractions. “We’re going to divide each one into four parts so we can all have a taste,” I said. “Who wants to divide the first one?”
Cornell tried first, ending up with one big lump and three small snitches. Protests went up. “That ain’t fair!” “Who gets the big one?” “I ain’t gonna eat that little crumb.”
Ramón tried next, with equally lopsided results.
Hakim looked disgusted. “Let me do it!” I handed him the table knife.With a swift, smooth motion, he cut the next bun in half, turned it, and cut it in half again. “See?” he sneered. “Easy.”
I thought my buttons might pop. “Good job, Hakim. Who wants to try next?”
“No!” several voices chorused. “Let Hakim do it! He makes ’em even!”
Obviously, my eight- and nine-year-olds had more interest in getting a fair share of the cinnamon buns than learning to cut things in equal fourths. I handed the knife back to Hakim. Still plenty of time for fractions.
By the time the school day was over and I’d tied the last scarf and unstuck the last zipper, I was pooped. And I still had all those reports to do so they could get sent in the take-home folders on Thursday. Yet something compelled me to fish in my tote bag for the small Bible I carried, hunting for that verse about being “redeemed from the pit.” I finally found it in Psalm 103.
Keeping my finger in place, I walked over to Hakim’s desk and squeezed myself into his seat. Ugh . . . tight fit. Sitting in the chair he occupied each day, I murmured the fourth and fifth verses for Hakim: “Oh God, redeem Hakim’s life from the pit!
Crown him with love and compassion. Satisfy his desires with good things, so that his youth can be renewed like the eagle’s!” I blinked back sudden tears. “Yes, Lord, let him fly.”
DOING REPORTS FOR THE second marking period took every spare minute that week, so I just said, “Fine, fine,” when Stu came downstairs Wednesday evening and said Hoshi had a paper she had to write this week-end, but both Florida and Yo-Yo signed on for the visit to the prison again. “Can we take your car?” Stu asked. “I can squeeze four in mine, but it won’t be that comfortable all the way to Lincoln.”
“Sure, fine,” I said, hoping it was. I’d have to work out logistics with Denny.
I finished the last report at lunchtime the next day and managed to get them stuffed into the correct take-home folders. I had lingered over what to say in Hakim’s report. After marking the appropriate boxes in each subject category regarding work completed and work handed in—which showed a need for lots of improvement—I added a note: “Hakim still struggles with paperwork but excels when it comes to spatial and conceptual math in his head. Once we discover the key to helping Hakim translate what’s in his mind and get it down on paper, this boy will fly. Sincerely, Ms. Baxter.”
Hallelujah! That’s done. I packed up my tote bag at the end of the day and headed down the hallway. Maybe now I can start making plans for Amanda’s quinceañera, which is—I had to think about the date—aack! Only two weeks from Saturday!
As I passed the school office, a woman who looked vaguely familiar stood at the counter. Business suit, chunky earrings, close-cropped hair, small glasses. I slowed, wondering . . . and then I heard her crisp voice. “Ms.Wilkins-Porter—I have an appointment with Ms. Johnson.”