by Neta Jackson
“And not the same day as Yada Yada,” Ruth put in. “We go here, we go there the same day—by Monday I’m crazy.”
Avis picked up a desk calendar. “All right, that means . . . the first Sunday of March. Actually, that would be a good day. The schools have Pulaski Day off the next day.”
I grinned. Chicago was probably the only U.S. city that let kids out of school to honor General Pulaski’s birthday in deference to its large Polish community.
So it was decided: a Yada Yada visit to St. John’s Lutheran in three weeks.
We let Florida’s azalea sit on the coffee table unmentioned all through the prayer time, as we poured out all our thanksgivings and petitions to God. Nony closed out with a wonderful prayer from John 13, Jesus’ prayer that we “would all be one” and that others would know we are His disciples “by our love for one another.”
As we opened our eyes, Stu picked up the azalea and presented it to Florida—“Our February birthday girl. Because her name means ‘to flower’ and ‘to bloom.’ ” A jealous corner of myself tried to rear its head, because Stu was doing “the name thing,” which had been my little discovery. But the words of Nony’s prayer—that we would all be one—pricked my spirit. Stuff it, Jodi.What does it matter? Face it: if it’d been just up to you, there would be no “flowering blooms” for Florida tonight! I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief moment. Oh God, forgive me. I’ve got so far to go.
“For real?” Florida said, taking the flowers almost reverently, her eyes bright. “Flower and bloom? Well, thank ya, Jesus! I’m gonna sit this bit o’ hope in the middle of my table and hope some of that bloomin’ rub off on my family!”
I WENT STRAIGHT TO the kitchen calendar when I got home to write in Yada Yada’s upcoming visit to St. John’s—and got a gift straight from heaven. Lincoln’s Birthday and President’s Day—both holidays in Illinois—fell in the next two weeks before Amanda’s quinceañera! I did a little jig right there in the kitchen. “Two whole days off, Wonka!” I hooted, dancing in a circle around the poor confused dog. Which meant I might actually have time to do the stuff on my to-do list: shop for a pair of heels for Amanda (who once swore she’d never wear “torture shoes”), call the Bagel Bakery about the cake, meet with Pastor Clark and Denny about the “service” part, send out invitations—
Whoa. The invitations couldn’t wait for Lincoln’s birthday, which was Wednesday. They had to go out tomorrow. I hesitated a brief moment, then picked up the phone.
I could hear Stu’s phone ringing faintly upstairs.
“Stu? Hope I’m not calling too late . . . Could I take you up on your offer to help me send out those invitations online? . . . Yeah, tomorrow. Whenever you get home from work . . . Okay. Thanks.”
Denny poked his head into the dining room just as I hung up the phone. “You done yet? Let’s go to bed.”
“In a minute.” I grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. “Gotta write down a few names I just thought of who need to be invited to the quinceañera.”
I had scribbled half a name when I felt the pen being removed from my hand. “Hey!” I grabbed for the pen as Denny held it out of reach with one hand and pulled me out of the desk chair with the other.
“I hate those words,” he murmured into my hair, wrapping both arms around me in a body lock.
Struggle was useless. I started to laugh. “What words?”
“ ‘In a minute’ . . .”
BY THE TIME I got home from school on Monday, I had a decent list of people I wanted to invite to the party: Yada Yada, of course, and their families; Uptown’s youth group and leaders; families Amanda babysat for; a few old friends from Downers Grove . . . and I’d better ask Amanda who she wanted to invite. Huh. Hope they all have e-mail.
Stu came downstairs after supper that evening and helped me find the e-invitation site on the Internet. The biggest job was entering all the e-mail addresses in the “Send To” box. And—arrgh!—everybody did not have e-mail. Chanda, for one.Nor Yo-Yo. Didn’t know whether some others did or didn’t. “Buck up, Jodi,” Stu said. “You’re going to have to send a few invites by snail mail. Want me to pick up a box for you at Office Max?”
I wanted to say, “No thanks, I can do it”—but knew I wouldn’t get a chance at the car till the Wednesday holiday rolled around. “Sure. If it’s not too much trouble. Not a box of invitations, though—some kind of festive paper I can run through the printer.”
THE BAG FROM OFFICE Max was stuffed in my mail-box when I got home from school the next day. Bright confetti colors all around the edge of eight-by-ten sheets. Perfect.
I was so busy that week checking things off my quinceañera to-do list, baking cupcakes for Friday’s Valentine party at school, and trying to keep up with my school lesson plans, that I pretty much tuned out the news that glued Denny and Josh to the TV every night. Didn’t work, though. What I missed on the TV got rehashed in the teachers’ lounge—more conflicting reports about weapons of mass destruction from the UN inspectors . . . more American troops being shipped to the Middle East . . . angry voices denouncing the registration of immigrants . . .
If I thought too much about it, my insides got all twisted. The whole world seemed to be teetering on the brink of terror and fighting over how to fight terrorism—and yet I could walk through a week with my biggest worry being whether we’d have enough food for all the guests who might show up a week from Saturday. By the time I crawled into the recliner on Saturday morning with a mug of fresh hot coffee and my Bible, I was feeling schizophrenic. And helpless.What could I do about it?
Pray, Jodi. You can pray.
I almost laughed. My dad used to say that to me as a kid—“Let’s pray about it, shall we?”—and it always felt like a cop-out. But I knew better now. A small sense of excitement gripped me.Yes. That’s what I could do. “Pray the headlines,” Avis had encouraged us in worship a few weeks ago.
I brought the recliner back to its upright position with a thump, nearly clobbering Willie Wonka on the head with the footrest, and darted out into the cold to get the newspaper off the front porch. For the next twenty minutes, I “prayed the headlines”—prayed for the people of Iraq, even that bully Saddam Hussein, prayed he’d turn around, prayed that war would be avoided, prayed for wisdom for the president, prayed for the sons and daughters in uniform, prayed for Israelis and Palestinians, sons of Abraham living side by side and hating each other, prayed for peace, prayed that terrorists would be disarmed and brought to justice, prayed for the big protests planned around the world today to be peaceful—
Loud voices came from the direction of the kitchen. Amanda and Josh, arguing about something. Reluctantly, I made my way to the back of the house.
“Mo-om! Tell Josh he has to be at my quinceañera practice this afternoon!” Amanda, still in baggy flannel PJs, banged a few cupboard doors looking for a clean cereal bowl.
“Chill, Manda.” Josh shoveled spoonfuls of corn flakes into his mouth while he balanced on the kitchen stool. “I’ll be there. I just said I might be late is all.”
“You can’t be late!” she wailed. “You’re my big brother! And you don’t know the dance yet!”
I opened my mouth to ask, “Why late?” but Denny came into the kitchen just then wearing his jacket and knit hat. “Men’s breakfast,” he explained, pouring some coffee into a travel cup. “Going to pick up Carl.”
The corners of my mouth curled up. “Carl Hickman? How did that happen?”
He shrugged. “Pastor Clark asked if a few of the guys could do some carpentry work around the church after breakfast. So I told Carl we could sure use another pair of hands—and he said okay.”
I could almost hear Florida muttering, “Thank ya, Jesus!”
“You guys are going to come to the practice today too, aren’t you?” Amanda was still plucking her one-note song. “Da-ad! I’m supposed to do a dance with you!”
Denny looked at Amanda, then me. “Did I know about this?”
I threw up my hands. �
��Uptown Community at four o’clock. Delores called last night while you were at the game. Sorry, I forgot to tell you.”
He leaned over and kissed my ear. “Sorry ’bout the game schedule —kinda screwed up Valentine’s Day, didn’t it? Can we go out to dinner or something tonight?”
“Definitely!” I opened the back door for him. “It’s a date.”
“After the practice!” Amanda wailed.
Josh tossed his cereal bowl into the sink. “Dad, wait! Can I catch a ride with you to the el?” He disappeared for thirty seconds, then dashed out the back door, carrying a huge piece of poster board and his jacket tucked under one arm.
“Josh, where . . . ?” I yelled after him.
But he was gone.
21
Denny didn’t get the car back till almost one o’clock, so I really had to hustle to get my errands done by four. His suit definitely needed dry cleaning, so I headed for Devon’s Best Dry Cleaners in the middle of Rogers Park’s Pakistani/Indian neighborhood. Dozens of tiny shops featuring flowing, feminine attire nestled side by side with restaurants featuring “Spicy Tamarind Soup” and “Lentil Curry.” Might as well scope out a possibility for our dinner date tonight. That’ll be fun.
When I tried to cross Ridge Avenue, though, police barricades prevented any cars from continuing on Devon, and all traffic was being diverted. What in the world? Beyond the barricades I could see hundreds of people, bundled up against the cold, many with placards and banners, moving west, away from the barricades. I craned my neck, trying to see what was going on, but a police officer blew her whistle at me and shoveled me into the northbound lane.
Oh, great. I slapped the steering wheel. Now what?
I didn’t want to waste time driving around looking for another dry cleaner, so I drove home, paged through the yellow pages till I found one on Sheridan Road, and dumped off our clothes, making sure they’d have them done by Thursday.
By the time I stopped at Dominick’s for milk and dog food, it was time to get Amanda to Uptown for her practice. Josh wasn’t at the house, so we had to leave without him. I was a nervous wreck the first half-hour of the quinceañera practice, because he still hadn’t shown up by the time Delores called everybody together and began giving instructions. Yet when it was time for the chambelanes to escort the damas down the aisle, suddenly there he was, cheeks and nose ruddy from the cold, staving off a teary tantrum by the Quinceañera herself. I started to give him a piece of my mind, but he hissed, “Chill, Mom. I said I’d be here; I’m here. This isn’t the only thing happening in the world, you know.” Then he hustled into his place.
Take a deep breath, Jodi.He’s here, isn’t he? But I wasn’t sure I liked this new, cheeky Josh.
Delores walked everybody through the abbreviated service, which I had to admit was going to be really sweet—but I did wonder how much we’d corrupted the traditional quinceañera from the formal Catholic mass to a more informal Protestant service. At least most of the guests wouldn’t have a clue. At one point Delores turned to Denny and said, “Okay, Papa, this is when you and Amanda do your little ceremony, okay?” and then she moved right on.
“Hey.What’s this mysterious ceremony?” I whispered to Denny.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a mystery, now, would it?” he whispered back.
Arrgh. It’d better not be some practical joke.
Pastor Clark seemed to be getting a huge kick out of the whole thing; he even helped stack the chairs out of the way for the dance practice. José had brought music on a CD to teach the traditional waltz, which involved a lot of clasped hands overhead, spinning of partners, and bowing and curtsies. “La banda de mariachi will be here next week, I promise!” he grinned. Everybody was laughing and trying out the steps—even Pete Spencer and Chris Hickman, who threw in a few hip-hop steps just for fun. It was funny to see them dancing a waltz in their baggy pants and big athletic shoes with the laces untied—and it occurred to me they might show up in the same attire for the real thing. Well, so what? It’s just a birthday party, not a wedding—thank You, Jesus!
Josh volunteered to ferry people back home in the minivan so Denny and I could go home and get ready for our belated Valentine’s date. Amanda went with him, so I guess she’d forgiven his tardiness. They still weren’t back with the car when the front doorbell rang and Stu popped in, darting her eyes this way and that and holding some-thing behind her back. “Is Amanda gone? I want to show you the piñata I found—oh. You guys going out?”
Denny had put on a knit shirt and sport coat, and I was wearing dress slacks, a silky blouse, and makeup, no less. “Nah. Thought we’d clean the basement tonight,” I said with a straight face.
She laughed. “Okay, okay, dumb question.What do you think?” She brought out a classic piñata, shaped like a burro, decorated with bright lime and yellow and blue paper crinkles.
“Hey!” Denny’s eyes lit up. “What a great idea.”
“Adorable! Thanks so much, Stu.”
“Okay. Shh—don’t tell Amanda.”
I thought she might leave so we could finish getting ready, but Stu hesitated a moment, then blurted, “You know, if we’re going to testify to the parole board on Becky Wallace’s behalf, we ought to write a letter right away.We can’t wait two weeks between every Yada Yada meeting to make decisions—it’s too long!”
Denny frowned. “Uh, did I miss something?” . . . which Stu took for permission to lay out the whole idea of Becky’s victims testifying on her behalf, to give her a chance at parole while the powers-that-be were trying to ease prison overcrowding.
Denny shook his head. “I don’t know. Her chances are probably slim to none. She pled guilty to a violent crime—and it hasn’t even been a year!”
“What could it hurt to write the letter? We’ll never know unless we try.”
Which was true. I just felt like Stu was pushing. We couldn’t run ahead of the whole prayer group—we were all victims. Everyone needed to agree to it. And I said so.
Stu threw up her hands. “Fine. But we’re not the one sitting in prison separated from our two-year-old child.” And she took the piñata and closed the front door behind her with more-than-necessary vigor.
Denny arched an eyebrow at me. “Hmm.Honeymoon over?”
WE DIDN’T STAY OUT late since Amanda was home alone—Josh had gone out again to some gig that Head Noise was doing—but we did try one of the ethnic restaurants along Devon Avenue. The barricades were gone, and all that was left of the crowds was litter and leaflets skittering down the sidewalks ahead of the wind that bit at our ears and noses. I picked up a crumpled leaflet on the sidewalk in front of Gandhi India, a small corner restaurant on West Devon. “International Day of Protest Against the War on Iraq,” the leaflet said. The fine print also mentioned protesting the “scapegoating” of immigrants and the upcoming deadline requiring Pakistanis in the United States to register with the government.
I stuffed the leaflet in the pocket of my winter coat, feeling uneasy. Maybe this stretch of Devon Avenue wasn’t the smartest place to eat after a huge “solidarity” march. “Thought these big antiwar marches usually happened downtown,” I murmured to Denny as a waiter seated us at a small table covered with a burgundy cloth, topped with a square of white paper that fit the table corner to corner and burgundy cloth napkins folded to stand up like butterflies at rest. Gandhi India was busy this Saturday night, filling up most of its eighteen small tables with couples, friends, and families. Only an elderly grandmother wore a traditional sari.
Curious—or anxious, I’m not sure which—I looked up at our waiter, a slightly rounded middle-aged man in a white shirt and slicked black hair, as he put a basket of fried bread on our table, crisp and light, with two dips: a sweet-and-sour made with yogurt and a tangy tamarind sauce. “Were there many protesters on the street today?” I asked, too late seeing the cautionary eye Denny sent me. “I, uh, hope it was peaceful.”
The man hesitated, probably wondering if it was wis
e to answer. Then politeness took over. He tipped his head in a slight bow. “Yes, madam. Many thousands of protestors. But peaceful, I believe. We are grateful for this show of support from our fellow Americans. It has been . . . difficult since 9/11.”
Now I was curious and wanted to ask more questions, but he slipped away, returning ten minutes later with the chicken tandoori and chicken tikki we’d ordered. “Let’s not talk politics,” Denny hissed at me as the spicy food tantalized our noses. “Not here. In fact, let’s not talk Yada Yada, not Becky the Bandana Woman, not Amanda teetering between hormones and womanhood. It’s Valentine’s Day. This is supposed to be romantic—even if I didn’t get you a card. Or candy.” His dimples deepened with his sheepish confession.
“Day after Valentine’s,” I giggled. “Okay. I didn’t get you a card or candy either.” But as Denny took my hand and said a brief prayer of thanksgiving for our food “. . . and for the twenty Valentine’s Days You’ve given to Jodi and me,” I added, “And, Father, please give wisdom to world leaders and to all of us during these difficult days. We don’t want war, Jesus, and we don’t want terror either.”
Wasn’t it just this morning I’d been convicted to “pray the headlines”?
I SAT UP IN bed suddenly, wet with sweat, my heart thumping loudly in my ears. The bedroom was dark—had I heard a noise? I strained to listen. All was still . . . just Denny’s soft snoring beside me and the wail of a siren in the distance.
What was it? Why did I feel so frightened, afraid to close my eyes again?
Then I knew what had wakened me. The dream—the same terrible dream that had haunted me since last June. The torrential summer rain washing over the wind-shield . . . a sudden face in my headlights . . . that young face, eyes dark and round, mouth wide in a silent scream . . . jerking the wheel, a sickening thump, a pair of headlights from oncoming traffic swerving right toward me . . .
I squeezed my eyes shut, taking several deep breaths to slow the racing of my heart. Jamal Wilkins—Hakim’s brother, Geraldine’s son—dead.