by Neta Jackson
“Tell us,” said Woman One, “how you came to be involved in this case.”
I sat there, expecting Denny, or maybe Stu, or even tell-it-straight Florida to speak up—until I realized my cohorts were all looking at me. “Jodi’s the one first met up with Becky,” Florida offered. “Go ahead, Jodi.”
I hadn’t planned on saying anything,much less being the spokesperson. For a moment, my mouth went dry. This whole thing couldn’t depend on me. And in the next nanosecond, I realized it didn’t. It depended on God. Whatever happened. All we needed to do was put our case on the table.
So I told the story, as briefly as I could, of the day the “Avon lady” appeared at our front door during a Yada Yada prayer meeting, muscled her way into our home, and robbed all of us at knifepoint. Telling the part about Hoshi’s mom getting her hand cut was hard, and Woman Two leaned forward and asked Hoshi more about it. The parole board seemed intensely interested in that part of the story and looked at each other when Hoshi said, “But Becky Wallace says she never meant to hurt anybody, and I believe her.”
Florida chimed in—I knew she couldn’t keep quiet for long—and said we started praying for Becky, being a prayer group and all. And one thing led to another . . . With helpful bits from Denny and Stu, the story got told.
The man shrugged. “So why are you here? Seems like you good folks have done enough.”
“Good folks?” Florida sounded highly amused. “Why, we nothin’ but sinners, same as Becky Wallace, same as you folks, but God’s given us all another chance, and we all think Becky Wallace deserves that chance too.We ain’t her victims anymore.We’re her friends—maybe the only ones she got.An’ since you all got an overcrowding problem here an’ gonna parole some folks, might as well ask for Becky. Bible says we don’t get ’cause we don’t ask. So we askin’.”
“Same as you folks” ? I winced, sure Florida had stuck her foot in the cow pie there.
The parole board leaned toward one another, whispered among themselves, pointed something out on one of the many sheets of paper in front of them, then leaned back in their chairs.
“As I said, an unusual case,” said Woman One, peering once again over the top of her glasses, which by now, indeed, did look like they were going to drop off the end of her nose. “We have never, to my knowledge, paroled a violent offender within the first year of incarceration. However . . .” She shuffled her papers for a moment. “If we were to consider Becky Wallace’s parole in this case, we would recommend house arrest for the first three months and an electronic monitor. The problem is”—she cleared her throat—“house arrest means confined to one’s home. And as far as we can determine, this prisoner has no known address.”
And as surely as if a gavel had fallen in a courtroom, our case was dismissed.
32
Out in the hall we just looked at each other. So much for kinsmen redeemers. I’d thought I might feel relieved if the parole was turned down—we did what we could, it was out of our hands, maybe for the best and all that—but I felt sad. Sad for Becky, sad for her little boy, who might not even remember his mommy by the time she got out. Sad for the disruption to young lives. Sad for Carla and Florida, who were still trying to reconnect . . .
Florida took a deep breath. “Guess we might as well try to see Becky, long as we’re here.” Maybe Florida was thinking about Andy. About Carla too.
“Does she know we wrote to the parole board?”Worry lines gathered between Hoshi’s arched brows. “Will she ask what happened? I hate to bring her bad news.”
Stu fidgeted. “I didn’t tell her, unless someone else wrote to her.”
Denny had been standing at a window, his back to us, hands in his pockets. But he turned. “Might be good to tell her we tried. Even if it looks hopeless, it could be encouraging to know we stood up for her.”
Stu rubbed her temples. “Why don’t you guys go without me? I’m getting a migraine . . . think I’ll go lie down in the car.” She held out her hand for the car keys.
“Cain’t you take somethin’ for that headache?” Florida eyed Stu suspiciously. “You know Becky will be wantin’ to hear somethin’ ’bout her Andy—’specially now that you his caseworker.”
Stu was already heading back toward the visitors’ entrance. “Don’t have any news. Every time I’ve tried to see him, something’s come up.” And she was gone.
Florida looked at me, then at Denny. “That the same Leslie Stuart who moved heaven and earth to find Carla? Somethin’ don’ smell right.”
STU WAS ASLEEP IN the third seat of the minivan, windows rolled halfway down for air, when we got out to the parking lot an hour later, and she slept back there most of the way home. I didn’t know she had migraines, but I knew they could knock you out, really scramble your brain.
Denny was right about Becky. She hadn’t reacted at first when we told her why we’d come, but after a moment large tears welled up in her eyes. I quickly handed her a wad of tissues—I traveled prepared these days. “Don’ matter . . . don’ matter they said no,” Becky had said, blowing her nose and dabbing furiously at her eyes as if offended by her tears. “I never expected anything differ’nt.” She’d swiped an arm across her wet cheeks and sniffed. “But I never ’spected nobody to stand up for me, neither. Means a lot.”
Back in the car, Florida glanced into the backseat. “Too bad Stu didn’t go in. She the one who pushed us into writing the parole board. Becky would be glad to know that.”
We didn’t say any more, because, after all, we didn’t know how asleep Stu was. Didn’t mention that Becky had asked if “the Stuart lady” got hold of her Andy. She was real anxious to talk to her boy.
Uh-huh. Maybe that’s what Stu was avoiding. As far as I knew, she hadn’t done anything about Andy yet.
Stu roused as we came back into the city, threading through traffic slowed by the fog and drizzle, and when we pulled up beside Florida’s apartment building, she suddenly chirped, “Don’t forget, Yada Yada at my house tomorrow night. Can’t wait for you guys to see what I’ve done to that plain ol’ box.”
“You alive back there, girl? We was beginning to wonder,” Florida said as she clambered out.
That was the truth. Pinning down Stu’s moods these days was like stapling bubbles.
AT LEAST I DIDN’T have to commute to Yada Yada this time or set out tea and munchies. Just went out the front door when I heard other Yada Yadas tromping up the front stairs. Stu hadn’t come to church at Uptown that morning—maybe sleeping off the aftereffects of her migraine—but tonight she looked positively the Martha Stewart of hostesses. Cheeks glowing with health (or a good makeup job), mood lights highlighting the melon-and- lime color of her living room, tea and coffee and homemade Mexican wedding cookies, the kind soaking in buttery powdered sugar.
Delores was transported. “Oh! Stu! Delicioso! Just like my mama used to make.” Telltale traces of powdered sugar clung to Delores chin as she smacked her lips happily.
It had actually been several weeks since I’d been upstairs to Stu’s apartment—I was either in bed with a cold, or she’d been busy working—so I joined the crowd getting the grand tour. Lots of oohs and aahs at the sea blue and lavender kitchen, decorated with all shapes of baskets hanging on the walls, and Stu’s seashell and burgundy bedroom.
The second floor had three bedrooms, just as we did on the first floor. Stu was obviously using one for a study and workspace, complete with sewing machine in one corner, computer desk, and a comfy chair with an afghan. Florida stood in the doorway of the other small bedroom, simply furnished with a double bed, black and gold comforter, a chest of drawers, a small desk, and a braided rug. “A guest room?” she blurted. “Hey, Stu, you want a couple o’ young bloods to raise in this room? I’ll send the bunk beds.”
Stu laughed. “Make it Carla, and it’s a deal.”
Avis broke into the tour and called us back into the living room. We all seemed to be present and accounted for this time—except Chanda. Rats. I ha
ven’t called her since she got skewered at Ruth’s two weeks ago.Not that there had been much room in my mucus-filled head—what with Josh getting stubborn about college and bombs bursting in the air over Baghdad—to remember noble stuff like calling Chanda.
Adele anticipated the unspoken question. “She wasn’t at Paul and Silas this morning either. I’ll give her a call this week, see what’s up.”
I glanced at Stu to see if she owned any responsibility for Chanda not showing up—she’d come down on her pretty hard in Ruth’s foyer—but she was pouring tea and making lighthearted comments as she passed cups around. The smugness of the righteous, I guessed. Yeah, like you got a leg to stand on, Jodi Baxter. Stu was just braver than the rest of us. Said everything I was thinking. Though like Avis said, it didn’t seem the right place and time—
“Speaking of church,” Adele marched on, “guess Paul and Silas might survive a visit from Yada Yada. I think we’re the last one on the list—might as well be now.”
Whoa. I didn’t think Adele would ever invite us to her church. Wasn’t sure she’d want to own this ragtag menagerie in public.
“Yeah, but will Yada Yada survive a visit to Paul and Silas?” Florida grumbled. “They one of them ‘baptize in Jesus’ name’ churches?”
“What’s wrong with that?” Stu said. “Everyone should be baptized in Jesus’ name.”
“No, I mean Jesus’ name only. If you been dunked in the name of the Father and Holy Ghost too, it don’t count. An’ the last Apostolic I tried out, I had to wear one of them doilies on my head.”
Yo-Yo screwed up her face. “I think I got somethin’ important to do that day.”
Ruth snorted. “We haven’t said what day yet.”
Adele crossed her arms in Patient Mama mode. “All right, calm down you all. Paul and Silas still has its Apostolic roots, but our present pastor, Reverend Miles, grew up Baptist. Name of the church is actually Paul and Silas Apostolic Baptist.What we call it depends on who you talk to! MaDear, now, still kicks up a big fuss if the usher board doesn’t wear white gloves, but Paul and Silas has been influenced by some of the big-name preachers who have Apostolic backgrounds—Reverend Brazier here in Chicago, Bishop Jakes, preachers like that who appeal to a broad spectrum of folks. But to be on the safe side? Wear a dress that covers your knees and a hat if you’ve got one.”
Sounded kinda weird, but I didn’t care. I was still amazed that Adele was actually going to take this motley crew to her church. Just hoped I didn’t inadvertently do anything to play the white fool.
Out came the pocket calendars. “First Sunday of April?” Stu said, all business.
March had five Sundays, which meant the first Sunday of April was two weeks away. Looked good to me. I flipped to April—and burst out laughing. “Oh, hey! It’s Denny’s birthday on April first!”
“You kidding!” Yo-Yo looked skeptical. “April Fool’s joke, right?”
“I kid you not. He’s fair game, everybody, if you want to play tricks. Somebody should get him good, all the stuff he’s pulled over the years.”
“Okay, sisters, let’s move on.” Avis corralled the chitchat. “We really need to come before the Lord and get into His presence. Our nation, our world needs us to fall on our faces, and I know we have some real needs among us too.”
She was right, of course. I sat back meekly in Stu’s round wicker chair, shaped like an upside-down Chinese coolie hat with a fat, lime-colored cushion, and let Avis’s opening prayer sweep out the cobwebs and stray thoughts of my mind. “Jesus! Oh, Jesus!” she prayed. “If ever we needed You, we need You now. The nations rage, floods and earthquakes and tornadoes sweep destruction in their paths, our children face pressures and temptations unknown as we were coming up—”
“Say it, sister,” Florida groaned. “Oh, Jesus.”
Nony had her Bible open to Psalm 27, and she poured some verses into the prayer. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? . . . I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart; wait, I say, on the Lord.”
“Amen and amen!” said Avis. “Hallelujah!”
Florida added her own postscript. “God is God, all by Himself!”
The whole atmosphere of the room had changed. I wanted to remain wrapped in its cocoon, as though all the annoying sickness I’d had so far this spring, my frustration with Josh, the disappointment of our trip to the parole board, even the major traumas of war and terrorism and ethnic hatred that saturated the news, had all been wrapped in a bundle and laid in God’s lap. I kept my eyes closed and blew out a long breath. Oh God, I appreciate this prayer group so much. I need all the help I can get to help me focus all my worries and anxieties and uncertainties on the Source of my strength and my salvation. Thank You, Jesus. I do believe. Oh God, help me when I waver . . .
Avis was taking note of things that needed sharing for prayer. “We want to hear from the group that went down to Lincoln this weekend . . . Delores has an update on her family in Colima . . . You too, Florida? Okay.”
“Don’t need more’n a minute,” Florida jumped in. “Just throw Carl into the prayer pot. He out of work agin, and all this up and down makin’ it hard to keep Chris in line.” She threw up her hands. “Sometimes I’ve just had it.”
“Humph. Kick him out,” Adele grunted. “Needs a wake-up call.”
“Oh no!” Delores cried, genuinely distressed. “Your niños need their papa, even an imperfect one.” Her eyes misted. “Some day it will turn around; you’ll see.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not out yet, but I’m tempted. Go on, go on, Delores, tell us ’bout your family.”
Delores nodded. Most of the rubble from the earth-quake in Colima had been cleared away, she said, but the rebuilding was going slowly and two of her brothers, their families, and her parents were all living in one house, the one with the least damage. “Seven children and six adults! Gracias a Dios, they all survived the earthquake. But there may be a earthquake en la familia if my brothers’ families don’t get out soon.” She rolled her eyes.
Ruth shook her head and fanned herself. “A disaster, that is!”
The good news, Delores continued, was that a group called Project Amigo had offered to help rebuild the dam-aged homes but was short on funds. “So please pray—”
“Pray?” Yo-Yo yelped. “Sounds like they need cash.” She dug into one of the myriad pockets in her denim overalls. “Hey. Five bucks. That’s a start, ain’t it?” She tossed the bill in Delores’s lap.
“Now that girl’s got the right idea.” Ruth dug in her big, clunky handbag and produced a checkbook. “Who do I make this out to?”
In five minutes, a small pile of cash and checks lay in Delores’s lap. Yo-Yo shrugged. “Not much, I guess. Maybe it’ll buy a window or somethin’.”
“Gracias, gracias,” Delores whispered.
“Edesa, you find an address for Project Amigo,” Ruth ordered. “Then we send contributions direct.” She looked around. “Decided, yes? Our Yada Yada project for a few months.” And that was that.
How I loved this group.
Guessed it was time to report on our trip to Lincoln. I opened my mouth, but Adele cut me off. “Hang onto that, Jodi. Avis? You forgot to put yourself on the agenda. Is Peter Douglass still on ice? And don’t fuss at me for askin’. This ain’t morbid curiosity. Courtship is serious business, and we all prayin’ for you two.”
Avis cocked an eyebrow. “Courtship, is it? You’ve all decided?” She sighed. “I’m praying too. Really. Thank you for caring, but . . . we’re still taking a break. I need some time to hear from the Lord, to sort through my feelings, even time to talk to my daughters. So . . . no change. Thanks for asking, though.”
I caught Delores’s eye. She let slip a tiny grin and pantomimed sewing tiny stitches. Okaaaay. Keep on making that q
uilt square, I guess. Talk about an act of faith.
Hoshi reported on our visit to the parole board. Bless her, she even described Denny’s discussion about the kinsman redeemer from the book of Ruth. “Yet they gave us no hope. As I understand it, it is very unusual to parole a violent offender in such a short time. Even if they did, she would have to be arrested at home—”
“House arrest,” Stu said helpfully.
“House arrest, with something on the leg—”
“Electronic monitor.”
“All right. I see. But she has no house to be arrested to.” Hoshi sat back and shook her head. “That is sad. No place to go home to.” A strange look passed over her face. I read it: “Like me.”
Stu cleared her throat and sat up. “Exactly. So I’ve been doing some serious thinking. And I think there is a way. Becky does have a home.With me. She can come to live with me.”
33
It took a second or two for Stu’s words to compute, but when they did, I yelped. “What?! Becky Wallace live here?! You’re out of your mind, Leslie Stuart!”
Stu shrugged. “Why? Didn’t Jesus say if we have two coats we should give one to the guy who has none? I’ve got three bedrooms. Becky has none. Same thing.”
It is NOT! I wanted to scream. But I was dangerously close to losing it, and I clamped my teeth, knowing I needed time to cool down. But my mind still raged. Becky Wallace in my house? After what she did here? Over my dead body.
At least I wasn’t the only one who thought it was a bad idea. I heard others, recovering from the initial shock, begin to respond. “Mm-mm. Doesn’t sound wise.”