by Neta Jackson
“Rochelle! What in the world—?! Conny, come here, baby.” Avis bent down and wrapped her arms around her grandson. “It’s all right, sweetie, Grammy’s here.” She slid the hood of the parka back and kissed the top of his loose, curly hair.
Rochelle brushed past her into their front room. Avis followed with Conny and shut the door.
Peter had turned the living room light on and stood facing them, arms crossed, frowning. “There better be a good explanation for this, Rochelle. Do you have any idea what time it is?”
Rochelle ignored him and turned to her mother. “I’m sorry, Mom. I—I lost my apartment and . . . and just didn’t know where else to go. I came by earlier, but you weren’t here. Where were you guys? You never stay out this late!”
Avis saw Peter shake his head in disgust. “We were out, Rochelle,” she said evenly. “You should have called. We had our cell.” Taking off Conny’s coat, she helped the little boy lie down on the black leather couch. “What do you mean, you lost your apartment?”
Rochelle flopped down in the matching leather armchair. “I told you a couple weeks ago I lost my job. I’ve been looking, honest I have, but it’s a zoo out there! Everybody’s cutting back, letting people go, not hiring.” She hunched forward, elbows on her knees, her thick black hair full and wavy around the honey brown skin of her face, not quite looking at her mother. “We just need a place to stay until I figure out what to do. Or . . . or if I could borrow some money for the rent, I’m sure I could get my apartment ba—”
“No.” Peter’s sharp retort left Rochelle’s mouth open.
Avis winced. Oh, Peter, let her finish. This wasn’t just about Rochelle, but Conny too.
Rochelle jumped up, eyes flashing. “I’m not talking to you, Peter Douglass! I’m talking to my mother.” She turned to Avis. “Mom, please. I need some money for my meds. I’ll pay you back as soon as I—”
“I said no!” Peter took three strides and stood between Rochelle and Avis. “This begging has got to stop, Rochelle. This is your third apartment. We gave you money for first and last month’s rent. And you have a Medicaid card for the meds. We can’t keep bailing you out.”
“Peter—” Avis started.
“I lost the bloody card!” Rochelle’s voice rose. “Or someone stole it . . . I don’t know. But it takes weeks to get another one, and I need the meds now. You know that.” Again she turned imploring eyes on her mother. “At least let us stay here till I find another apartment.”
Avis cast a pleading look in Peter’s direction. Rochelle did need her antiretroviral drugs—three times a day—to treat the HIV she’d contracted from her philandering husband. Ex-husband now. Dexter not only had played around but had become abusive. Avis shuddered. The past five years had been a series of crises getting Rochelle and Conny out of that mess, into a shelter, into a treatment program, finding an apartment, then a series of jobs that never seemed to work out . . . and now this.
Peter just stood there, arms crossed, shaking his head. “It’s not going to happen, Rochelle.”
With a screech the girl darted around her stepfather and ran toward the hall. Avis thought she was running for the bathroom and started to follow, but Rochelle ran past the bathroom, into the master bedroom, and slammed the door. Hurrying down the hall after her, Avis heard the lock turn.
“Rochelle. Rochelle, open the door.”
“I’m not leaving!” she yelled. “I don’t have any place to go!” Loud sobs erupted behind the locked door.
Avis could feel Peter’s presence behind her. Turning, she put a hand on his chest and pushed him firmly back down the hall and into the front room, out of earshot. “Peter. It’s one o’clock in the morning! We can’t turn them out now. Think of Conny.” Think of Rochelle too. No way did she want her daughter—still young, vulnerable, not well—out on Chicago streets at this time of night.
“And let her think her tantrum is working? No way.”
Avis was firm. “Peter. Let them stay the night. Just for the night. We can talk about what to do in the morning.”
Her husband threw up his hands. “All right. All right. Just for the night. But we take them to Manna House in the morning. They know her situation. They know better than we do what resources are available.” Peter’s shoulders slumped slightly, as if giving up. “Maybe they have room at the House of Hope. That’s more long-term than the shelter, and she can keep Conny with her. Why don’t you call Gabby Fairbanks in the morning?”
Avis nodded, relieved. “Good idea. At least get her on the waiting list.” She wasn’t sure if she was grateful to Peter for backing off or angry at him for being such a stubborn lump. Still angry, she decided, and headed back down the hall.
“Rochelle?” She knocked softly. “Please open the door. You and Conny can stay the night. I’ll make up the studio couch in Peter’s office. But it’s late. We all need to get to bed.” She knocked again. “Rochelle?”
She waited. After a few long moments the lock turned and the door opened. Rochelle, red-eyed and tight-lipped, nodded but slipped past her mother and into the bathroom. Avis heard the water running in the sink . . .
Avis sighed, staring at her newly manicured nails. She’d called Gabby Fairbanks at the House of Hope the next morning—Manna House’s “second-stage housing” for homeless moms with children—but all Gabby could do was put them on the waiting list. “And we’ve got two other moms ahead of her,” Gabby had said. “So sorry, Avis. It might be several months.”
They’d offered to keep Conny for a few days, but Rochelle wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s both of us or neither,” she’d huffed. So they’d taken them to Manna House. But when Avis called the shelter the next day, they said she’d checked out.
Disappeared was more like it. They didn’t hear from her for days. Days that turned into weeks. And when Avis tried to call her cell, all she got was “This phone is no longer in service.”
“Guess she had someplace to go after all,” Peter had pointed out. “We can’t be jerked around by her tantrums, Avis. She’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out.”
Avis sighed again. Not a day went by that she didn’t think about her daughter and grandson. Conny especially. Rochelle’s little boy had started kindergarten this year. Avis wished she’d helped them find an apartment here in Rogers Park so he could attend Bethune Elementary where “Grammy Avis” could keep a watchful eye on him. But no, Rochelle had found an apartment on the South Side and enrolled him down there. But if she’d lost that apartment . . . was she taking him to school every day?
And Rochelle used to bring him for a sleepover a couple times a month. Sweet times. But . . . they hadn’t heard from Rochelle for over two months now, not since that Valentine’s Day fiasco—
Avis’s eyes flew open with a start. That was the last time she’d worn the ruby earrings. Oh no. No, no, no. Rochelle wouldn’t have . . . would she? But her wild-eyed daughter had been in this very room that night, right after she’d taken off the expensive earrings.
Snatching up the jewelry box, Avis dumped the contents out on the bed, pawing through them desperately. She had to find those earrings! Surely she’d just misplaced them. She even dumped out her top dresser drawer, thinking they might have dropped in there by mistake.
No ruby earrings.
She heard the front door open. “Avis? I’m home!”
Avis quickly threw her lingerie back in the drawer and slid it into the dresser just as the bedroom door opened and Peter poked his head in.
“Hey, beautiful. I picked up the mail. Got something with a South African postmark.” He dangled the envelope just out of her reach for two seconds before handing it to her. “Hey, you gonna wear that red dress again? Nice. Do I have time for a shower?”
Without waiting for an answer, her husband disappeared down the hallway toward the bathroom.
Avis glanced at the return address on the envelope. Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith, University of KwaZulu-Natal, Durbin, SA. It’d been awhile since she’
d heard from Nony! But no time to read it now. Stuffing the envelope in her purse, she snatched the dress off the bed and hung it back in the closet. She couldn’t wear the red dress, not without the ruby earrings. She needed more time to look for them. Surveying her options, she finally pulled out a black satin crepe two-piece pantsuit with flared legs and flat-tering cowl neckline. She’d add a royal blue pashmina scarf and blue onyx earrings and tell Peter to wear his black suit and blue tie.
But as Avis slipped the silky top over her head, a sense of dread sank into her belly, and she had to sit down on the bed, hands covering her face. How could she suspect her own daughter?! But if Rochelle had taken the ruby earrings and pawned them, it might explain why she’d been avoiding them lately.
Avis shuddered. She should have tried harder to contact Rochelle. Maybe it wasn’t a tantrum but guilt that kept her away. Tomorrow . . . she’d leave another message on Rochelle’s cell, ask to meet her someplace so they could talk, use wanting to see Conny as an excuse to find out how they were doing, what was going on. Surely Rochelle knew it was important for Conny to have regular contact with his grandparents.
As for tonight, if Peter asked why she wasn’t wearing the rubies, she’d just have to tell him she’d misplaced them somehow. Which could very well be true . . . right, Lord? No way could she let Peter guess her suspicions, or this could turn out to be the worst anniversary ever.
Chapter 2
Peter had said he wanted to do something special for their anniversary—and a dinner reservation at the top of the John Hancock Building was definitely a delightful surprise. The maître d’ led them to a table right by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the Hancock’s Signature Room with a panoramic view of Chicago’s skyline. April’s drizzle had spilled over to the first Saturday of May, but as dusk settled over the city, the clouds began to retreat and a scrap of moon peeked through. The lights sparking through the mist from every stately building along Lake Michigan looked like a field of diamonds.
Avis gave up her coat at the coat check but was glad for the blue pashmina that could double as a shawl, as the air in the restaurant was a bit too cool for her taste. Peter had seemed surprised when he got out of the shower and saw the change of outfits, but she’d hurriedly confessed she couldn’t find the ruby earrings, had probably put them in a “safe place”—so safe she couldn’t remember where—and assured him they’d turn up when she had more time to look. He’d given her a puzzled look but said nothing more about it.
She’d wrapped herself in her own thoughts as Peter drove south on the Outer Drive, Lake Michigan on their left, deepening into twilight’s indigo blue. On their right, stately high-rises sailed past, lighted windows winking cheerily, but she barely noticed. Oh Jesus, where are Rochelle and Conny tonight? Are they safe? Warm? Please, Lord, watch over them. She’d fingered the cell phone in her coat pocket, tempted to try Rochelle’s number right then, not wait till tomorrow.
“You okay, honey?” Peter had asked, concern in his voice. “You’re not coming down with another cold from all those peewee germ-carriers at school, are you?”
She’d given him a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. Just tired is all. It was a busy week.” Busy wasn’t the word. More like Crisis City. Three teachers were out because of the flu. The school had gone into a temporary lockdown on Thursday because a fifth grader had brought a realistic-looking water gun to school in his backpack. Then an order for supplies had been delivered by mistake to a school in Georgia, leaving the Bethune school office without a working copy machine all week. Not to mention the school board was once again threatening school closures. The last time CPS closed schools for budget reasons, Bethune Elementary had received an influx of jilted students, cramming every classroom to capacity.
“I know. You work too hard, baby. You could quit, you know. How many years have you put in at that school? They should give you full retirement right now! But even if they didn’t, we’d make it. Recession or not, we’d figure out a way.”
When she hadn’t responded, he’d let it drop.
Help me here, Lord. I know the Word says to praise You in all circumstances, but I’m having a hard time getting my praise on right now. She needed to put aside her worry about Rochelle and focus on her husband tonight. This was their evening.
Now, as their server filled the water glasses, Avis noticed they were the only African-Americans in the restaurant. Not exactly a local hot spot for the general population. Opening the menu, she raised an eyebrow. Delectable entrées—and prices—dripped from the menu. “Are you sure, honey?” she murmured. “It’s a bit, um, pricey.”
Peter’s dark eyes twinkled. “I think my queen is worth a splurge now and then, don’t you? Besides, I’d say we have something to celebrate—six whole years of marriage and we’re still on speaking terms.”
That sparked a laugh and she felt the tension in her shoulders begin to relax.
She chose the South African lobster tail. He ordered the roasted chicken that came with creamy grits and king oyster mushrooms. “Mm-hm. You can take a man out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the man,” she teased. She didn’t remind him of his brief sojourn as a “vegetarian” when they’d been courting, hoping to lose those pounds he’d gained eating out as a bachelor all those years. It hadn’t lasted too long once he tasted her cooking, though he still had to avoid too much sugar and carbs as a borderline diabetic.
Which meant he passed on dessert—though she had to slap his hand when he kept sticking his fork in her dark chocolate mousse cake. They lingered over coffee, making small talk, enjoying the magical view. Peter made a tent with his fingers, gazing out over the city. “Six years . . . God’s been good to us. Real good, Avis. And I’m grateful. We both have good jobs, make a decent living. But sometimes I wonder . . .”
His voice trailed off. Avis waited until he spoke again.
“I mean, do we just keep on doing what we’re doing until we retire? Or do we look ahead, ask ourselves, what would we really like to do before we retire, while we’ve still got our health and a little energy.” He frowned slightly. “Can’t take it for granted, you know.”
“Do? What do you mean?”
He threw out his hands and laughed. “I don’t know! Travel maybe. Or put our experience to use doing something else, something different. It’d be fun to brainstorm. What’s something you’ve always wanted to do, Avis? Maybe a dream you had when you were a little girl, but life just went a different way.”
“I always wanted to be a teacher.” She smiled, remembering playing “school” with every stuffed animal she could round up from the time she was five. “Guess I’m living my dream.”
Peter snorted. “Lucky you. I thought it’d be cool to be an astronaut, ever since John Glenn orbited the earth when I was a teenager, but that obviously didn’t happen—and I don’t think NASA would have me now that I’m pushing sixty.” He leaned forward suddenly and took Avis’s hand. “Okay, you’re living your dream as far as your job goes—but isn’t there somewhere you’ve always wanted to travel to? Hawaii? China? Alaska?”
“Alaska? You’re kidding. Too cold.” She shivered just thinking about it. Then she smiled mischievously. “But, mm, Hawaii would be nice . . . or maybe South Africa. Nony’s always begging the sisters in the Yada Yada Prayer Group to come visit.”
Peter looked thoughtful. “That’s an idea. Speaking of Nony, any news about how Mark is doing? What’d she say in her letter today?”
Letter! Avis felt a twinge of guilt. She’d been so distracted by the missing earrings and worry about Rochelle that she hadn’t even opened the card from the Sisulu-Smiths. Just stuck it in her purse to read later. “Uh, haven’t read it yet, but it’s in here, I think . . .” Avis rummaged in her roomy leather bag and pulled out the square envelope. Using her table knife to slit the top of the envelope, she pulled out the card.
“How sweet. She remembered our anniversary!” The front of the card was a pen-and-ink drawing representing an A
frican man and woman in traditional dress dancing in each other’s arms as a circle of angels surrounded them. The clothes of the man, woman, and angels were overlaid with a bright wash of red, yellow, and green. “Mm, it’s beautiful.”
“Let me see it.” Peter reached for the card. A folded note fell out as he opened the card and read the inside aloud. “ ‘Angels celebrate your everlasting love . . . Happy Anniversary.’ And it’s signed Nonyameko and Mark.”
He handed the folded note to Avis. “It’s probably for you—Oh, look at this.” He turned the card to the back and showed it to her. In tiny script it said, “An original watercolor by the Women’s AIDS Initiative.” “Isn’t the Women’s AIDS Initiative the program that Nony started?”
“Mm-hm. She’s trying to help single and widowed women start small businesses so they don’t have to turn to sex to support themselves. Also to help women with AIDS, since many times the man abandons them, not wanting to take responsibility.” Avis looked at the card again. “These cards must be one of their enterprises.”
Nonyameko . . . A wave of homesickness for her South African friend washed over Avis. Married to Mark Smith, an African-American professor of history at Northwestern University, Nony had been one of her Yada Yada Prayer Group sisters for several years. But the prayer group all knew Nony’s heart burned with a desire to help her South African sisters who were suffering from AIDS in devastating numbers.
Nony was the one who took it personally when Rochelle was diagnosed with HIV, as if she were her own daughter. That, maybe more than anything, had fanned Nony’s passion to do something for women like Rochelle back in her home country. Except . . . Mark had been on track for tenure at the university and balked at moving the family halfway across the world.
Avis shuddered as memories flooded into her mind. The senseless attack on Mark by a white supremacist group he’d routed from the campus . . . months of rehabilitation for the brain injury that took the sight from one eye and left his speech and day-to-day functioning impaired, even though slowly improving . . . the need to take an indefinite sabbatical from teaching—