by Neta Jackson
At that, the double doors leading to the back rooms pushed open, and two white women came out carrying a large decorated sheet cake between them. The wiry woman with the mike started to sing, “Happy anniversary to youuu . . .” which was immediately picked up by the rest of the congregation as the cake was carried carefully to the front, presented to the embarrassed couple, and shown to the congregation. The end of the song was swallowed up in a round of applause, laughter, and catcalls to “Kiss her! Kiss her!”—which the woman’s husband did by wrapping both arms around her, tilting her backward, and planting a big smooch on her lips.
Brygitta and Olivia sat bug-eyed and openmouthed, and Kat couldn’t help grinning. She’d never seen anything like this in church. All around them the room was practically convulsing with laughter and clapping. But somehow the self-appointed emcee with the mike managed to be heard over the hubbub. “Now don’t nobody leave till you’ve had some cake an’ coffee an’ given this fine couple a blessin’. Pastor Clark an’ Pastor Cobbs, you two wanna give the first blessin’?”
An African-American man—shorter and stockier than the other pastor and younger by a decade or two—came forward and laid a hand on the Avis woman’s shoulder, the other hand lifted in blessing over the couple as the first pastor offered a simple prayer: “Lord, we thank You for Avis and Peter Douglass, for the blessing they are to our congregation here at SouledOut Community Church. Pour out an extra measure of Your blessing on them in the coming year, on their children and grandchildren—”
The second pastor jumped in. “And we thank You, Jesus, for giving them a second chance at love! Bless them as they come in and go out. Bless them abundantly in ways they might never expect, because You are a good God, and they can trust You to look out for them, whatever the future holds.”
Kat wasn’t quite sure when the prayer ended, because other people jumped in with “Amen!” and “Yes, Lord!” But pretty soon the anniversary couple was ushered to the back to cut the cake and receive congratulations.
Kat nudged Nick. “Come on. Let’s get the boxes and put them out while everyone’s around the table back there.”
Nick grimaced as if he had second thoughts about the plan, but leaving their two friends to fend for themselves, he followed Kat into the kitchen, where they found the boxes of produce pushed into a corner, and walked them out to the coffee table.
The wiry black woman, her hair worn in sculpted braids, seemed to be in charge of the table. “Excuse me,” Kat said, trying to get her attention, “can we put this—”
“Florida!” Someone else got to her first. “Cut a piece for First Lady Rose an’ I’ll take it to her. She’s up front prayin’ with somebody an’ we don’t want it to be all gone before they’re done.”
Kat waited until the piece of cake for “First Lady Rose”—whoever that was—had been whisked away, and then she tried again. “Uh, the lady over there”—she pointed to the couple getting congratulations a few feet away—“said maybe we could put these boxes of food here so people can help themselves.” The coffee table would’ve been the perfect spot, except now it was covered by the large sheet cake, plates, plastic forks, and napkins.
The woman named Florida stared at her. Then at the boxes. “Where this stuff from?” She reached in and plucked out a head of broccoli. “Looks a mite yellow on the tips.”
Kat flushed. “Well, maybe a little. But it’s still good. I’m sure some people could make use of—”
“Well, girl, I know you mean well, but you can’t put it here. We’re a little busy having us a celebration this mornin’, know what I’m sayin’? ’Sides, not sure why you think anybody’s gonna want—”
“It’s all right, Florida. They asked me about it before church.” To Kat’s relief, the worship leader lady—Avis Douglass, they said her name was—left her husband’s side and approached them. “Of course, I didn’t know you’d planned all this!” The woman swept her hand toward the decorated sheet cake, which was rapidly disappearing as kids and teenagers snitched extra pieces.
“Whatchu think you doin’, Carla! You kids get on outta here. I know that’s your third piece!” Florida hustled back to the table, flapping her apron at the gaggle of kids, who ran off giggling.
Avis Douglass turned back to Kat and Nick. “But she’s right, there’s no room on the table for the, uh, produce you brought. Let’s see . . .” She looked around the room. “Why don’t you put the boxes on a couple of chairs right by the door, where people will see it as they go out. But I ought to warn you. What doesn’t get taken will probably get thrown out—unless you want to take the leftovers with you.”
Kat saw Brygitta and Olivia beckoning urgently. “Uh, no, my friends need to get back to school. So . . . well, we’ll just put it by the door like you said. Thanks.”
Drafting Brygitta’s and Olivia’s help, the students dragged a line of four chairs together, set the boxes on them, and opened the top flaps. “Do you think we should make a sign?” Kat murmured, thinking out loud.
“No! You made an announcement, for pity’s sake. Everyone will know. Now come on.” Brygitta flounced out the door, Olivia on her heels.
Kat hesitated. “Just . . . give me a sec,” she said to Nick and walked quickly back toward the coffee-and-cake table. The crowd around the anniversary couple had thinned. She waited until the last two people congratulating Avis and Peter Douglass had finished gushing and then stuck her hand out. “Just wanted to say Happy Anniversary to both of you. Also . . . I really enjoyed the service this morning. Thank you for, you know, helping us worship.”
Peter Douglass shook her hand. “Thank you, young lady. Glad you came today.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Kat saw her friends once again beckoning impatiently. “Well, I’d like to come back again and”—an idea flashed in her head like a neon sign—“I’d really love to talk to you. Maybe next time?” On impulse, she gave Avis Douglass a quick hug and then fled toward the door.
Chapter 7
Startled by the enthusiastic hug, Avis groped for her husband’s arm to regain her balance.
“Who was that?” Amusement colored Peter’s voice as they watched the girl with the dark wavy hair flounce out the front doors with her comrades. The whole room was emptying and Florida was starting to clean up the coffee table.
Avis shrugged. “They introduced themselves at the end of the service. From Crista University I think they said.” For the life of her she couldn’t remember the girl’s name, even though she’d been told in the kitchen before service, and the girl had introduced herself and her friends at the end as well. Wait . . . did she call herself “Cat”? That couldn’t be right.
“Avis!” Florida cut into her thoughts. “You two wanna take the rest of this cake home? Otherwise I’ll serve it up at Yada Yada tonight since we meetin’ at my house . . . oh. You comin’? Or you guys got anniversary plans?”
Yada Yada tonight? Avis closed her eyes for a brief moment. She’d almost forgotten that the prayer group had changed—again—to first and third Sundays. She’d been hoping she and Peter could do some sleuthing and make contact with Rochelle and Conny this afternoon. On the other hand, if they didn’t find her right away, they were going to need a lot of prayer—big time.
“Celebrated our anniversary last night,” Peter stage-whispered to Florida behind his hand. “Can’t afford to take Her Royal Highness here out on the town two nights in a row.” He laughed. “But I will take that cake—”
“Oh no you don’t.” Avis pinched his waist, which had developed a bit of flab in the last few years. “At least not the whole thing. Wrap up one piece for the man, Florida, and take the rest home for Yada Yada. And yes, I’ll try to be there tonight. Will call you if I can’t.”
“I heard that.” Jodi Baxter, one of her Yada Yada sisters, joined them, licking icing off her fingers. “Good grief, since when would you let a little thing like an anniversary—or a wedding, for that matter!—keep you away from Yada Yada? We’d be lost wit
hout our fearless leader, Avis!”
“Humph. That right there would be a good reason to stay home, in case you all need a reminder that Jesus is your leader, not me.”
Jodi laughed, tucking a stray lock of wispy brown hair behind her ear. “Yeah, but I can still call you boss lady, since I’m just a lowly teacher at Bethune, and you, my dear friend, are Ze Principal!”
Avis wagged a finger. “Careful, or Ze Principal will assign Lowly Teacher to lunchroom duty.” The moment the tease was out, she wished she hadn’t said it. It was sometimes awkward juggling the different hats she had to wear around Jodi—professionally, as her boss at Bethune Elementary where Jodi taught third grade, and then personally, as prayer group sisters and friends who shared intimately with one another at Yada Yada.
But seeing that Florida was busy wrapping a couple pieces of cake in a paper napkin for Peter, Avis pulled her friend aside. “Seriously, Jodi, if I don’t get to Yada Yada tonight, it’s because . . . well, we haven’t heard from Rochelle for over two months, and if I can get in touch with her, I’m going to try to see her. I’m . . . real worried about her and Conny. So ask the sisters to pray for us, okay?”
“Oh, Avis, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it’d been that long since you’d seen your daughter. Of course we’ll pray. And I’ll touch base with you at school tomorrow, okay?—Uh-oh. Denny’s out there in the car already. I better go.” Jodi gave Avis a warm hug and scurried toward the front doors—then stopped by the boxes on the chairs. “What’s this stuff?” she called back.
“Dumpster food!” Florida hollered. “Help yourself if you’re desperate. An’ what you don’t take, I’m gonna throw out!”
Avis and Peter got some Thai takeout on the way home. She’d stopped cooking a big Sunday dinner when the girls left home, and Peter had been in the habit of eating out on Sunday all those years he’d been “baching,” so they usually went out to lunch with friends or got takeout after church.
Avis was just as glad, especially today. She wasn’t really hungry after their decadent meal on top of the Hancock last night, and besides, she was eager to get started looking for Rochelle.
While Peter changed clothes, she spooned out the pad Thai and beef with pea pods from their white cardboard containers onto two plates and fished a couple pairs of chopsticks from a kitchen drawer. When her husband came to the table, he eyed the chopsticks suspiciously. “If you don’t mind, honey, just give me a fork. I’ll do the chopstick thing when we actually eat out in a Thai restaurant, okay?”
Peter said a brief blessing over the food and dug in. Avis toyed with her chopsticks until he’d almost cleaned his plate, then said, “I’d like to try to contact Rochelle this afternoon—before the workweek starts. Any ideas where we should start?” She knew she was asking a lot. Peter liked to take a nap on Sunday afternoon and then watch a basketball game on TV, especially if the Bulls were playing.
Peter sat back in his chair and pursed his lips, which he often did when he was thinking. “Well, first things first. Have you tried her cell? Left her a message?”
“I did that for a couple weeks back in February, practically every day! But she never returned any of my calls, so I stopped. You said don’t chase her, and she’d call me. But . . . she hasn’t.” Avis blinked back the hot tears that suddenly threatened.
He patted her hand. “I know. I know, honey. So I think it’d be okay to try again now, since several weeks have gone by. She’s got pride, Avis. Probably hoping you’ll call and make the first move now that she’s simmered down. But if she doesn’t answer, leave a message, see if she calls back.”
Peter took his plate to the sink, rinsed it, and stuck it in the dishwasher. “You okay with that, honey?” Getting a nod from her, he headed for his favorite chair in the living room with the Sunday paper.
All right. It made sense. Avis put her own dishes in the dishwasher, then took her cell phone into the bedroom, propping herself with several pillows on their queen bed. But she hesitated. Lord, You said the Good Shepherd left the ninety-nine sheep who were safely in the fold, and He went out looking for the one lost sheep. Can You make that two, Lord? Rochelle is lost, and Conny too. And I don’t know how to find them.
She hit the speed-dial number for Rochelle and held her breath while it rang. Once . . . twice . . . then an irritating squeal and computerized message. “This phone number is not currently in service.”
What? Maybe she’d dialed the wrong number . . . no, she had Rochelle’s number on speed dial, same as always. Still, she tried the number again and got the same message. Unwilling to give up, the third time she typed in the number, digit by digit. Same message.
Avis felt like throwing the phone across the room. Not in service? What did that mean? Now she couldn’t even leave a message!
Avis marched into the living room, ready to say, So what now, Peter? But Peter was asleep in the recliner, snoring softly. Watching the slow rise and fall of his chest and his slippered feet resting on the footrest, her resolve melted. The man was tired. He’d put in a six-day week running his business. It wasn’t his fault that Rochelle hadn’t paid her phone bill. She’d asked him for advice because she wanted finding Rochelle to be his priority too. But . . . he was asleep. And she wasn’t helpless.
Avis made herself a cup of lemon tea with honey, sipping the hot liquid as she leaned against the kitchen counter. So, what next, Lord?
But the voice she heard in her head was her father’s. Something Buck Thomas had said when she’d phoned him as a new mom, panicked because she’d lost Charette in the Marshall Field’s store at Christmas. “Go back to the place where you last saw her, Avis. Start there. Don’t go running off in a dozen different directions.”
Okay, so where was the last place she’d seen Rochelle and Conny?
The Manna House Women’s Shelter. She’d taken her daughter and grandson there the day after Valentine’s Day. But they hadn’t stayed more than a day . . . Still, it was a place to start.
Grabbing her address book from the shelf near the kitchen phone, Avis looked up the number under M . . . and dialed. The phone rang five or six times before someone answered. “Manna House.”
“May I speak to Mabel Turner, please?” If anyone would know where Rochelle was, it would be the director.
“Sorry. She ain’t here on Sundays. Be back in the office tomorrow morning.”
Avis shut her eyes and pressed her fingers to her forehead. Of course. But surely someone on the staff was there. “Is there someone on staff I could speak to?”
“Hold on.” The phone went dead. Avis waited a full minute before a voice came on again.
“Hello? Nancy Cox speaking.”
Nancy? She didn’t know anyone on staff named Nancy. “I’m . . . my name is Avis Douglass. I was hoping to speak to someone on staff who might know if my daughter, Rochelle Johnson, has been on your bed list recently.”
“Oh. You probably need to talk to Mabel Turner. She’ll be in tomorrow. I’m just day staff on weekends. Rochelle Johnson? I don’t recognize that name, but that doesn’t mean much. She could’ve been here during the week. Even on a weekend there’re always some new faces, and I don’t always learn all the names. But Ms. Turner has a list of everybody.”
“All right. Thank you.” Avis pushed the Off button on her phone.
Now what, Lord? She was back to square one.
Or was she? Why not try Rochelle’s last apartment? She said she’d been kicked out for nonpayment of rent—but what if she meant she might get kicked out? What if she was still there?
But she’d have to drive to the South Side. No home phone. Rochelle only had a cell.
Avis quickly changed out of the plum-colored suit into a pair of jeans, gym shoes, and a white cotton pullover sweater. Grabbing her car keys and a light jacket, she paused in the living room where Peter was still dead to the world. Should she wake him? Ask him to come with her? . . . No. If Rochelle was still mad at Peter, still saw him as the Big Bad Guy that Mama marr
ied, maybe it was better if she went alone.
Scribbling a note that she laid on her husband’s lap, Avis quietly slipped out the front door of their apartment and hurried down the stairs. But she only got to the second-floor landing when the door of the apartment below them opened.
“Avis? Oh, good, it’s you.” Her downstairs neighbor, Louise Candy—a name that always made Avis want to ask where that came from—poked her head out. Her dyed blond hair was rolled up in curlers, and a tanning salon tan framed her pale blue eyes. “Just wanted to tell you that Ted and I are going to Costa Rica for the summer—some business deal he’s got going there, a real hot property—so we’re looking for someone to sublet our condo for three months or so. But even thinking about interviewing strangers to stay in our condo makes me tired. So thought we’d pass the word among friends. Don’t want just anyone renting it, you know.”
Definitely. Avis didn’t want just anyone living downstairs either. They had a quiet building—a three-flat that had gone condo a few years ago—and only the first-floor family had kids, two preschoolers. She and Peter were the only African-Americans in the building, but they got along well enough with the other two condo owners.
“Sounds like a great opportunity. I’ll let you know if I hear of someone.” Avis gave a quick wave and hurried down the next flight before Louise tried to fill her in on their latest business scheme in Costa Rica.
But as she crossed the narrow residential street and unlocked the door of her Camry, it hit her: if she and Peter did something like he was imagining—go to South Africa or Timbuktu for six months or a year—they’d probably have to sublet their apartment as well.
She shuddered as she started the car and pulled out of the parking space. Put that in the minus column.
Chapter 8