by Neta Jackson
“Alone? Where’s your dad?” Brygitta blurted.
Kat shot her a look. But Olivia shrugged. “Left us a long time ago. I was ten.”
Kat’s heart melted. “Oh, Olivia. I’m so sorry. I . . . we didn’t know.”
Olivia shrugged again. “No big deal. I’m over it.” The slender blonde gave them a shy smile. “I’m glad you guys want to include me. I’ve never had friends like you before. It would be fun—if you guys don’t get all crazy. Let me think about it.”
Kat reached over and gave her a squeeze. “Oh, Livie. I’m glad you’re going to think about it. But . . . no pressure, okay?”
Olivia nodded and busied herself with her cup of coffee.
“So what’s next?” Brygitta asked. “We need to find an apartment—”
“And jobs,” Nick put in.
“—but, like . . . where do we even start looking?” Brygitta went on. “Chicago’s a big city!”
“What did you guys think about SouledOut last Sunday?” Kat said. “We’ve already met some people at that church. Maybe they could help us find a place.”
Brygitta laughed. “You know what I think about it. That service was looong!”
Nick shrugged. “Didn’t really feel that way to me. I liked the way everyone got so involved. At my home church the choir’s up on stage doing a performance for an audience. But here . . . everyone was singing, clapping, saying ‘amen’ to the preacher. Kinda cool.” He grinned and leaned back, arms spread out along the top of the vinyl seat.
Kat nodded. “Same here. Have to confess, most of the churches I’ve tried don’t do a whole lot for me. But . . . SouledOut is different. I felt excited to be there. Like we were, you know, really worshiping God.”
Brygitta leaned an elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “Hm. Hadn’t really thought about it like that. Just not what I’m used to, I guess.”
“Well, me either. But . . .” Kat’s thoughts drifted to the lady in the plum-colored suit who’d led worship last Sunday. How she’d said, “Let’s go worship!” Not “Let’s go to church” or “The service is starting.” But “Let’s go worship!” Like being invited to join in a big celebration at the White House—no, much better. Being invited into the throne room of heaven, to celebrate the King of kings! Lord of all creation!—
A pair of fingers snapped in her face. “Kat? Kat? Are you in there?” Nick waved his hand in front of her eyes. “I think we lost you.”
Kat grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I was thinking about SouledOut. I’d like to go again on Sunday, if any of you—”
“I will,” Olivia said. “I think I need to give it another chance. At least my last exam will be over and I won’t be so distracted.”
Kat blinked in surprise. “That’s great, Livie!” Maybe she’d misjudged the girl.
Nick raised his hand. “Make that three.”
Brygitta rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right. Four.”
Kat closed her laptop and stretched. Done! Felt so good to finish her last term paper—and it was only Thursday. Paper wasn’t due until Monday. She’d have the weekend to do some rewriting and proofing before turning it in. She glanced at her watch. A little after ten. Brygitta hadn’t come in—probably still at the library, which was open till midnight on weeknights. Maybe she should go over to the Memorial Center and hang out for an hour, do something to relax.
Ducking into their small bathroom, she ran a wide-bristle brush through her thick mane of dark waves, touched up her blush and lipstick, and smiled approvingly in the mirror. A lot of women paid big bucks to get the effect of her natural curl. It softened her nose, which was a bit too big for her taste, even though Brygitta told her it gave her a “noble” look. Yeah, like Julius Caesar.
The “Flight of the Bumblebees” ringtone ended her beauty inspection. Snatching her cell phone off the desk, she looked at the caller ID. Drat. Her father. She didn’t want to have “the summer talk” right now! She should have called him, taken the initiative. She hesitated. Could let it go to voice mail—but she’d still have to respond to his call.
Might as well get this over with.
She pressed Talk. “Hey, Dad! We must be on the same wavelength! I was just going to call you.”
“Hi, sugar. Didn’t want to call too late—but I’ve got some good news. You won’t have to look for a job this summer. My receptionist is taking maternity leave in June and I need a bright young woman to fill in.” He chuckled in her ear. “Talk about great timing, eh? For both of us!”
“Oh, Dad, that would be great—except that’s what I was going to call you about. I might not be coming back to Phoenix this summer—”
“What do you mean, ‘might not’?”
Kat wanted to kick herself. She shouldn’t have said “might not.” Left too much wiggle room. “Well, it’s exciting, actually. I’ve been involved in this Urban Experience program here at CCU, and some of us in the class have been talking about staying in Chicago for the summer and—”
“Kathryn. What are you talking about? Is this some kind of payback, just because your mother and I won’t be able to make it to your graduation? I thought you understood our situation.”
She almost shot back, “Understand? I understand that taking a cruise with the Jeffersons is more important than seeing your only daughter get her master’s degree.” But then, they hadn’t made it to her undergrad graduation either—not after she’d dropped premed at the University of Arizona and transferred to Crista U for her senior year. She hadn’t protested then either. They were disappointed, and frankly, it was easier not having them come. But still . . .
“No, Dad,” she said patiently. “Not payback. I understand, really. It’s just . . . if I’m going to teach in a city school, I need more experience with the culture and people here.” She thought fast. “I’m hoping to get a tutoring job with kids, or maybe—”
“Why not here in Phoenix?” her father snapped. “I just don’t understand some of the decisions you’re making, Kathryn. If you’d followed through on your premed studies, you’d almost be ready for an internship by now—”
“Dad, please—”
But her father went on as if he hadn’t heard. “—and I could have put in a good word for you at any number of hospitals here in Phoenix. What does a teacher make? Peanuts. And even if we’re just talking about a summer job, I’m certain no tutoring job”—she didn’t miss the scorn in his voice—“could match the salary I’m offering you to fill in at my office.”
Kat grimaced. This wasn’t going well. She took a deep breath. “Dad, I really appreciate it. I do. But this is something I’d really like to do. Look, I’m supposed to meet up with some friends in a few minutes. I’ll call Mom this weekend for Mother’s Day and we can talk about it some more, okay? Love you both! Bye!”
Deliberately leaving her phone behind, Kat grabbed her purse and flew out of her dorm room. Maybe she needed one of those decadent chocolate-caramel milk shakes after all.
The four friends piled off the Foster Avenue bus Sunday morning, but instead of heading directly for the Red Line El station, they detoured to the Dominick’s grocery store again.
“Are you sure they said there’s a potluck this Sunday? Maybe it’s a special Mother’s Day thing.” Olivia trotted to keep up with Kat. “I mean, what can we buy ready-made that would be potlucky?”
“Yes, I’m sure they said potluck on the second Sunday, and nobody said anything about it being special for Mother’s Day. We can get one of those veggie trays they make up in the deli. It’ll be perfect.”
“Or brownies. Or cookies. Or a pie,” Nick said hopefully, but Kat whacked his arm with the back of her hand.
Mother’s Day balloons, potted flowers, and signs abounded in the large grocery store, making Kat feel guilty that she hadn’t followed up on her promise to call home this weekend. Well, she’d call this afternoon. After all, it’d been too early in Arizona to call this morning before they left.
“I still don’t thi
nk we need to bring anything,” Brygitta said. “They know we’re students. And church folks always bring extra for visitors and guests at these potlucks.”
“Exactly. They don’t think students would think to bring anything. Which is why we’re going to.” And maybe redeem the first impression we made last time, Kat thought.
But she couldn’t help wondering what other good stuff had been thrown out in the store Dumpsters that morning. It wouldn’t hurt to just look, would it? While Brygitta and Olivia argued over whether to get a veggie tray or fruit tray, Kat slipped outside and around to the back of the store. No one in sight. Lifting up the lid of the first Dumpster, she was met with a putrid smell of rotting . . . something. She let the lid fall back with a bang, which made her jump. She cast an anxious eye at the double doors, but they stayed closed.
Waiting another minute or two, she lifted the lid of the next Dumpster. Oooh . . . what was that? She squinted into the dim interior. As things came into focus, her eyes bugged at the six-packs of fancy fruit juices, still in their plastic shrink-wrap. Lots of them. Holding up the lid with one hand and leaning over the edge, she snagged a six-pack with her other hand and pulled it out into the light. “Sell by May . . .” She squinted at the fine print on the plastic bottles. “Good grief! That’s only yesterday! These are still good!”
Glancing around to be sure she was still alone, Kat slung off her backpack, stuffed the six-pack inside, then strained to reach another . . . and another . . . and another, until she had four of the juice packs zipped inside her bag, all that would fit. Heavy as it was, she couldn’t get it on her back again, so she just lugged it by the top strap and headed for the front of the store—where she ran into Nick, Brygitta, and Olivia coming out the automatic doors with a plastic grocery bag.
Brygitta rolled her eyes. “Kat. You didn’t.”
Kat tossed her head. “Did. But don’t worry, I promise not to embarrass you. It’s one-hundred-percent fruit juice, just one day past sale date, perfectly good. We can just put it out on the table with the rest of the potluck stuff. Who’s to know we didn’t buy it? Nick, will you help me get this backpack on?”
“Forget it, I’ll carry it,” he said, just as a loud rumbling a block over caught their attention.
“Oh no, the El! We missed it!” Olivia cried.
“I think that one’s going south.” Kat began to run. “Maybe we can catch the northbound if we hurry!”
Chapter 10
Avis slipped the navy blue rayon dress over her head and let it fall softly just below her knees. Delicate silver filigrees decorated the scoop neck and three-quarter-length sleeves, complimenting the silver buckle on the navy belt. She’d already gotten two phone calls that morning wishing her Happy Mother’s Day. The first, from her youngest daughter, Natasha, in D.C., had gotten her out of bed. “Oh! Sorry, Mom! I keep forgetting about the time difference!” The second, from her oldest daughter in Ohio, was cut short by Charette’s nine-year-old twins clamoring for a chance to talk to “Grammy.” They were growing so fast. She and Peter should really go see them sometime this summer.
No call from Rochelle. She closed her eyes a brief second, took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly. She couldn’t let that cloud her whole day. She had a lot to be thankful for.
Peter poked his head into the bedroom as Avis slid the post of a silver hoop into the nearly invisible hole in her earlobe. “You ready, honey? I put your dish for the potluck in the car already.”
“Mm-hm. Thanks. Just need to get my coat.” She turned around for him, showing off the dress. “Look okay?”
“Mm, very nice. Gonna turn a few heads at church, I’d say.”
“Oh, stop.” Avis felt her face flush at his compliment. “You’re the only one whose head I want to turn.” She reached for her Sunday purse, making sure she had her wallet, hand cream, cell phone, tissues—
“By the way, did you ever find the ruby earrings?”
He said it casually—too casually—and she tensed, but slowly shook her head. “I’ve looked through everything. I . . .” Her eyes suddenly misted and she reached for the tissue box on her vanity table.
“Hey, hey, baby. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Peter came to her side and gently massaged the back of her neck as she dabbed at her eyes. “It’s just so odd. You’re not the type to misplace things. But maybe I can help you look this afternoon. Do you remember when you last wore them?”
Avis pulled away. She didn’t want his touch right then. But it was a direct question. “Valentine’s Day, I think . . .” I know.
“Huh.” He frowned as if pondering for a moment, started to say something, and then seemed to reconsider. “Well. That’s a start, anyhow. But we better get going now. I’d like to get there a few minutes early to pray with the pastors—something the elders decided would be good to do before Sunday service.”
Avis nodded, blew her nose, and busied herself getting her coat. But a sense of dread settled into her stomach as they locked the front door and headed down the stairs of the three-flat. If Peter thought about it very long, he was going to end up at the same place she had when reviewing the events of last Valentine’s Day.
The same day Rochelle had shown up at their place, sobbing, upset, and as irrational as a jilted lover, barricading herself in their bedroom.
At the front door of SouledOut Community Church, Jodi Baxter’s son Josh, his wife, Edesa, and their two-year-old adopted daughter, Gracie, were handing out red and white carnations to all the women and girls in honor of Mother’s Day. Red if your mother was still alive, white if your mother had passed. Avis accepted a white carnation and a kiss from little Gracie and gave a hug to Edesa. “Happy Mother’s Day yourself, dear sister,” she whispered in the young woman’s ear. Such a sweet family.
Clutching the white carnation, she found her way to her usual seat in the second row of chairs arranged in a semicircle. Avis always chose a seat on the far right aisle if possible, so she had room to worship—body, soul, and spirit—without bonking someone else on the head or stepping on their toes. And—Thank You, Jesus—she wasn’t scheduled to lead worship this Sunday. It had been a stressful week, and she was grateful for a few minutes to just sit and pray by herself before worship began.
Make that a few seconds.
“Avis! We missed you at Yada Yada last Sunday. Jodi said you were looking for your daughter. Did you find her?”
She looked up into the angular face of Leslie “Stu” Stuart, the willowy social worker who lived upstairs in the Baxters’ two-flat. Single and just turned forty, Stu still wore her faded blond hair long and straight—a style Avis wasn’t sure was appropriate for a middle-aged woman. But so be it. Stu was Stu, still wearing short skirts and tall leather boots. She held a red carnation.
“Thanks, Stu.” Avis smiled wanly. “No, haven’t located her yet. Keep praying.”
Stu crouched beside Avis’s folding chair—padded folding chairs, at least, thanks to Stu’s single-minded Chair Fund fund-raising a few years back—and lowered her voice. “Maybe I can help. I could put out her name through some of the social service agencies, see if she’s applied for any kind of assistance lately.” The praise band was sounding the notes of the call to worship. “Think about it. I’ll talk to you later.”
Stu gave her a quick hug and slipped into another row just as Peter appeared, squeezing past Avis’s knees and sinking into the seat next to her. He leaned toward her ear and murmured, “Pastor Clark doesn’t look good to me. We spent most of our time praying for him. The man should really take a sabbatical.”
Avis glanced toward where the two pastors were sitting in the front row on the left side of the room. Pastor Hubert Clark, in his early seventies, had been the pastor of Uptown Community Church, the mostly white church that had merged with New Morning Christian—mostly African-American—and their pastor, Joe Cobbs, to form SouledOut Community Church. The two men, as different in personality and preaching styles as day and night, had somehow managed to work tog
ether as a team in surprising ways, each complementing the other’s strengths. They’d had a scare a couple years ago, though, when Pastor Clark had a heart attack, but the man was nothing if not determined to die with his boots on. Avis wasn’t the only one who appreciated the older man’s gentle wisdom and pastor’s heart.
“Don’t think you can convince him to take a sabbatical,” she whispered back, as that week’s worship leader—a young man named Justin Barnes—invited the congregation to stand. “He’s only preaching once a month now, isn’t he?”
But Justin diverted their attention. “Good morning, church! It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood—I grew up on Mister Rogers, you know.” That got a laugh, because Justin wasn’t the only one who teased Pastor Clark that he had to be the TV icon’s twin brother. “But even that spring sunshine out there can’t compare to the beautiful day in here, because we’re going to get down and get ready to have us some church. Amen?”
“Amen!” and “Say it, brother!” rang out from the rows of chairs, along with laughter and clapping, even as the double glass doors from outside opened and Avis noticed the four students from Crista University slip in and stand uncertainly in the back—trying to find some empty seats no doubt. All of them had taken red carnations.
She was surprised to see them back. The church was often visited by groups of students from this or that Christian college, sent by well-meaning professors to get a “taste” of Chicago’s cultural diversity. They usually came once and then moved on to the next “experience.” But what was it with college students these days? They still dressed in scruffy jeans like teenagers. And some were graduate students! The young man with the sandy-brown hair and wire-rim sunglasses was a seminary student, if she remembered correctly. Didn’t young adults ever put on some good clothes for church? The wear-any-old-thing mentality seemed vaguely disrespectful to her.