by Neta Jackson
Stuffing things back in her purse, Avis realized Nonyameko’s letter was still among the contents. Opening the pretty anniversary card, she read the note again:
. . . As you can see from the card, we have been able to start a few small businesses with some talented girls—greeting cards, rug and basket weaving—but to be honest, we need advice and practical help from someone more experienced in business than we are. We are wondering if the two of you would consider coming to South Africa for an extended visit. Whatever time you could spend would be a gift—three months? Six months? A year would be even better. We could also use your teaching skills, Avis. Many of our girls need help with basic education—math, language, typing, even health and hygiene. We’d love to arrange for some classes but need a teacher. You’d be a wonderful encouragement to these young women . . .
She stared at the card a long time. The struggling economy . . . the unexpected offer to buy out Software Symphony . . . the threat of more school closings, including Bethune Elementary . . . Maybe God was lining things up, preparing them for a change of direction.
All right, Lord, I’m listening. Forgive me for my reluctance to consider this invitation. It’s just that it’s so big! And then there’s Rochelle and Conny. I really need to know that they’re—
“Mrs. Douglass?” The knock on the door and the secretary poking her head in happened simultaneously. “We’ve got a situation. One of the fifth-grade boys was caught showing a handgun to another classmate out in the schoolyard. A real gun. But no ammunition, thank God!”
Avis flew out of the office right on the secretary’s heels.
Chapter 12
Kat felt giddy all the way home on the El from the morning service at SouledOut. Just like that, a possible apartment to rent for the summer! It was an answer to prayer—and she hadn’t even prayed about it yet! Which was something to think about. Did God answer prayers even before you prayed?
Nick was a little more guarded. “Don’t get your hopes too high, Kitty Kat. We don’t know how much they’re asking. And”—he lowered his voice so that their conversation didn’t carry to the two girls sitting on the other side of the aisle, though the rattle and squeals of the commuter train made that unlikely—“far as I know, Livie hasn’t made a decision yet whether to stay here this summer. Dividing the rent three ways versus four could make a big difference.”
“What a wet blanket you are!” Kat shoved him with her elbow. “And you want to be a pastor? Where’s your faith, Reverend!”
He turned his face and stared out the window.
“Aw, come on, Nick. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Sorry. It’s just . . . isn’t it kind of a confirmation that this is what we’re supposed to be doing? I mean, it beats looking in the paper and making sixty-dozen-eleven phone calls or driving all around the city looking at rat-hole apartments. And wouldn’t it be cool to get an apartment in the same building as someone from the SouledOut church? That Douglass couple, no less.”
Her friend nodded. “Yeah, gotta admit, it’d be nice if it worked out. Just . . . slow down a little bit, Kat. Wait till you call and get more information. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Uh, can’t call. Mr. Douglass didn’t give me their number, or even their name. But I gave him my number and he said he’d speak to them.”
“Ah.” Nick raised an eyebrow at her. “So we have to wait for them to call? Ha. That’s gonna drive you nuts, isn’t it, Kat girl.”
“Nooo.” She tossed her head. But it gave her pause. What if the people didn’t call? “Well, if we don’t hear from them in a day or two, we could call the Douglasses and ask if they’ve spoken to them.”
“You’ve got the Douglasses’ number?”
Rats. She hadn’t done that either. “They’re probably in the phone directory. Or we can call the church.”
“Or we could look in the paper or contact the college housing office for a few more options instead of putting all our eggs in this one basket.”
“Whatever.”
But even back in her dorm room, sprawled on her bed trying to study for upcoming finals, Kat had a feeling about this. Something was right about it. The fact that they’d put out the word at this church they’d found, and bam! Right away someone had mentioned a possibility. A sublease for the summer. Probably furnished to boot! How perfect was that? And it would put them in the same neighborhood as SouledOut—a church they already felt attracted to—giving them a church home. Wasn’t that another confirmation that God was going to make this happen?
Absently twisting a long strand of thick hair around her finger, Kat added another plus. The apartment was in the same building as an older couple she’d met at church. Her mother would like that. He was an elder and she was a worship leader. Double pluses. Though her parents probably imagined a large brick church with choir robes, an impressive podium, and a lot of pomp and ceremony—like the one in Phoenix where the Davies family name was on the membership rolls, though they rarely attended.
She didn’t have to mention that the church met in a mall, or that the “older couple” was black—not sure what her parents would think about that. They’d surely tell her they weren’t racist, but if they had qualms about her living right in the city, they might not be too keen on a racially mixed neighborhood. Not when their whole world was a lily-white subdivision out in the suburbs of Phoenix.
But living in the same building as the Douglasses would be cool. Kat had felt attracted to Avis Douglass the first time she’d led worship. The woman was such a . . . a diva! Kat had never seen anyone worship quite like her. As if God was right there—“in the house” as someone had said—and she was in awe of His majesty. Joy seemed to bubble out of her pores, and she danced and lifted her arms as if she were the only one in the room. Kat would love to get to know her better, to discover what made this woman tick.
Might not be easy, though. Even though Kat had tried to be superfriendly, the woman seemed kind of . . . distant. Like she was being held at arm’s length. In fact, thinking back on it, Mrs. Douglass hadn’t seemed all that keen on the idea of them renting the apartment in their building when her husband brought it up.
For the first time she felt a tiny wrinkle in the Perfect Plan.
The door opened and Brygitta barged in, dumping an armload of books on the other bed. “Kat! Have you eaten supper yet? I’m famished. Some of us are going for pizza.”
“Supper? What time is it?” Kat checked her watch. Yikes, ten after six . . . 5:10 in Phoenix. “No, you guys go on. I still gotta call my mom for Mother’s Day.” Her mom would soon be gone to her Sunday evening women’s book club, and then her name would be mud for sure.
The call came during her final exam in Adolescent Psychology on Monday afternoon. Most of her professors had assigned either a final paper or a take-home exam. But this professor gave his final exam in class, though he encouraged the use of laptops to answer the essay questions, in lieu of the old-fashioned “blue books” that were handwritten. “Of course it’s easier to cheat with a laptop,” he’d drawled, “but if you’re in a master’s program at a Christian university and decide to cheat, you’ve got bigger problems than the grade you get on an exam.”
Kat was on the third essay question using her laptop when her phone vibrated in her jean jacket pocket. She slipped it out unobtrusively and stared at the caller ID. She didn’t recognize the name—Candy?—but it was a 773 area code, same as SouledOut. Oh God, oh God, please let them leave a message.
The moment the professor called time, she hit the Print button that sent her exam to the queue in the professor’s printer, stuffed her laptop into her backpack, and darted into the hallway, pressing the phone to her ear as she listened to the message.
“Hi. This is Louise Candy. I was given this number by our upstairs neighbor and understand you are looking for an apartment for the summer. Please call me at . . .” And the female voice rattled off a number.
Rats. She didn’t have time to call back now. Bree ha
d proofread the research paper she’d written last week and made a bunch of corrections she still had to incorporate—and the paper was due before five o’clock. Arrgh. Whatever made her take Classroom Counseling Strategies, anyway?
But the moment she dropped off the paper in her professor’s office at 4:40, Kat found a quiet bench out on the commons, listened to the message again, and then hit Reply.
The phone rang. And rang five more times before voice mail picked up. “You’ve reached the Candys. Leave a message.” Swallowing her disappointment, Kat left her name and number, said yes, they were definitely interested in subleasing the apartment, and she would call back later.
Turning up the collar of her jean jacket as a chilly, late afternoon wind blew through campus, she called Brygitta’s cell phone. “Where are you? The lady called back . . . you know, the one subleasing their apartment! . . . No, she called during one of my exams . . . Yes, of course I called her back! But all I got was voice mail. I’ll try later . . . What are you doing for supper? . . . The dining hall? Ugh. But I guess I can do salad.” Kat shuddered. The university dining hall, even with its buffet-style food stations, still didn’t get it when it came to food ecology and justice issues.
But she smiled as she flipped her phone shut and gathered up her backpack. Having their own apartment and being able to cook the stuff she believed in eating was going to be totally awesome.
Both Kat and Brygitta had take-home exams due the next day, so after supper in the dining hall they holed up in the room they shared in Graduate Housing and put a Do Not Disturb sign on their door. But when the Candy lady hadn’t called back by nine o’clock, Kat said, “I’m calling.”
This time the phone picked up on the second ring. “Candy residence.”
Kat pushed the Speaker button and frantically waved Brygitta over. “Mrs. Candy? This is Kat Davies at Crista University, returning your call. About subleasing your apartment?” Grinning, Brygitta bounced over to Kat’s bed and they put their heads together—short pixie cut to wavy waterfall—listening.
“Oh yes. Our neighbor upstairs, Peter Douglass, told us you and some other graduate students might be interested in subleasing for the summer. That might work out for us, as we’re going to Costa Rica for a few months and don’t really want to leave our condo empty for that long. A business venture, very exciting, we . . .”
Kat rolled her eyes at Brygitta as the woman kept talking. Costa Rica. Very nice. Lucky you. But we don’t care where you’re going, lady, just tell us about the apartment!
As the woman finally took a breath, Kat jumped in. “Can you tell us what you’re asking?”
“A thousand ten per month. Worth every penny—”
Brygitta nearly fell off the bed. “A thousand TEN?” she mouthed at Kat.
“—the apartment is completely furnished, of course,” Mrs. Candy went on. “Two bedrooms plus a study with a fold-out futon, utilities included, quiet street. Parking is crowded but, well, that’s living in the city, right? Uh, how many did you say would live here?”
“Uh, at least three, hopefully four. Three women, one man. We’re all students here at CCU. We can provide references if you’d like. We also attend the same church as your neighbors, the Douglasses.”
Brygitta hit her on the shoulder. “Shameless name dropping, you hussy,” she whisper-hissed.
“Ah, well, that’s good. We’re not church people ourselves, but we don’t want any loud parties or drugs or drinking or anything like that.”
Kat stifled a laugh. “No, no, you don’t have to worry. We’re all very responsible. In fact, Nick Taylor is in seminary, studying to be a pastor.”
Brygitta bounced off the bed and hopped around the room, mimicking Kat silently. “Nick is in seminary, studying to be a PASTOR!”
Kat waved her down, trying not to laugh. “Um, would it be possible for us to see the apartment? That way you could meet us, and we could talk about the available dates and expectations.” Kat thought fast. “Would you be available Sunday afternoon? We’ll be in the neighborhood for church in the morning and could come over if that would work for you.”
She grabbed a pen and scribbled as Louise Candy gave her the address. “Thank you very much. See you at one o’clock on Sunday. I’m sure we can find it.”
Kat punched the End button on her phone and screeched. “Eeee! Brygitta! I think this is going to work out! Can you believe it? Falling into our lap like this? I gotta call Nick and Livie!”
“Yeah, but . . . a thousand ten a month? That’s outrageous.”
“Not if we divide it four ways. That’s only two-fifty and some change each. We pay more than that here.”
“Yeah, but—”
Kat shoved the paper at Brygitta. “Hey, can you Google this address and find where it is in relation to SouledOut while I call the others? Hopefully we can walk there.”
Brygitta took the paper. “Uh, Kat? You just wrote the address on your take-home exam. With a ballpoint pen.”
Chapter 13
Avis dragged herself home late that evening. Even though they’d acted quickly, returning all students to their classrooms and keeping them there until security had had a chance to sweep the school, news of the pistol on the playground had spread like poison ivy at summer camp. So not only did she have to meet with the police and the boy’s mother—a single mom who lived with her brother—but she also had to field calls from frantic parents until almost seven o’clock. As it turned out, the handgun belonged to the boy’s uncle and had never been used, but since handguns were illegal within Chicago city limits, the gun had been confiscated and the uncle had been given a citation to appear in court. The charge: possession of an illegal weapon and endangering a child.
Peter was sympathetic. He even picked up the phone and ordered takeout from Jamaican Jerk, a tiny restaurant on Howard Street popular with the locals, so she didn’t have to cook. “Guess now’s not a good time to talk about Nony’s invitation,” he admitted. She rolled her eyes at him and locked herself in the bathroom, drawing a deep bubble bath and soaking in it for half an hour, letting the hot water draw the tension out of her muscles.
When she finally reappeared swathed in a comfy caftan and a head wrap, the food had arrived and she realized she was famished. Diving into the oxtail and beans, jerk chicken wings, and sweet potato fries, she felt energy seep back into her bones. Finally, leaning back in her chair and sucking on a chicken-wing bone, she relented. “It’s all right, Peter. We can talk about Nony’s invitation.”
He arched an eyebrow at her, as if not quite sure she was serious.
“Actually, as I was praying at school today, I realized your idea of talking to the pastors is a good thing—you know, get their thoughts and prayers to help us decide what’s the right thing to do.” She picked up another sweet potato fry and tried to read his expression. “Or . . . were you thinking we would make a decision and then kind of just announce it to them?”
He made a face. “Well, I wouldn’t have said it quite that crassly. But I was hoping we would come to some agreement on a direction and present it to them for their wisdom and counsel.”
She toyed with another sweet potato fry. “I can see that. It’s just . . . I don’t know how to think about the future with so many things hanging fire. We don’t know for sure whether Bethune will be closed next year or not. And we still haven’t heard from Rochelle.” Her composure broke a little. “I’m . . . I’m really worried about Conny, Peter. Whatever’s going on with Rochelle can’t be good for him.”
“I know. I’m worried about Conny too.” Peter laid down his fork and stared at his plate for a long minute. Then he sighed. “I need to be honest with you, Avis. Things aren’t going that well at Software Symphony. With the economy the way it is, people aren’t buying upgrades for their computers or investing in new applications. Sales have slowed way down, and we’re barely breaking even. I may need to lay off some of my employees soon if things don’t turn around. Which makes Griffin’s offer to b
uy me out seem like a godsend.”
“Oh, Peter.” How had she missed the worry lines around his eyes?
“To tell you the truth, I’m inclined to pick up the phone and tell Griffin I’ll accept his offer before he changes his mind. Because I don’t think the economy is ever going to fully recover.”
By the time Wednesday evening rolled around, Avis didn’t feel much like going out again to Bible study. Repercussions from the pistol incident—suspending the student for two weeks, calling a special meeting for concerned parents Tuesday evening, making a full report to the school board—had taken up most of the last three days. And now she was getting pressure from some of the teachers and staff to install a metal detector at the doors of the school. Something she absolutely did not want to do. This was an elementary school, for heaven’s sake!
But she and Peter had asked to meet with the pastors after Bible study, so she grabbed a quick bite at home and then drove her Camry to the Howard Street shopping center, since Peter was coming straight from work. Rolling the windows down, she realized that May temperatures had moved into the seventies that day for the first time, and she’d basically missed it.
Attendance at midweek Bible study was small compared to Sunday morning—mostly singles and couples without children since it was a school night. She gave a quick glance at the people filling the circle of chairs. Two were Yada Yada sisters: Estelle Bentley and her husband, Harry—another couple who’d gotten married in their fifties—and Jodi Baxter. The Meeks, Fairbanks, and several others were also there. Pastor Clark was already seated, talking earnestly with Harry Bentley. She noticed that the thin, lanky pastor did look paler than usual.
No Peter yet.
Estelle—a good-sized black woman but well proportioned—wrapped Avis in a big hug. “Sister Avis, are you all right? Sister Jodi told me what happened at school this week. Lord, have mercy! Do you need Harry to patrol the hallways? He does security, you know.”