by Neta Jackson
“Good.” Nick leaned forward. “Hey, remember the message on Sunday? You know, when Pastor Clark talked about where-two-or-three-are-gathered-together kind of prayers? Something we haven’t done yet is pray about this apartment thing.”
“Of course we’ve been praying!” Brygitta cut in. “At least I have.”
“I know. I mean, pray together about it. Like Jesus talked about.”
“Help us out, Preacher Boy.” Kat pointed at Nick’s backpack. “Got your Bible in there? Maybe you can show us what you’re talking about.”
“All right, all right.” He dug in his backpack and brought out a beat-up New Testament. “It’s Matthew 18, I think . . . yeah, here it is. ‘I tell you’—this is Jesus talking—‘that if two of you on earth agree about anything you ask for, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven. For where two or three come together in my name, there am I with them.’ ”
Kat frowned. “Anything we ask? It will be done?” She shook her head. “I realize I’m kind of new at this, but . . . that’s kind of a stretch, isn’t it?”
“But Nick has a point,” Brygitta said. “We should be praying in unity—or praying for unity—about this.”
Nick stuck his Bible into the backpack. “Exactly. Why don’t we pray with Livie that she’ll know what to do and have peace about it? And that the rest of us will have peace about her decision too.”
Olivia glanced nervously around the café. “You mean . . . right now? Here?”
Kat shrugged and grinned. “I’m in. Who’s going to mind? Apron-Guy over there? He’s too busy playing chief cook and dishwasher. Nick, this was your idea. You start.”
Kat was brushing her teeth that evening when she heard Brygitta holler, “Who is it?” Kat turned off the water in the bathroom sink and listened. Who was bothering them at this hour? She was tired and wanted to fall into bed.
“Livie!” she heard Brygitta say. “Are you okay?”
Olivia? Kat hurriedly spit out the toothpaste, rinsed her mouth, and flew back into the room. The younger girl stood in the middle of their room, a windbreaker thrown over her pajamas, clutching a sheet of paper.
“Livie! What is it?” Kat pulled their friend down into a three-way huddle on Brygitta’s bed.
Olivia groaned. “E-mail from my sister, Elin. She’s just finishing eleventh grade.” Olivia thrust the paper at Brygitta. “You read it.”
“O-kay.” Brygitta scanned the e-mail, eyes widening.
“Aloud!” Kat demanded.
“Okay, okay . . . ‘Dear Livie, I am so bleeping mad! Mom’s got a new boyfriend. Name’s Gilly Henderson. He’s, like, ten years younger than Mom. I hate him! He’s here all the time, lying around, drinking and belching. He gives me the creeps—’ ”
Olivia hugged a pillow to her chest as Brygitta read.
“ ‘—But Mom is all gaga—you know, some man is actually paying attention to her. But he’s real mouthy, bosses me around all the time. I haven’t told Mom yet, but I am NOT going to stay here with him around. I already asked Aunt Gerty if I could come stay with her and Uncle Ben in Madison as soon as school is out, and she said yes. She met the guy and doesn’t like him either. I’m just warning you, Livie—you don’t want to be in this house this summer, or you’ll go nuts! Want me to ask Aunt Gerty if you can come too? How long will you be in Chicago? Maybe I’ll come visit you. It’s not that far from Madison, is it? That’d be fun. Love you, your sis, Elin.’”
Brygitta looked up. “Whoa. You didn’t know anything about this new boyfriend, Livie?”
Olivia shook her head.
“Arrgh. Sounds like a loser. I’m so sorry, Livie.” Brygitta tossed the e-mail on the bed. “Your mom’s in Minneapolis, right? So where’s Madison? Like Madison, Wisconsin? That’s not very far from Chicago—only a few hours, don’t you think, Kat?”
But Kat wasn’t thinking about Madison, Wisconsin. She picked up Olivia’s e-mail and read it again, her thoughts tumbling. This was bad news for Livie and her sister. And yet . . . did she dare say it?
She reached out and touched Olivia’s arm hugging the pillow. “Livie, remember how we prayed together a few hours ago, that God would make it clear where you should be this summer? I think you just got your answer.”
Chapter 18
Avis pushed aside the pile of paperwork she’d just finished and glanced at the wall clock. Two twenty. School would be out in another forty minutes. Next Monday was Memorial Day—a long holiday weekend coming up. But she still had a meeting at three thirty to talk about the Summer Tutoring and Enrichment Program at Bethune Elementary.
Opening the folder marked STEP, she studied the list of proposed offerings.
Tutoring in Math and English
Mentorships
Art Classes
Sports Clinics
City Culture Day Trips
None of which were funded by the Chicago Board of Education, except for the cost of keeping the building open—lights, air, and janitorial services.
A flutter of excitement, like sugar in the blood, gave her a boost of energy, even though by this time on a Friday she was usually ready for a long weekend nap. Summer sessions abounded at local high schools, middle schools, and park programs. But the summer program at Bethune Elementary had been her brainchild, and last summer had been the maiden voyage. She’d pounded the pavement soliciting donations from local businesses to fund tutors, coaches, supplies, and transportation. Her winning mantra: “STEP is a win-win investment. Keeping kids occupied keeps them off the street.”
The letter from the school board two weeks ago had shaken her confidence about running STEP a second time. What if they closed the school halfway through the summer? But just this week, after the spine-strengthening prayers of her Yada Yada sisters, she’d resolved to move forward. “Don’t let that ol’ devil discouragement gain another inch of territory,” Estelle Bentley had told her. “He’s defeated already. Just doesn’t know it yet.”
Remembering Estelle’s comment, Avis smiled as she pulled a few more files to take to the meeting. The Yada Yada Prayer Group had sparked a few unusual weddings in their seven short years. Estelle Williams’s and Harry Bentley’s was the most recent—a match that had to be made in heaven, because no matchmaker on earth would have put those two together! Both had been around the block a few times and had a few gray hairs to show for it. Harry was an ex-cop—“ex” because he’d had to take early retirement after blowing the whistle on some rogue cops—and he’d fallen hard for the Manna House cook at a shelter Fun Night. Their surprise wedding had taken place on a Sunday morning at SouledOut, right in the middle of the worship service.
She and Peter, though, both in their fifties, had been the first over-the-hill wedding, jumping the broom at what used to be Uptown Community Church before the merger into SouledOut. The Friendship Quilt the Yada Yadas had made for that occasion hung on the wall of their bedroom.
On the other end of the age spectrum, Jodi and Denny Baxter’s college son, Josh, had fallen for Edesa Reyes, one of their Yada Yada sisters, even though the pretty Honduran girl was a few years older. Now that was a wedding for the books. They’d tied the knot at the homeless shelter, no less! Edesa and Josh had both been volunteering at Manna House when a crack mother, found dead of an overdose, left a note saying if anything happened to her, she wanted Edesa to raise her baby. Just engaged, Josh felt called to move their wedding date up so baby Gracie could have a daddy too—just like Joseph of old had been told by the angel of the Lord to go ahead, marry the virgin Mary and be daddy to baby Jesus. And a Christmas wedding at that.
Speaking of babies . . . Ruth and Ben Garfield were already married but childless when Yada Yada started—and then Ruth delivered twins just before her fiftieth birthday!
Avis shook her head, laughing silently. Nothing boring about the Yada Yadas.
Hmm. Wonder who’s next? They had several singles in Yada Yada: Yo-Yo, Stu, Becky, and Hoshi—though Hoshi had moved to Boston. Even Chanda and Adel
e.
Mm. Probably won’t be Adele. She’d rule the roost like a drill sergeant, same as she did at her beauty salon . . . which reminded her. She needed to make an appointment to get her hair done tomorrow morning, since Peter was taking her out for her birthday in the evening.
The last school bell rang just as Avis got off the phone with Adele’s Hair and Nails. As she often did, she walked out into the hallway and stood near the double doors leading outside, saying good-bye to the children, calling most by name, telling some to slow down, have a good holiday, walk don’t run, see you next Tuesday!
Waiting until the hallways cleared and the handicap buses had loaded and left, Avis went back to her office, gathered up her notebook and relevant folders, and stopped by the main office to tell the school secretary the STEP meeting would be in the teachers’ lounge—except the secretary was nowhere to be seen. Didn’t she work at least until four?
Walking briskly down the hall, Avis pulled on the door to the teachers’ lounge, but it was stuck—or locked. She knocked. “Who is it?” came a muffled voice.
“Avis Douglass! Why is this door locked?” She was going to have a word or two with whoever locked this door. People were still coming!
The door clicked and opened. Denny Baxter, Jodi’s husband, whom she’d recruited to run a sports clinic twice a week, stood aside. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Come on in, Madame Principal.”
Avis walked in . . . and was met with a loud chorus: “Happy birthday!” Then the group launched into, “For she’s a jolly good fellow, for she’s a jolly good fellow . . .”
A decorated bakery cake sat on the conference table, fresh coffee dripped in the coffee corner, and the AWOL school secretary presented her with a large bouquet of Stargazer lilies.
Avis was tongue-tied for a few awkward moments but managed a smile for the small group of teachers, parents, and university students needing practicum credits who would be her STEP staff this summer. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Thank you, everyone.” But she caught Jodi Baxter’s eye standing over by the coffeepot and mouthed, “You’re behind this.”
Jodi shrugged and mouthed back, “So? It IS your birthday today.”
Adele Skuggs shut off the beehive hair dryer and waved Avis back into the chair at Adele’s Hair and Nails the next morning for the process of getting her twists redone. Avis watched in the mirror as Adele wove the artificial hair into Avis’s thick, kinky hair, braiding it near the roots and then twisting the rest.
“Good thing I told Peter not to take me out for my birthday until tonight. At least now I’ll have my hair done.”
“Mm-hm. Hold still, girl. I’ve got to do the rest of these. I don’t want to hurt you.” Adele fussed for three hours with the black twists all over Avis’s head until they lined up in neat little squares, then used mousse and sprayed it with sheen to make them lie down and shine. Whisking off the black plastic cape, she gave Avis a hand mirror to check the sides and the back.
Avis nodded, pleased, as she held the mirror this way and that. Nice. The twists gave her a youthful look, and with her smooth skin, free of any premature wrinkles, she could pass for ten years younger than her fifty-five years. Maybe she’d get a manicure and pedicure too, if Adele’s girl could squeeze her in. Just thinking about soaking her tired feet in the bubbling hot water and getting her calves and feet massaged with lotion made her want to purr.
By the time Avis got home, the nails on her fingers and toes a rich burgundy with a feathery white filigree on each index finger and big toe, it was midafternoon. But the SouledOut van was parked in front of her building, taking up her usual parking space. What was the church van doing here?
Just then Josh Baxter and the seminary student from Crista University—Nick Something—hustled out the front door and down the steps, heading for the van. “Oh, hey, Mrs. Douglass!” Josh hollered with a wave. “Just one more load and we’re done. Give us a minute and you can have this parking space.”
The two young men, who seemed similar in age, grabbed the last few bundles and bags from the back of the van and disappeared once more into the building.
Avis tapped her freshly manicured nails on the steering wheel as her car idled. So. The four students were moving in. And Josh Baxter, bless his overly friendly soul, had gotten permission to use the church van to help them out.
Looked as if the students were threading their way into the fabric of SouledOut Community Church.
It would definitely be an adjustment on the home front. Both of her neighbors moved in totally different social circles. But these students wanted to be part of SouledOut, which put them in her life circle in more ways than one.
She sighed. Sorry for fussing, Lord. It’ll probably be fine. I just have so much on my plate right now. I don’t feel like I have the energy to relate to new neighbors.
Josh Baxter came trotting out the door again, waved at her with a big grin, and climbed into the fifteen-passenger van that was used mostly for youth activities. As it pulled out, she pulled in and parked, gathered up her purse and umbrella—which she didn’t need after all, in spite of the iffy-looking clouds earlier that morning—and went inside.
Using her mailbox key, she fished out the mail and riffled through it . . . nothing from Rochelle. Only then did she realize she’d been unconsciously hoping that Rochelle would come by and leave another note, or mail her a card, or . . . something. Yesterday had been her birthday, after all.
Don’t go there, Avis, she told herself. Letting herself into the carpeted stairwell, she climbed the stairs noiselessly, though she could hear youthful voices, thumps, and laughter coming from the open door on the second floor. Pausing on the stairs just before the second-floor landing, Avis listened. The voices were distant, coming from another part of the Candys’ apartment, so she quickly moved past the landing and up to her own door on third.
There’d be plenty of time to say welcome to the neighborhood. Maybe tomorrow. Right now, she needed to call Peter and ask what time they were going out, so she’d know when to be ready. It’d been three weeks since they’d gone out for their anniversary, which had ended rather badly, and she wanted tonight to be different.
After all, her husband had had a stressful week. Carl Hickman had been released from the hospital but started having neck spasms, which put him back in again. So Peter was without a manager, doubling his own workload. And from what she could gather, Jack Griffin was now “looking at his options”—which meant Software Symphony was only one card in the buyer’s deck, not the ace.
They both could use a pleasant evening—dinner and dancing? No stress. Just enjoy each other. Enjoy the moment.
She’d just donned her favorite silk lounging pants and top after a leisurely bubble bath and was putting on her makeup when she heard knocking at the front door. I don’t believe this. She was hardly presentable, but . . . what did she care? Had to be one of the kids downstairs.
Kathryn Davies beamed at her when she opened the door. Her thick mane of brown wavy hair had been pulled back and wound into a large, lumpy knot on her neck, and she was dressed in sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt. “Hi, Mrs. Douglass! We’re all moved in. Didn’t take long with Josh Baxter’s help. What a nice guy he is. Oh! What I came up for is, we’re making some vegetarian spaghetti and it’s kind of messy, but we don’t want to use Mrs. Candy’s nice cloth napkins, but we can’t find any paper ones.” She paused for a breath. “Do you have any paper towels we can borrow? Ha. Guess borrow is the wrong word, since I’m sure you wouldn’t want them back with spaghetti sauce all over them.”
Avis waited to see if the girl was through, then smiled. “Of course. I’ve got an extra roll you can have.” She headed for the kitchen, realizing that Kathryn followed her into the apartment. Rummaging in the small pantry, she found the roll of paper towels and walked back into the living room.
Kathryn had picked up one of the framed photos on the lamp table and was staring at it. She looked up at Avis, eyes wide
. “Is this your daughter? I didn’t know who she was!”
Avis felt her skin prickle. “What do you mean? You saw her?” The photo Kat was holding was Rochelle and Conny, taken last Christmas at a JCPenny Portrait Studio. “When?”
Kathryn nodded. “Last weekend. I, uh, well . . . I came by on Saturday just to make sure we could find the address, even though our appointment with Mrs. Candy wasn’t until Sunday. And this girl—the one in the picture—came into the foyer and put something in your mailbox. And . . . then she left.” Kathryn smiled big and pointed at the photo. “Really cute kid. Your grandson? I didn’t realize the girl was your daughter. Do they live around here?”
Avis just stared at Kathryn, her emotions ricocheting in all directions. She wanted to cry out, Did she look okay? Was her hair done? Has she been eating? How did she act? Did she have her son with her? What was she wearing? Tell me everything!
At the same time, she didn’t want this white, pampered, eager-beaver grad student to know anything was wrong. Didn’t want her to know she hadn’t seen Rochelle in over three months. What business was it of hers?
Avis forced a calm smile. “Yes. My daughter and grandson. They live in Chicago. Oh. Here are your paper towels. You don’t need to return the roll. Keep it. And, I’m sorry, but I need to finish getting ready because my husband is picking me up soon. Glad you’re getting settled.” She started for the door, which still stood open. “See you tomorrow at church?”
Chapter 19
Perfect birthday,” Avis murmured to Peter as she slipped into bed later that evening. And it was. They hadn’t talked about missing daughters, business buyouts, school closings, trips to the far corners of the world, or starry-eyed white kids from the ’burbs moving into their building. Just enjoyed their shrimp and steak, a celebratory bottle of wine, small talk, and laughter. And in a burst of energy—or foolishness—showed they could still cut the rug to some good ol’ Motown tunes.