by Neta Jackson
Kat was glad when Pastor Cobbs gave the benediction and people began migrating to the coffee table, gathering their kids, or forming little huddles to talk. She didn’t want to think about her parents anymore. What could she do about it, anyway? They’d made it clear they thought she’d gone off the deep end with this “religious stuff.”
She made her way over to the Douglasses, who were being greeted by a small procession of different folks. She stepped in close. “Mr. D, Mrs. D . . . just wanted to congratulate you on being recommended as interim pastors.”
Mrs. Douglass gave her a weary smile. “Thank you. Still needs to be approved by the congregation. Whatever happens, we’re going to need a lot of prayer.” She hesitated a moment and glanced at her husband. Then, “Are you all right, Kathryn? You seemed very upset yesterday.”
“Oh.” Kat was caught off guard. “Yeah, I’ll be all right.” She hadn’t told anyone what she’d been crying about yesterday. Nick, Livie, and Bree all thought it had to do with Pastor Clark dying in spite of her giving CPR. The thing with her parents was hard to explain . . . but Mrs. D was asking. Maybe she could—
“I’m glad, Kathryn. Will you excuse us? I need to ask Florida how her husband is doing before she leaves. Coming, Peter?” Mrs. Douglass gave her another smile and slipped away.
“In a moment,” he called after her. Mr. Douglass laid a fatherly hand on Kat’s shoulder. “Kathryn. If you’re worried about what happened last Sunday, I want you to know you did a brave thing, stepping in like that and doing CPR. Showed a lot of spunk, a lot of courage. You did good.”
“Thanks.” His encouraging comment did mean a lot. “But actually,” she blurted, “I was upset because of my family. My parents. We’re kind of estranged. I mean, they don’t get the fact that I’ve become a Christian.”
“I see.”
Did he? Kat didn’t know how to explain, standing there in the middle of a milling crowd. But a crazy thought popped into her head. The subject of family had come up naturally. Now was her chance. “You and your wife are lucky, you know. To have family right here in the city—you know, your daughter and grandson. What’s her name again?”
“Daughter?” Mr. Douglass seemed momentarily flustered. “Oh, you mean Rochelle. Um, yes. It’s nice to have some of the family close by . . . Uh, where do your parents live? Do you have siblings?”
“Phoenix. And no, I’m an only. Well, don’t mean to keep you. Congrats again, Mr. D.” Kat gave a friendly nod and moved away. Was it her imagination, or had Mr. D not wanted to talk about their daughter? Well, didn’t matter. She’d gotten what she wanted.
Their daughter’s name.
Rochelle.
She found Brygitta. “I’m ready to go. Where’re Nick and Livie?”
Brygitta rolled her eyes. “Nick said he needed to leave, had a lot of homework or something. Livie wanted to go with him. I saw you talking to the Douglasses, so I told them to go on, I’d wait for you.”
“Hm. Was he acting kind of funny?”
“Yeah, kinda.” Brygitta pursed her lips. “I think I know why.”
Kat gave her a look. “O-kay, we need to talk. I have something I want to tell you about anyway. Come on.”
Twenty minutes later Kat and Brygitta had commandeered a tiny table at The Common Cup, a coffee shop they’d discovered on Morse Avenue, about halfway between the church and their three-flat.
Kat bit into her toasted whole-wheat bagel smothered with garlic-flavored cream cheese, closing her eyes in pleasure. “Mmmm, these bagels are to die for.”
Brygitta snickered. “You mean, better than the lentil-carrot-veggie-burger leftovers from last night we’d have to eat if we’d gone home?”
“Oh, come on! They were good. Admit it. And cheaper than meat—which is no small potatoes, since none of us has a job yet.”
“Yeah. And mini-term is so intense, I haven’t had time to look either.” Brygitta bit into her own toasted bagel. “But only five more days and it’ll be over. Done!”
“So.” Kat licked cream cheese off her fingers. “Tell me what’s going on with Nick.”
Brygitta shrugged. “Well, don’t know for sure. But a week ago—before all this trauma happened—he said, offhand like, that he was going to ask the pastors if he could do his pastoral internship at SouledOut. Made sense to me, since that’s where we’re attending.”
“And?”
“I’m guessing he didn’t do it, with Pastor Clark dying suddenly like that and all the shock and everything. And now . . .” Brygitta frowned as she nursed her coffee. “Maybe he’s feeling like he missed his chance. With Pastor Cobb appointing both of the Douglasses to fill in as interim pastors, there may not be room for an intern.”
Kat stared at her friend. “Yikes. You think?” She felt bad that she’d been so oblivious. Nick had once said something to her about maybe trying to get an intern position at SouledOut—but she hadn’t given it much thought since then. And he had to do an internship if he wanted to graduate next January. If not SouledOut . . . where?
Some friend she was. They hadn’t talked about it or prayed about it with him or anything.
“Now you,” Bree prompted. “You said you wanted to tell me something.”
Kat sighed. “I do. But you have to promise you’ll keep it confidential. I just . . . need to talk it over with somebody.”
“I promise! Cross my heart, Girl Scout’s honor . . . What?”
Kat filled her in on the girl she’d seen in the foyer of the three-flat the day she’d skipped graduation . . . then seeing the picture of the same girl in the Douglasses’ apartment . . . and running into her Dumpster-diving behind the Dominick’s grocery store. “It’s really weird. It’s Mr. and Mrs. Douglasses’ daughter. But she made me promise not to tell her parents I’d seen her there. She was all panicky. And Mr. and Mrs. D don’t say much about her, like they don’t really know what’s going on. I can’t figure it out. But . . . something’s not right.”
“Wow.” Brygitta’s amber eyes were big.
“What do you think I should do?”
“You can’t do anything! You promised.”
Kat fiddled with her napkin. “But I did learn her name. It’s Rochelle.”
“Mm. Pretty name.”
“Yeah. Pretty girl too. If she wasn’t so jittery.” Kat stood up. “Guess we better go. I’ve got stuff to do for class tomorrow too. Have to admit I’m pretty sick of Spanish right now!”
“Huh! Tell me about it.” Brygitta followed her to the door. “I’ve got Christian Ethics oozing out of all my pores, like locker room sweat. Ugh.”
Kat pulled open the door and stepped into the warm spring air. But a notice taped to the inside of the window of the coffee shop caught her eye. Grabbing Brygitta’s arm, she pointed. “Look!”
The two friends stared. The paper said: BARISTA WANTED. APPLY INSIDE.
Kat and Brygitta looked at each other.
“Oh my,” Kat breathed. “Except it’s just one job. And two of us. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
A slow grin spread across Kat’s face. “Unless they’d let us share it. Half-time each. Until one of us finds another job. It’d at least be something. What do you think?”
Brygitta grinned. “Why not? Wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
Chapter 29
The front door of the Baxters’ first-floor apartment stood wide open behind the screen as Avis climbed the steps of the two-flat, arriving a few minutes early for the five o’clock Yada Yada Prayer Group. At that precise moment the other door facing the porch—leading to the second-f loor apartment—burst open and Leslie “Stu” Stuart bounced out.
“Avis!” The willowy social worker grinned. “Hey, I didn’t get a chance to say congrats about you and Peter filling in as interim pastors at SouledOut. Are you good with that? With your job and everything, I mean? Oh. Here come Ruth and Delores. Hi, you two!”
Stu pulled open the screen door to the Baxters’ apartment and held it as
Avis and the other two women walked into the small entryway. Ruth Garfield, their own “Jewish mother” who’d finally birthed twins at fifty, and Delores Enriques, a pediatric nurse at the county hospital, joined the other Yada Yadas in the living room. Surveying the chattering women, Avis smiled. The group had changed a bit from when they’d started seven years ago, with a few new faces and a couple others moving on. But walking into a group of Yada Yadas always felt like coming home.
Jodi Baxter bustled into the living room carrying a pitcher of iced tea and a stack of plastic glasses, followed by her daughter-in-law, Edesa, with a steaming teapot and mugs on a tray. “Hot or cold, your choice,” Jodi said. “And it’s sweet tea, made by our own Florida Hickman, Memphis born and bred, so I don’t want to hear any snide remarks about how white girls make iced tea.”
“Ooh, touchy, aren’t you.” Stu laughed, took the pitcher, and began pouring glasses of sweet tea.
“Edesa.” Avis gave the young woman a hug as soon as she’d set down the tray with the teapot and mugs. “I’m surprised to see you tonight—we don’t get to see you much at Yada Yada anymore. How’s your prayer group at the House of Hope going?”
“Oh, mi amiga. Thank you for asking. Even though we are having a good time at the House of Hope, it’s . . . different. I miss my Yada Yada sisters, so I have to come from time to time just to soak up all your faces. Besides . . .” Edesa lowered her voice. “Josh is joining some of the men over at Hickmans’ tonight to pray with Carl, so it was a good time to come. And Gracie is being entertained by her adoring Auntie Amanda.” Her face lit up with a wide smile. “And . . . congratulations, Pastor Avis!”
Avis shook her head. This was getting embarrassing. “Sister Avis is just fine.” Half the Yada Yadas attended SouledOut, so the word was out. But she wasn’t officially a pastor yet and wanted to make that clear. The role was temporary, anyway.
When the last woman had arrived—Chanda George, mother of three, hometown Kingston, Lotto winner, sometime philanthropist, and usually late—Estelle Bentley called everyone to come together and opened the meeting with a prayer. Avis had functioned as leader of the group from its inception, but recently she’d been encouraging Estelle to take over the role, seeing gifts sparking in the middle-aged woman that needed to be fanned into flames.
As usual, they spent the first twenty or thirty minutes in worship, someone starting a song, another offering a prayer of praise and thanksgiving. Back and forth. No prayer requests yet. Long ago Avis had realized they needed this time to set aside the whirlwind of duties, problems, stresses, work, and worries, and get their focus centered on Jesus. Who He is. Creator. Savior. Lord. Healer. Defender. Protector. Friend.
Then they were ready to share their heart burdens with one another and bring their requests to God.
“Florida,” said Estelle, “I hear the brothers are praying with Carl tonight. How’s he doing since his accident?”
Yes, Estelle’s husband would have gotten a call to show up at the Hickmans’, because it was Peter who’d called some of the brothers to go pray with Carl that evening, after Florida told them at church that Carl had had another setback. A minor blackout, when he couldn’t remember what he’d been doing for the past hour. Still dealing with pain in his neck. Anxious about getting back to work.
“But he’s come a long way, thank ya, Jesus, an’ we still expectin’ full healin’. Just pray for me too, sisters, ’cause sometimes havin’ him underfoot makes me want to give him another bop on the head.”
Laughter carried into the prayer as Delores prayed for Carl and Florida and for the whole Hickman family.
Adele Skuggs wanted to praise God for some new clients at Adele’s Hair and Nails. “Ain’t been easy keepin’ my shop in the black in this recession. But God is good. Things are lookin’ up.”
Yo-Yo Spencer, guardian of her two younger brothers, asked prayer for Pete, deployed in Iraq. “An’ now Jerry’s talking about signin’ up when he graduates high school in June. I know I been wantin’ to kick both of them outta the house for years. But now I wanta take it back. Think God does reverse prayers?”
When it was Avis’s turn, she asked the sisters to pray for the STEP program at Bethune. “We still need more tutors and volunteers, especially since the program begins the very next week after school’s out. Pass the word, all right?”
Avis caught Jodi mouthing something at her “. . . closing Bethune?” Avis shook her head. Even though that possibility had come out right here in this room when they were planning Pastor Clark’s memorial service, it wasn’t time for more public knowledge.
“Sista Avis!” Chanda was waving her hands at her. “What mi hearing ’bout naming you pastor at SouledOut? Why mi always de last to hear tings?”
Avis did her best to share what had happened that week. “And keep in mind that the congregation needs to approve. But whatever happens, I do know Peter and I need your prayers, because our plates are already full with his business and my job at Bethune Elementary. But please, don’t call me ‘Pastor Avis.’ I’m just ‘Sister’ to you and everyone else, like always. Same for Peter.”
“What? Sister Peter?” Chanda’s eyes went wide.
That broke everyone up. Avis’s side ached from laughing. Good. Might keep everybody from taking this whole “interim pastors” thing too seriously.
Edesa spoke up. “I need some wisdom, mi amigas. I had an interesting conversation with one of the Crista University students on Memorial Day. She and her friends came to the youth group picnic at Lighthouse Beach. Maybe Josh has asked them to help with the teens, I’m not sure. But this young woman just graduated from CCU with a master’s degree in education, seems very smart. Plus she’s quite passionate about ecology—‘saving the earth’s resources’ was the phrase she used.”
“Got a burr in her pants, you mean, if you talkin’ ’bout that Kathryn Davies,” Florida put in. Avis tried not to laugh. She couldn’t have said it better herself.
“What I want to know,” Florida huffed, “is why these white college kids show up in they raggy jeans at church? They tryin’ to identify with us ‘poor’ folks or somethin’? Seems downright insultin’ to me! And what’s with the Dumpster food she think we wanna eat—”
“Flo!” Estelle gave Florida the eye. “Let Edesa finish. She was bringin’ somethin’ up for prayer. So hush a minute.”
“I’m just sayin’.” Florida sat back in her corner of the couch, arms crossed.
Edesa frowned thoughtfully. “Florida’s got a point. Kathryn got all excited when I told her I had my degree in public health. Said she’d love to teach a class on nutrition for neighborhood families on welfare, wondered if I’d consider doing it together. She’s got this thing about food issues—part of her ‘living green’ mind-set. She said, ‘If only poor people understood nutrition!’ As if a little class about eating habits would solve all their problems with poor health.”
“Tell me about it.” Yo-Yo rolled her eyes. “When my mom was all strung out on drugs and me an’ the boys didn’t know where the next meal was comin’ from, we wasn’t exactly thinkin’ about the four basic food groups.”
Edesa smiled. “Exactly. Just having something to eat is basic. Getting enough. Getting it regularly . . . you get the idea. Worrying about organic food and balanced nutrition isn’t first on the agenda. I’m sure Kathryn is well meaning, but I’m afraid she’s long on knowledge and short on experience . . . not that I’m putting down education!” she hastened to add. “I’m the first one in my family to get a college degree, and I’m so grateful I’ve been able to go to school here.”
“That’s all right, honey,” Adele put in. “We know what you mean. I could hang out my shingle, listenin’ to all the troubles people pour out while sittin’ in my beauty chairs. And they get a lot of advice too—because I’m long on experience.”
“Humph. Rich you’d be, too, if you charged them what it cost me for marriage counseling with my first two husbands.” Ruth made a face. “Did it d
o any good? Not so you’d notice. Which is why Ben is husband number three.”
Again, the room convulsed with laughter.
“Hush now,” Estelle scolded, nodding at Edesa to continue.
“Anyway . . .” Edesa threw up her hands. “I am talking too much. Forgive me, mi amigas. Please pray for me. I need wisdom to know how to respond about this class idea of hers. If I say no, she might go ahead and try to do something herself. But I don’t want to come across as—how do you say it?—a know-it-all. So also pray that her energy and idealism get channeled in the right direction, before she gets hurt—or hurts others.”
Avis felt a pang. She was . . . what? Twice as old as Edesa? Probably had been a Christian twice as long too. And yet the lovely young woman from Honduras was asking Yada Yada to pray for the CCU student. What was wrong with her? Too concerned about her own daughter, who wasn’t much older than those students, to pray for them.
She took a deep breath and blew it out. “Might as well pray for me, too, when you’re praying for Kathryn and her friends. As some of you know, they’re subletting the apartment right below us in our three-flat and, I confess, I haven’t been as friendly as I should. I just get . . . annoyed.”
Florida sputtered but eyed the ceiling, as if trying hard to keep her mouth shut.
“Ah. Maybe you are just the person that girl Kathryn needs,” Delores said, nodding her head. “An older woman, wise, a mentor . . .”
Avis shook her head. “I appreciate the vote of confidence. But I’m not exactly feeling like a good mother figure. I—” Avis had to press her hand to her mouth for a moment to keep her lips from trembling. “I’m sorry. I know you all have prayed for Rochelle, but I haven’t shared very much with you. The fact is, my daughter is currently estranged from me. I haven’t talked to her since Valentine’s Day. She wanted to move in, hadn’t been doing well, but Peter was against it. We took her to Manna House, but she didn’t stay . . . and she’s been missing ever since.” Along with the ruby earrings, Avis thought, but that didn’t feel like essential information right now.