by Neta Jackson
“But what about dat grandson, de Conny boy?” Chanda looked shocked.
Avis shook her head. “Haven’t seen him for three and a half months. It’s tearing my heart out. I’m afraid I’ve been so worried about them, the students downstairs have felt like an intrusion in my life.”
The room was silent for several moments. Then Estelle said, “Well. That’s what we do best here at Yada Yada—pray. When we don’t know what else to do. Pray as you will, and I will close when we have prayed for all the requests mentioned tonight.”
They prayed for the next half hour. Even without any immediate answers, Avis felt some of her burden lift. It had felt good to be honest about her non-relationship with the students, as well as the estrangement with Rochelle.
Though she hadn’t been completely open about everything—like the comments she’d overheard in the restroom a week ago and the “look” Mary Brown had given the other woman after Pastor Cobbs had recommended her and Peter as interim pastors. Had she only imagined that it meant anything? It was such a touchy black-white thing . . . How could she bring up her discomfort without hurting some of the white sisters in this group? Or talking about an elder’s wife behind her back?
Lord, I’m going to have to leave it with You for now.
The Yada Yada group disbanded with hugs and good-byes as they stepped out into the late twilight of early June. Warm, mild, no rain—
“Avis?”
Avis felt a touch on her arm and turned to see Delores Enriques’s round, kindly face. “Yes?”
“Perdón, mi amiga. But I still feel in my heart that God has a reason to move those students into your building. No coincidences with God, sí? You always used to say.”
Avis allowed a wry smile. “Mm. No coincidences.”
“So, I’m thinking, why don’t you and Peter just invite them for supper sometime? Not a big deal. Just let them into your life a little bit.” Delores made a tiny pinch with her thumb and forefinger. “Remember, God can do a big miracle with just a few fish and loaves of bread.”
Chapter 30
Olivia’s blue eyes popped. “I can’t believe they hired both of you for the same job!” The four were parked in the Candys’ living room, munching on Sunday evening snacks spread out on the coffee table. Chips. Salsa. Hummus. Veggies. Bean dip.
Nick pulled a handful of tortilla chips from the bag. “Yeah. Congrats. Lucky you.”
“We weren’t even looking. It was just there!” Kat dipped a carrot in the bean dip.
“And we thought, all they can do is say no. But they said yes! They even liked the idea of splitting the job.” Brygitta snorted. “Probably because they don’t have to pay benefits if it’s part-time.”
“Hey. Don’t blame them. It was our idea.”
“I’m grateful, I’m grateful! They know we can’t do day shifts till next week, but they’re letting us start evenings this week. We go for training tomorrow night.”
Olivia groaned. “I haven’t even started job hunting. Don’t think I’ll have any time till mini-term is over.”
“Which is only five days away.” Brygitta gave her a playful shove. “We’ll keep our eyes open for you.”
But Kat was watching Nick, absently working his way through the bag of tortilla chips. “Hey. Nick. Stop a minute.” She snatched the chip bag away from him. “What’s going on? What’s with the Eeyore attitude?”
“Nothing.” He grabbed. “Give the chips back.”
She dangled the bag out of reach. “I’m serious. You’ve been bummed out all day.”
Nick slumped back against the couch and shook his head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
Kat tossed the bag of chips back to him. “Look. We’re your friends. Does this have something to do with you wanting to do your internship at SouledOut?”
He looked at her sharply, and then his eyes fell. “Doesn’t matter, does it? The Douglasses are a shoo-in to be interim pastors. Double duty. I doubt they have room for an intern now.”
“You don’t know that.” Kat got up from the hassock where she’d been sitting and sat down on the couch next to Nick. “You ought to at least talk to Pastor Cobbs. He might be able to work out something.”
Nick shrugged. “Maybe if I’d done it earlier. Before Pastor Clark died. But now . . . I don’t know. Seems kind of presumptuous now that he’s gone and they’re looking for experienced people to fill in.”
“But you said yourself that pastors need seminary training. You probably have more seminary than either of the Douglasses!”
Nick eyed her sideways and shook his head. “Don’t think it matters in this case. The Douglasses have been around since the beginning of SouledOut, they’re well known, and they’ve already got leadership roles. Who am I? A new kid from Crista University.”
“Humph. Still.” Kat folded her arms and sat back, leaning against Nick. “You won’t know for sure unless you ask. Come on, Nick! Don’t give up without a fight.”
He pulled away and gave her an incredulous look. “Fight? You think it’s going to help me to fight the pastor’s recommendation of the Douglasses? Get real, Kat.”
“Sorry. Poor choice of words. I didn’t mean fight. I just meant stand up for yourself. At least ask.”
Nick shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”
“We could pray about it too, you know. Aren’t you the one who encouraged those where-two-or-three-are-gathered-together kind of prayers?”
“Yeah, yeah, stick it to me.” But after a moment Nick nodded. “Sure. I’d appreciate the prayers.”
Training at The Common Cup was fun. Kat and Brygitta were shown how to make espressos, cappuccinos, lattes, and a host of other variations, including cortados (espresso and steamed milk) and con pannas (espresso with whipped cream). The baked goods—scones, muffins, bagels, and pies, to name a few—were brought in fresh daily. The soups and salads were made on the premises.
And then there was the shop’s Specialty Ice Cream, starting with vanilla ice cream or frozen yogurt, adding berries or cookies or candy bar bits, and blending the whole customized creation in a special machine. Kat wasn’t sure why anyone would want all that candy added to perfectly good frozen yogurt, but she’d probably have to just grin and bear it.
She decided not to ask where they got their coffee on her first day, but she was curious. Was it fair trade coffee?
Kat took the first evening shift—Tuesday—and was secretly glad that her Wednesday evening would be free. Because she definitely wanted to check out the Dumpsters again behind the Dominick’s store on Sheridan at the “change-over.” She’d arrive later, giving the trucks time to unload and leave, and time for the staff to dump old food. However, it wasn’t the salvaged food she was interested in this time as much as hoping she’d run into the Douglasses’ daughter again.
But by Wednesday evening she was bushed. Commuting, classes, homework, and working were keeping her up until one or two in the morning. Getting off the bus at Foster and Broadway, she considered heading straight for the El rather than checking out the Dumpster scene. It’d been foggy and muggy all day, kind of depressing. She was hungry and tired and needed to do her laundry. And on top of everything else, her feet hurt. Her evening shift at the coffee shop the previous night had been long—four hours, from five to nine, including cleanup—and she’d been on her feet the whole time.
Go home, dummy, she told herself.
Except . . . what if the girl was there and she missed her?
Okay, I’ll just drop by the store and check it out. But if she’s not there, I won’t wait around. I’ll just go on home and try again next week.
The back of the store was empty. No trucks. No store staff. No Dumpster-divers. Somewhat relieved, Kat started to leave. Except, here she was. What would it hurt to look in the Dumpsters, see what had been thrown out this time?
Shrugging off her backpack, Kat refastened the clip that held her hair back, positioned an empty wooden crate with several slats
missing for a step stool, and lifted the lid of the first Dumpster. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. A box of romaine lettuce—probably some good stuff there—and were those cottage cheese cartons? Past due date. Hm, better not, it’d been too warm today . . .
But the lettuce. She’d take a few of those. Leaning over the rim, she reached—
“You again!”
The familiar voice made her jerk upright, banging her head—again—on the lid. She turned. There stood the young black woman, glowering at her. And holding tight to her hand, a little boy.
“Uh, hi, Rochelle.” Kat climbed down off the wooden crate. She held out her hand. “I’m glad to see you again. My name’s Kat.”
The little boy giggled.
“Hush,” his mother commanded, ignoring Kat’s extended hand. “How’d you know my name?”
Kat shrugged. “Your folks have pictures of the kids and grandkids around their house.” Which wasn’t exactly a direct answer, but it was all she could think of.
“My name’s Conny,” the little guy piped up. Cute as a button. Big brown eyes. The same honey-brown skin as his mother. Maybe five or six. “Is your name really Cat?”
Rochelle jerked his hand. “You don’t need to know nothin’ about her. Come on.” She turned and started to leave, pulling the little boy by the hand.
“Wait! Rochelle!” Kat ran to catch up. “I haven’t said anything to your mom and dad.”
Rochelle kept walking. “He’s not my dad.”
“What?” Kat fell into step beside her. “Peter’s not your dad?”
“Stepdad.”
“Oh.” Kat’s mind was spinning. Not her dad. But Avis was her mother. That might explain a few things. “Look. Come back. I know you came for food. I’ll help get some for you. There’s romaine lettuce back there. I’m sure some of it’s still good.”
Rochelle stopped. “Romaine? That makes a real good salad . . .” Turning abruptly, she started walking back into the alley behind the store. “Okay.”
At the Dumpsters Kat dragged out the box of lettuce and the two of them picked through it, saving out a couple heads of lettuce each and tossing the box back into the Dumpster. In the second Dumpster Kat pulled out some six-packs of juice boxes that Conny grabbed. “Not sure that’s so good,” she said. “See? It says ‘Juice Drink,’ which means it’s not a hundred percent juice.”
“Don’t care. I like it!” The little boy sat down on the ground, tearing open the little straw that went with one of the juice boxes and poking it into the top. Soon he was sucking away happily.
Ten minutes in the Dumpsters and they’d rescued several more vegetables, a cantaloupe, and some loaves of bread. “I got enough,” Rochelle announced, hefting the plastic bag she’d filled. “Thanks. Come on, Conny.”
Again Kat fell into step, lugging her backpack that now held her loot. Two more people, then a third, passed them on their way back to the street. “Guess we got there just in time to get the first pickings,” Kat gloated.
Grabbing Conny’s hand again, Rochelle started across the street, dodging traffic. Kat had to trot quickly to keep up. “Uh, where are you headed?”
“Bus comin’. We need to get that one.”
They’d made it to the corner. A sign said Bus Stop. Kat saw a bus coming toward them, heading the opposite direction from where she needed to go. “Oh. Um, do you live far?”
“I’m staying with my daddy,” Conny piped up again.
“Shut up, Conny!” Rochelle hissed. “Don’t go blabbing all our business.”
“It’s all right, Rochelle.” Kat hastened to reassure her. “I won’t be telling anyone. But I’d really like to see you and Conny again. Could we—”
The bus wheezed to a stop in front of them. “Sheridan and Broadway,” a mechanical voice blared as the doors folded open.
“My bus. Gotta go.” Rochelle pushed Conny ahead of her as they climbed the steps into the bus. But just before the doors closed, she turned. “Thanks. You’re okay.”
“Bye, Cat!” yelled the little boy. “Meowww! See ya later!”
The doors closed. Kat saw them moving down the aisle. Then the bus pulled away and they were gone.
The bus had said “151 / Lake Shore Drive / Union Station.” Not much of a clue where they lived.
Forgetting her tired feet, Kat pondered the strange encounter all the way home. Conny said he was living with his daddy. What daddy? The photo in the Douglasses’ living room was just Rochelle and Conny. Was Rochelle living with “daddy” too? But if so, why was she Dumpster-diving?
Well, why are you Dumpster-diving, Kathryn Davies? she asked herself. Maybe you’re not the only one who doesn’t like to see food wasted.
Still, something didn’t add up.
Finally dragging into the foyer of their building, Kat used her mailbox key to check for mail and pulled out a wad of envelopes and flyers. Mostly junk. A few things for the Candys. With e-mail and cell phones, none of the students got much mail.
But riffling through the wad as she climbed to the second floor, Kat saw her name on a square envelope. Her father’s handwriting.
A card from home!
Grinning, Kat hustled up the last few stairs to the front door and let herself in. “I’m back,” she called out. “And famished. Save any supper for me?” She dumped her backpack on the dining room table and headed into the kitchen to get a knife to open the envelope.
Olivia followed her into the kitchen. “I was worried about you! You should call if you’re going to be so late. It’s almost eight o’clock!”
Kat found a knife and slit open her card. “Livie. I’ve got my cell phone. You can call me if you’re worried.”
Olivia opened the refrigerator and pulled out a plate with a pot lid covering it. “Just some catfish and rice. Hope it warms up okay.”
“Mm. I’m sure it’s fine. I brought some lettuce. I’ll make a salad to go with it.” As Kat took off the pot lid and stuck the cold plate in the microwave, she saw Olivia’s troubled face. “I’m sorry, Livie. You’re right. I should’ve called. Sorry I worried you. But I’m fine. Where’s Bree?”
“Working at the coffee shop, remember? It was only Nick and me for supper. But Mrs. Douglass came down a little while ago. She invited us to have supper with them Saturday night.”
“Really? Mrs. Douglass?” The faces of Rochelle and little Conny standing in the alley behind the grocery store flashed in her mind, and her uneasy feelings returned.
“Yeah. We told her this was our last week of mini-term, and she said it could be an end-of-school celebration. Though the Chicago public schools don’t get out for another week.”
Kat nodded. “That’ll be nice.” She waved the envelope as the microwave beeped. “Got a card from my folks. Do you mind?”
Olivia took the hint and disappeared. Sitting down at the kitchen table with the plate of leftover food, Kat pulled out the card. A Hallmark card that said “Thinking of You.” Inside was a nice little ditty and underneath in her father’s handwriting she read, “Home from the cruise. Had a great time! Love, Dad.”
That was it.
Chapter 31
Sitting at the dining room table staring at the screen on her laptop, Avis heard a key click in the lock and the front door open. “Peter?” she called.
Her husband poked his head into the large alcove that functioned as their dining room. “Nope, just the boogeyman,” he said, dumping his briefcase on a chair and loosening his tie. “Anything to eat?”
“I picked up some chicken from Jamaican Jerk on the way home from prayer meeting. Some oxtail and beans too. Help yourself. How was the elders’ meeting?”
Avis had gone to the prayer meeting at SouledOut that had replaced the Wednesday night Bible study since Pastor Clark’s death, and Peter had met her there, coming straight from work. But Pastor had scheduled an elders’ meeting afterward, so she’d come home alone.
Peter just grunted and headed into the kitchen. �
��What are you doing? You’re worse than I am, bringing work home.”
“Not work,” she called after him. “I’m e-mailing Nony and Mark. They don’t even know about Pastor Clark’s death, unless someone else told them. But I’m also telling them that we have to put their invitation on hold indefinitely.”
“Yeah.”
For the next few minutes all Avis heard from the kitchen was Peter fixing himself a plate of food and warming it in the microwave. That “Yeah” sounded kind of glum. When he came back with his plate and sat down at the other end of the table, she closed the lid to her laptop and looked at him over the top of her reading glasses. “Okay. Out with it. What happened at the elders’ meeting?”
He shook his head slightly as he picked up a piece of chicken and took a bite. She waited. “Nothing really,” he finally said, mouth half full. “I mean, we talked about adding a discipleship class for new Christians, and who could mentor the teens who made a decision after the memorial service. That was good. Pastor asked us to recommend some members to preach on a rotating basis, at least once, maybe twice a month during this interim time.” Peter kept eating, talking between bites. “And we talked about the upcoming congregational meeting next week, went over the budget, how we’re doing at midyear . . .”
Peter busied himself with his food for the next few minutes.
“And?”
Peter laid down his fork and let out a long sigh. “I don’t know, Avis. Just . . . got a funny feeling. We were talking about the meeting next week and how to take the vote on Pastor’s recommendation about interim pastors. And David started raising a lot of issues to consider. Setting a time limit on the interim. Selecting a committee to start the pastoral search process. Even expressed a concern that this appointment was too much to ask of us, since we both have full-time jobs. But . . .”
David Brown. Mary Brown’s husband. Avis got a funny feeling too.
Peter frowned. “Just got a feeling that that wasn’t what he was really saying. That he was dancing around the fact that he didn’t really support the idea of us in that role. Not sure why. I’ve always gotten along with David all right. Don’t always agree with him about church stuff, but that’s why we have several elders. We’re not close or anything, but we’ve always been cordial. So maybe I’m just imagining things.”