Stand by Me

by Neta Jackson

  Now. She tried to slip unobtrusively around the group toward the door situated between the living room and dining alcove, but Edesa caught her eye and left her seat, meeting Kat at the door. “There you are,” she whispered as voices prayed aloud in the circle. “Wondered where you’d disappeared to. Brygitta left before we could offer her some cake. Would you like to take some downstairs for the four of you? Our thanks for helping with our birthday surprise tonight.”

  Kat jerked a thumb back down the hall. “Had to use the restroom . . . uh, maybe later for the cake.” She really needed to get out of there before Mrs. D realized she was still there. With a quick wave she was out the door and padding down the carpeted stairs to the apartment below.

  Kat was grinning. Mission accomplished!

  Kat left early the next morning so she could walk with Olivia as far as the Morse Avenue El Station. “Have fun doing your Mary Poppins thing!” She waved as Livie disappeared into the lower area to buy her ticket. They’d all offered to take turns walking Olivia to the El in the morning until she got used to taking public transportation, though she had to walk home by herself since they couldn’t be certain which train she’d catch in the evening. So far, so good.

  The day had started out cool and was only supposed to hit the low seventies. Kat was glad for the walk to Bethune Elementary, just a half mile through typical Rogers Park residential blocks, each a mixture of big old frame houses with verandas and brick two-flats and three-flats. Walking gave her time to think.

  The prayer group that met at the Douglasses’ last night—What did they call it? Yada Yada? Odd—was something else. She’d been so fixated on getting Rochelle’s birthday gift to her mom that she hadn’t really thought about it till now. The group was mixed, just like SouledOut. White. Black. Hispanic. And . . . whatever you called someone like Edesa Baxter, who was black but from Central America. Sounded like the women shared a lot of personal stuff and then prayed about it.

  Kat felt an ache in her spirit. She wished she could share things with other women like that and pray about them. She and her apartment-mates had prayed together a few times about stuff—the move, needing jobs—but not on a regular basis. And even though she’d tried to read through the Bible a couple times, she’d gotten stuck in all those stupid genealogies and prophetic rantings and ended up mostly reading the Psalms and the Gospels. When she read the Bible at all, that is, which was usually only two or three times a week.

  Something was wrong with this picture. She’d decided to become a Christian at that summer music fest and had made some pretty major decisions because of it—like transferring to Crista University—and she really wanted to follow the teachings of Jesus. But . . . what exactly did it mean to have a personal relationship with God? When Mrs. Douglass and others at SouledOut worshiped, it was like they were communicating with Someone they knew intimately and loved deeply. Was that why Kat couldn’t “get into it” herself? That she didn’t really “know” God? Did she love Him?

  She liked the worship at SouledOut, but if she was honest, it was mostly like observing a cultural experience she admired. Only a few times had she actually felt as if she was worshiping.

  The elementary school loomed up ahead, taking up a whole block. She was early . . . so Kat slowed down, still thinking about last night. She’d heard Mrs. Douglass say it’d been four months since she’d seen her daughter and grandson, and they couldn’t find her. So they didn’t know where she was, or that Conny was living with his dad! And something must’ve gone wrong in Camelot, because Mrs. D had asked for prayer that she and her husband could agree on how much to help Rochelle—and Rochelle had been very adamant when his name came up: “He’s not my dad!”

  Whatever it was, it must’ve been a big family blowup.

  But Rochelle was obviously hurting. Looking scared. Anxious. Dumpster-diving because she had to, not because she wanted to. And though Kat didn’t know for sure, she guessed Conny was living only with his dad, not his mom. Why?

  Kat’s heart sank. Maybe Rochelle didn’t have a place to live. Maybe that was why Conny was staying with his dad, even though—Oh! If Mrs. Douglass had any idea what the real situation was, she’d be frantic!

  Kat stopped in the middle of the school parking lot. A new thought pierced her mind as if she’d been struck by lightning.

  She had to think of a way to get Rochelle and her mom back together again.

  At first Kat had a hard time focusing as Mrs. Douglass welcomed the volunteers, wondering if the woman had found Rochelle’s gift on the dresser. She didn’t say anything—but why would she? She wouldn’t know Kat had anything to do with it.

  But her interest was piqued as everyone introduced themselves. Several college students from Northwestern and Loyola, a few parents, even a few people she knew, like Jodi and Denny Baxter—Jodi was tutoring reading and English as a Second Language, and Denny was doing afternoon sports—and Estelle Bentley, the “birthday girl,” who was responsible for putting out breakfast and making sack lunches, but said she had to leave in time to cook lunch at the Manna House Women’s Shelter.

  Breakfast? Kat scanned the daily schedule Mrs. Douglass handed out. First thing when the kids arrived, they got milk, cereal, and juice, “. . . because a good many arrive without having breakfast,” Mrs. D explained. Then story time, divided by age groups . . . tutoring in various subjects in groups no larger than three or four . . . supervised games in the gym or on the playground . . . and finally a choice between computer time or drama. Those who stayed for afternoon sports or field trips got a sack lunch.

  “We have twenty-seven children signed up so far, but once the program is going, I’m sure we’ll have an influx from neighborhood kids who see what’s going on and want to get in on it, or parents who suddenly realize their kids don’t have anyone watching out for them. So if you know any more volunteers”—Mrs. Douglass opened her arms wide—“we can use them all.”

  Estelle’s husband, the ex-cop, showed up midmorning to talk about safety and security issues, and he handed out legal forms to fill out, as everyone had to pass a background check in order to work with children in the Chicago schools.

  Registration forms, parental release forms, field trip forms for parents to sign . . . Kat’s head was swimming by the time she headed out the door with the other volunteers. She barely had enough time to get home, grab an apple for her lunch, and get to the coffee shop to relieve Bree for the second half of their shift.

  But she was looking forward to tomorrow. She’d been assigned to tutor math and science, and she had volunteered to assist with the drama group.

  Only one thing nagged at her spirit. Last week Rochelle had said to meet her again, same time, same place, probably to make sure Kat had been able to deliver the gift to her mom. That would be good news—mission accomplished. But between now and then, could she think of a way to persuade Rochelle to end this estrangement with her folks?

  She was still thinking about this after her shift at the coffee shop as she turned into their street. How she wished she could share the whole thing with Nick and Bree and Livie and pray about it together! But . . . had she even prayed about it herself?

  Lord, she breathed, using her key to let herself into the stairwell of their apartment, please help me think of a way to get Rochelle and her mom back together again—

  She stopped on the first landing. Maybe that prayer was kind of presumptuous. It depended on God, didn’t it? Not just her?

  Lord, please bring Rochelle and her mom back together again—and if You can use me somehow, please show me what to do.

  Feeling a little better about her prayer, Kat used her key to open the front door and called out, “I’m home! What’s for sup—” She stopped midsentence. Olivia was sitting on the couch, her face bruised, scraped, and scrunched in pain as Bree carefully dabbed hydrogen peroxide on her bloody forehead. Nick had his arm around the girl protectively. “Wha—what happened?!” Kat cried.

  Seeing Kat, Olivia started
to weep. Nick shook his head, his expression dark. “Some punk grabbed Livie’s purse as she came down the stairs at the El station, made her fall the last six steps.” Olivia’s whole body was shaking as she cried, and she leaned into Nick’s shoulder. “Police car brought her home. Nothing’s broken but . . . she’s pretty shook up.”

  “Oh, Livie.” Kat knelt down beside her three friends and took one of Olivia’s limp hands. “I’m so sorry, so sorry.”

  Olivia lifted her head and opened weepy blue eyes, her mascara smudged, her lips trembling. “I w-want to go home, Kat. I . . . I just want to go home!”

  Chapter 38

  It had been a long day, and Avis’s feet hurt. After the morning training session for STEP, she had visited five more local businesses, trying to expand her list of sponsors. Only two of the five had promised to donate actual money, but one of the pizza places on Sheridan had promised to send over two large cheese pizzas each Friday as an alternative to the daily bag lunch. Well, every little bit helped.

  Now, sprawled on the couch with her feet up, Avis had just clicked off the news and started thinking about supper when Peter came in the door. “You’re home early,” she said. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.” He tossed his briefcase on a chair and loosened his tie. “Now that Carl’s back, I get to leave at a decent hour. Uh, say . . . I just saw a police car pull away from the front of the building. Any idea what that was about?”

  She shook her head. “Didn’t hear anything. Maybe someone else on the block called them and they just parked here. Happens.”

  “Yeah. Probably. Ahhhh . . .” Peter sank into the leather recliner. “Feels good to get off my feet. Can you toss me the remote?”

  Avis waggled the remote in her hand. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Like, ‘How was your training day for the summer program, sweetie? Do you have enough volunteers? Getting enough sponsors?’ ”

  Peter grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. How was your training day for the summer program, sweetheart? Do you have enough volunteers?”

  Avis swung her feet off the couch and tossed the remote into his lap as she got up. “Getting there. We could use a few more men . . .” She started down the hall toward the bedroom, then poked her head back into the living room. “Oh. Forgot to tell you that Kathryn Davies from downstairs stopped by the school office on Friday to pick up an application. And she showed up for training today. I hope it works out. Her work schedule might be a problem. She’s enthusiastic at least.” Heading down the hall again, she called back, “I’m going to change out of these clothes and get into something comfy. Got any suggestions for supper?”

  But he’d already turned the TV on and probably didn’t hear her.

  Mm, the bed looked inviting. She was tempted to crawl under the duvet and forget about supper . . . but instead she reached around to the back of her neck, unclasped the silver and turquoise necklace she’d worn with the white embroidered cotton tunic and black slacks she’d worn that day, and opened her jewelry box to put it away. Absently straightening the framed picture of her and Peter on their honeymoon, she noticed something behind it keeping the frame from sitting back in its place. What’s this?

  Moving the photo, she picked up a small package wrapped in brown paper—like grocery bag paper—and a red ribbon. No name, no tag—but it must be for her since it was on her dresser. Sitting down on the bed, she slid the ribbon off, unwrapped the brown paper, and looked at the box. White, square. She lifted the lid . . . and stared.

  Ruby earrings.

  Avis’s lips parted. Where did . . . Oh, of course. Peter had said if they didn’t find the earrings, he’d replace them. But these were exactly like the ones he’d given her before. Was that possible? It had been a month and a half since she’d discovered they were missing. He must have waited until he found the exact same earrings again.

  Sweet of him.

  Well. She was not going to get out that fancy red dress and put it on just to show off these earrings. But she could put them on long enough to thank him. Quickly shedding her work clothes, she pulled on a pair of white capris, toe sandals, and a light pink top and then carefully slid the ruby earrings into the holes in her ears.

  But looking at herself in the mirror, Avis had to blink back tears. The ruby earrings were beautiful—but did she even want to wear them? They reminded her of that awful night she’d last worn them . . . Rochelle showing up, crying, desperate, saying she’d been evicted, wanting them to take her in. Peter refusing. Taking her and Conny to the shelter the next day, and then . . . nothing. Weeks of silence. Never returning phone calls. And then on their anniversary, discovering that the ruby earrings were missing . . .

  Practically ripping the earrings out of her ears, Avis put them back in the box. She was tempted to just put the box back, pretend she hadn’t found it. Obviously Peter had wanted to surprise her, hiding the box, but just barely, wanting her to find it. The earrings had been his wedding gift to her in the first place. And now he was “gifting” her again.

  All right, Avis, suck it up and give your husband some sugar for thinking of you.

  Blotting the wetness from her cheeks and touching up her lipstick, Avis took a big breath, picked up the box, and walked back out to the living room. Leaning over the recliner, she kissed him on the mouth and smiled into his eyes. “Thank you, honey. I found your surprise.”

  Peter leaned around her, trying to watch whatever he’d been watching on the TV. “Surprise?”

  Uh-huh. Playing dumb. “Yes, surprise.” She snatched the remote from his hand and hit the Off button. “This surprise.” She held out the box, minus its brown paper wrapping and red ribbon.

  “Hey, I was watching the news about that earthquake in China . . . What’s that?”

  Okay, she’d play along. She teased him with the box and then opened the lid. “Thank you, Peter. You didn’t have to replace them, but . . . it’s very sweet.”

  Peter’s eyebrows went up. Reaching out a finger, he touched the earrings and then looked up at her. “The ruby earrings? But, Avis, I didn’t replace them.”

  Avis just stared at him. Her lips suddenly went dry. “You—you didn’t? Then—” The enormity of what Peter had just said began to sink in. “Then how did . . . ? Who . . . ?”

  Slowly Avis sank down onto the ottoman. Peter let down the footrest and leaned forward in the recliner. “Well, now we know they weren’t just misplaced or lost. Whoever took them has returned them.”

  “Rochelle,” Avis whispered. She licked her dry lips. “She’s been here. She put them on my dresser. But how did she get in? And . . . what does it mean?”

  She had Peter’s attention now. “Something good, I think,” he said. “She’s reaching out—”

  A rapid knock on the front door startled them both. Then an urgent voice. “Mr. Douglass? Mrs. Douglass? Are you home? Something’s happened. Please, we need to talk with you.”

  “That’s Nick,” Peter said, launching himself out of the recliner and striding quickly to the door. He pulled it open. “Nick! Come in. What’s happened?”

  “It’s Livie . . . Someone snatched her purse at the Morse Avenue El Station and made her fall down the stairs. She got pretty banged up.”

  “Oh no,” Avis murmured, joining her husband.

  Nick paced back and forth, nervously running one hand over his short hair. “The police brought her home. She didn’t want to go to the ER, mostly scrapes and bruises—but she won’t stop crying. Her purse had her ID, her checkbook, everything. We . . . Would you come down and speak with her? We really don’t know what to do.”

  “Of course. Just give me a minute.” Avis walked quickly back to their bedroom, put the box with the earrings on the dresser, picked up her Bible from the bedside table, and returned. She nodded at Peter. “We should both go.”

  Poor thing, Avis thought as they followed Nick down the stairs. Timid Olivia, of all people. But purse snatchers sensed these things, picked on the vulnerable, the n
ervous ones.

  Just as Nick said, Olivia was curled up on the couch, weeping in Brygitta’s arms. Her blond bangs had been pushed back, and Avis could see an angry lump swelling on the young woman’s forehead. Raw scrapes raked across her nose and cheeks, and she had a couple of bloody scrapes on her knees that looked as if they’d been washed and covered with some kind of ointment. The girl cradled one hand in her lap as if it hurt her. Kathryn sat on the floor nearby, shaking her head.

  Avis had a sudden pang of compassion for all of them. Babes in the woods—or babes on the streets, as it were. “Come,” she said, beckoning to Peter and Nick, both of whom looked uncomfortable with all this female weeping. Pulling up a hassock, she encouraged all five of them to lay hands—gently—on Olivia. “Oh God,” she prayed, “Your daughter Olivia needs the comforting presence of Your Holy Spirit right now. She’s been frightened, taken advantage of, and physically hurt. The Enemy wants to keep her afraid, but we are asking for a peace only You can give to fill Olivia’s heart and mind right now. She’s safe now, her wounds will heal. We thank You, Jesus, that it was only her purse that was taken, and not her life. We give You praise and glory for protecting Olivia from anything worse! Thank You, mighty God, thank You!”

  Olivia was still weeping.

  Leafing through her Bible, Avis stopped at Psalm 56 and then continued her prayer, using the scripture. “Be merciful to Olivia, O God, for an unknown assailant pursued and attacked her. This purse thief attacked her in his pride, thinking he could do this and get away with it, leaving her frightened and hurt. She is afraid—but help her to remember she can trust in You. We praise You, O God, for the promises in Your Word. In You we trust, so we do not need to be afraid! What can mere man do to us? Yes, hurt, steal, frighten—but You are a God of justice and compassion. Stop whoever did this and bring him to justice. And pour out Your compassion on Your precious daughter Olivia . . .”