The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  Chanda beamed—until we cut the cake. “Dat cake! Why she so red?” Her eyes rounded, as if suspecting someone had bled into it. But Stu cut a huge bite from the slice on Chanda’s paper plate and teased her into opening her mouth. And then . . . “Mmm.” Chanda’s eyes rolled back in blissful delight at the velvety chocolate taste.

  Four enormous bites later, she handed her plate to Stu for a second slice and opened the card. I’d used a sheet of pale gold vellum and a pretty script font, trying to find something that expressed “dignified.” But as she read silently, tiny frown lines pinched between her brows. She looked up. “Dis no joke? Me name mean ‘dignified’?”

  I nodded. “I looked for a name spelled C-H-A-N-D-A. It’s Hindi.”

  “Hindi! What’s dat?”

  “India’s official language—or one of them.”

  The frown deepened. “Oh.” A pause. “Guess dat explains it.”

  Now I was surprised. I’d expected her to protest that she wasn’t from India, that there had to be a mistake. But now we all looked at her, curious. “Explains what?” I blurted.

  Chanda shrugged. “De mon from India, dey like Jamaica. One mon come, soon all de brothers and cousins come too. Yah, mon. All de family. Own all de jewelry stores, all de shops for tourists in town. Some peoples tink dey take all de jobs. But me mama, she ’ave a good friend . . .” Another shrug. “We kids called her Missus Siddhu. But mi tink Mama maybe name mi after she friend.”

  “Read the inside,” I urged. I’d found a perfect quotation about dignity in Bartlett’s Quotations and was feeling smug.

  No race can prosper till it learns

  That there is as much dignity

  In tilling a field

  As in writing a poem.

  —Booker T. Washington

  I thought Chanda would be pleased, but her lip quivered. “You just making fun of mi. Mi know what you tink—Chanda some kind of fool, get rich quick, just a cleaning woman dressed in fancy clothes.”

  I started to protest, but Avis got up quickly, moved behind Chanda, resting both hands on her round shoulders, and began to pray. “Lord, Your Word says that You created us in Your image. That means Chanda has the stamp of God on her life, giving her a dignity that no one can take away from her. Help her to see herself as You see her, Lord—beautiful, dignified, worthy, noble, Your highest creation!”

  Nony carried the prayer. “Yes, yes! And this is a special birthday, Father, because the breast cancer was found early and You have given our dear sister another year of life!—to praise You, serve You, and be a blessing to all of us, her sisters and her friends. Help her to hold her head up high, with dignity, for she is Your daughter, Your child, Your precious creation.”

  This was followed by a chorus of “Amen!” “Hallelujah!” and “Thank ya, Jesus!”

  Chanda said nothing. But her eyes glistened as she fished in her bag for a tissue and blew her nose.

  Resuming her seat, Avis said, “As long as we’re praying, do we have other prayer requests? What about your boy, Florida? Has he had a hearing yet?”

  Florida’s forehead puckered. “Some good news. Peter Douglass—Carl works for Avis’s husband, ya know—found a good defense lawyer who’s gonna represent Chris pro bono. Says he believes Chris’s story, that he just caught a ride with those gangbangers, didn’t know nothin’ about the robbery that was gonna go down. Smucker’s the name.” She rolled her eyes. “At least I ain’t gonna forget his name.”

  The rest of us snickered. We weren’t going to forget it either.

  “But what’s next?” Yo-Yo asked. “Chris had a prelim yet?”

  Florida shook her head. “That’s comin’ up. But what worries me is, the perp that robbed that 7-Eleven was eighteen, is bein’ charged as an adult. The state’s attorney is hot to charge all those boys as adults, rather than juveniles.” Tears collected, threatening to spill. “Chris only fourteen! If they find him guilty under that accountability law an’ he goes to prison . . . oh, Jesus!” She buried her face in her hands.

  “Uh . . .” Becky Wallace, our other ex-con, cleared her throat. “I’m not so good at prayin’ out loud, but I’d like to pray for Chris.” And she did, stumbling here and there, but asking God plain and simple to keep Florida’s boy in the juvie system.

  I thought we were going to close our prayer time, but Edesa waved her hand. “Sisters, Manna House needs our prayers. Not only prayers, it needs warm bodies—several more volunteers willing to give a day or two every month.” She lowered her dark lashes a moment and leaned forward, clasping her hands. “I—I don’t want to put pressure on anyone, but I’d like to ask if any of you would be willing to volunteer.”

  Ack. There it was again. I could hear Josh’s voice in my ear. “Mom, if you volunteered, maybe some of the other Yadas would too.” I looked around the room. I don’t need to go first—maybe several others will volunteer and that will be enough. My eyes alighted on Avis. Like Avis. Good grief, why not? She’s got a daughter at the shelter, for heaven’s sake!

  As if my thoughts had appeared on my forehead in an LED readout, Avis spoke up. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, since my own daughter and grandson are at Manna House. But to tell you the truth, I think that’s why I shouldn’t volunteer. It puts both Rochelle and me in an awkward position—and things are awkward enough. Maybe there is some other way I can help.”

  Becky Wallace waved her hand. “I’d like to volunteer. Could do it Saturday—Bagel Bakery’s closed for Shabbat. But not Sunday. That’s the day I get Little Andy.”

  “I dunno, Becky,” Yo-Yo said. “You’re still on parole. Might not go over so good with your PO. Better check it out.”

  The room was quiet. I knew Delores worked weekend shifts at the county hospital . . . Chanda had little kids at home . . . Nony’s husband still needed nursing care . . . Saturday was the busiest day at Adele’s Hair and Nails . . . even Stu had DCFS visits to make on the weekends . . .

  That pretty much left me.

  Think of the possibilities, Jodi.

  The Voice within my spirit was surprisingly gentle. Beckoning. As if this wasn’t something I ought to do, but a privilege, an adventure. The next step in the God-journey I was on—though I had to admit it felt more like a roller coaster than a mere step.

  But I raised my hand. “Um, Edesa? I’d like to volunteer . . . I think.”

  5

  Winter vacation slam-dunked to a finish by dropping temperatures to a mere five degrees Sunday night, and the ever-cheerful weather guy said Chicago could expect more snow and below-freezing temps all week. As I spooned hot oatmeal into bowls for the Baxter crew Monday morning, I batted my eyelashes at Denny. “Any chance I can get a ride to school on your way?” If flirting didn’t work, I could always use the rod in my leg—left over from my car accident a year and a half ago—as an excuse.

  “Me, too, Dad.” Amanda flopped into a dining room chair, dropping her book bag on the floor. “It’s murder out there. Wonka told me so, didn’t ya, baby?” She scratched Willie Wonka’s rump before dumping a mountain of brown sugar on her oatmeal.

  “Hey!” Denny said, grabbing the sugar bowl.

  Good, I thought. About time Denny did some of the nagging.

  “. . . Leave some for me!” he finished, matching her brown-sugar mountain granule for granule. I rolled my eyes. They were both hopeless.

  Gulping his oatmeal, Denny glanced at his watch. As the new athletic director at West Rogers High School, he didn’t like to be late. I knew dropping me off at Bethune Elementary a few blocks away was one thing; but Lane Tech College Prep was at least two or three miles out of his way—in rush-hour traffic on slick roads. But leave his little princess standing at a bus stop in weather like this? Ha. “Okay,” he said. “Everybody in the car in three minutes.”

  So I got to school forty-five minutes early. Not a bad thing. I had time to organize my lessons for the day, hunt up chalk and erasers, which had somehow disappeared over Christmas vacation, and
best of all, walk up and down the rows of desks, praying for my third-grade students by name.

  The laminated names taped to each desk were a little dogeared but still readable. “Lord, bless Abrianna this semester. Help me encourage her when she wants to give up, when she thinks she can’t do it . . . and Caleb. Oh, Lord, he’s so bright! But he needs a little humility too. The other kids tend to avoid him because of his bragging. I think he’s lonely . . . Thank You for Mercedes, God. She is Your special creation, even though the kids tease her because of her weight. I’ve seen Big Mama, too, so it’s no surprise . . . and Carla, Lord. That little girl’s been through so much! Now her big brother’s been arrested. When she lashes out, help me to remember that she’s scared . . .”

  Because of the cold weather, the kids lined up in the gym instead of on the playground when the bell rang. Carla was first in line, the pink fur of her jacket hood framing her dark eyes and creamy brown face. “Miz Baxter?” She tugged on my sweater. “Miz Baxter!”

  Two boys started pushing at the back of the line, and the kids were standing so close to each other I was afraid they’d all go down like dominoes. “Lamar! Demetrius! Stop that!—not now, Carla.”

  By the time I’d herded the kids into our room, marshaled coats, boots, and mittens into the general vicinity of the coat pegs, and collected the take-home folders, I’d totally forgotten Carla’s question. But she obviously hadn’t. She appeared beside my desk, jiggling impatiently, but I held up my hand, palm out, as the office intercom came on and a fifth grader led the whole school—remotely—in the Pledge of Allegiance.

  “—withlibertyan’justiceforall,” Carla gushed. “Miz Baxter?”

  “What, Carla?”

  “You said if it snowed, we could build a snowman.” She pointed a finger at the bank of windows running along the classroom wall, a miniature prosecutor pointing out the culprit in the courtroom.

  “Oh, Carla.” I had, hadn’t I. What was I thinking?! I walked over to the windows, ignoring the noise level rising around me. The six inches of snow that fell on Sunday had been trampled Monday morning by the diehards who had started off “back to school” with a rousing snowball fight. “I don’t know, honey . . . the playground is pretty much a mess.”

  Carla’s eyes narrowed. “But you promised. Crossed your heart and hoped to die.”

  Right. I glanced at the thermometer outside the window. Nudging slowly upward, a whopping fifteen degrees now. Maybe we’d get more snow by the end of the day . . .

  I leaned close to Carla’s ear. “All right,” I whispered. “We can try. But don’t say anything to the other children, or the deal’s off.” Mention snowman making and I’d be nagged to death by short people all day.

  At lunchtime, Carla blocked my way, arms folded, giving me The Look. I shook my head, stalling. What should I do? Keep Carla after school? Wait until the other kids had gone home?

  My slower readers were parked on the Story Rug after lunch, plowing in jerks and starts through Charlotte’s Web, when Carla yelled from her desk, “Look!” The telltale finger pointed toward the windows. A curtain of powdered-sugar snow sifted past the glass. “Now we can make a snowman!” she announced.

  An immediate stampede to the windows ensued. “Yea!”

  I took a deep breath and glanced at the clock. Two-ten. If I took my class outside to build snowmen before the last bell, other classes would probably hear them and mutiny. Even if I wasn’t censured for ignoring the no-early-dismissal policy, the other teachers would be mad. But I couldn’t keep all the children after school. After-school childcare buses would be waiting; parents would show up, impatient to drag their progeny off to violin lessons or ice hockey.

  But I was reluctant to extinguish the eager anticipation shining in the eyes of the kids. Here in the city, how many of them had ever built a snowman? If we just plowed on with our reading lesson, this day would simply melt into the pool of all the other school days. But if we built a snowman, we’d create a childhood memory that might linger for years. A memory like . . .

  I was in third grade, chewing on my pencil and trying to do my sheet of division problems, when my teacher tapped me on the shoulder. “Your father is here.” I looked up, startled. Was something wrong? But he stood in the doorway, hat in hand, smiling. I grabbed my lunch box and followed him to the car; my two brothers were already slouched in the backseat. What was going on? They shrugged. Daddy was mum. Didn’t say a thing. Just drove to the Veterans Memorial Auditorium in Des Moines, surrounded by enormous billboards shouting, “CIRCUS!” with pictures of gold-and-black tigers jumping through flaming hoops and clowns in whiteface and bushy red hair.

  It was one of those magic memories of childhood. Funny thing is, I don’t remember much about the circus. What still makes me giggle is that Daddy took us out of school just to have fun . . .

  “Everybody! Come to my desk. No talking.” Wide-eyed, the children crowded around my desk. I’d never called them to come around my desk, all at the same time. Something was up and they knew it. I lowered my voice and we made plans. Wait another twenty minutes. Then quietly get on our coats and boots. Silently tiptoe down the hall and out to the playground, like mice creeping past a big cat. By then, I figured, there would only be ten minutes before the bell rang. By the time the other students or teachers heard us, it’d hardly be worth complaining about.

  BY THREE-TEN, three lopsided snowmen stood in the school playground. Two were sightless, since we only found two small rocks to use for eyes. One had a branch sticking out of its side for an “arm.” But all three wore brightly colored knit caps and scarves, donated by junior Good Samaritans who insisted the snowmen needed something. I’d have to rescue the hats and scarves before leaving the school grounds, but for now . . .

  “They bee-yoo-tee-ful,” Carla breathed. She was the last kid to leave.

  I grinned. “Yep. But off you go. Cedric picking you up?”

  She shook her head. “Nah. I walk by myself. Mama be home soon.” Her eyes lit up. “Maybe now Daddy help Cedric an’ me build another snowman at home! We got us a backyard now, you know.” She ran off, her backpack bumping on her rump like a loose saddle.

  I stopped in at the school office, took off my gloves, and knocked on Avis’s inner office door, which was slightly ajar. She was on the phone, dressed in black slacks, white silk blouse, and black-and-white costume jewelry, dark hair neatly wound into a French roll. She held up a finger to wait. I loitered by the bulletin board in the main office, reading the school lunch menu for January: chicken tenders with muffin, cheese or pepperoni pizza slice, peanut-butter sandwich with fruit cup, turkey hot dog on bun . . . until I heard her say, “All right . . . Thursday. Yes . . . me too. Bye.”

  I slipped into her office and closed the door, unzipping my down jacket. “I’m here to confess before you get a complaint.”

  She put down the phone and glanced in my direction.

  “I took my class outside ten minutes before the last bell and we built snowmen. Guilty as charged.” I grinned, fishing a tissue from my jacket pocket and swiping my still-icy nose. “Call it outdoor education.”

  “Jodi Baxter,” she snapped. “What are you talking about?”

  “Uh . . . snowmen.” Her tone of voice caught me completely off guard. I thought Avis would be my ally in this minor flouting of school dismissal policy. “Took my kids outside before dismissal and . . .”

  Her eyes wandered. I could tell I’d lost the connection. She was frowning at the phone. Sheesh, Jodi. I felt like slapping myself upside the head. I’d just blundered into her office, didn’t even ask if it was a good time—and now that I thought about it, her last few words on the phone had sounded personal.

  “Sorry, Avis. Uh . . . are you okay? Is something wrong?”

  Avis sighed and sank down into her desk chair. “Yes. Maybe . . . I don’t know, Jodi.” She propped her elbows on the arms of the high-backed desk chair and pressed the tips of her fingers against her temples. “That was Rochelle
. . .”

  I waited.

  She finally looked up at me and shook her head. “Just when I think God’s answering our prayers, we get blindsided from a different direction.”

  This sounded like Are-you-sitting-down? news. I pulled up a cushioned chair.

  “Manna House routinely asks residents to get HIV testing. No big deal. We knew that.” Avis blew out another breath. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Rochelle’s came back positive.”

  6

  Positive! But . . . I mean, how could . . .” I stopped, embarrassed. But my mind churned. Dexter was the one who’d been running around on his wife. Nobody would be surprised if he turned up HIV-positive. But sweet Rochelle? “Is that for sure?” I finished lamely. “I mean, isn’t there such a thing as a false positive?”

  Avis shrugged. “We can hope. Rochelle insists it’s impossible, says she’s never been unfaithful to Dexter. She’s going back for a retest on Thursday. Wants me to go with her—though I’m not sure why. She won’t get the results for another week.” She smiled weakly. “But at this point, it’s enough that she wants me to go.”

  “Oh, Avis.” I could hardly imagine hearing that kind of news about my daughter. People with HIV were at risk for AIDS, and people with AIDS often died a terrible, lingering death. I suddenly felt like throwing up.

  Avis took a deep breath, as if collecting herself. “So . . . what’s this about a snowman?”

  I snorted. “Nothing.” Which was the truth. Here today, gone tomorrow. I reached for her hand across the desk; she put both of hers in mine. What could I say? If she were in my shoes, Avis would probably offer a comforting scripture or pray. But what did one pray in a situation like this? Oh Lord, make it go away! Heal Rochelle! We know You’re going to do it! . . . I couldn’t. The words seemed hollow. Dishonest. A cliché. I didn’t know what God would do.