The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  I winced. How many times did Florida have to put up with “My other mama always . . .”? The Department of Child and Family Services had taken the Hickman kids into state custody and put them in foster care for five years. That was before Florida got “saved an’ sober.” Now the Hickmans were trying to put their family back together again. And they’d come a long way, praise Jesus! They’d found the missing Carla, whose files had somehow been “misplaced” in the DCFS system. Peter Douglass had offered Flo’s husband a decent job at Software Symphony. They’d just moved out of a crowded apartment in the Edgewater district into a rented house here in Rogers Park. And Florida had been clean for six years now. Things had really been looking up . . .

  Until Chris got arrested, hopping a ride after school with some gangbanger who “just happened” to rob a 7-Eleven at gunpoint while Chris waited outside in the car.

  Carla was still waiting for an answer about the cookies. “Sorry, kiddo. Don’t have any cookies—but tell you what. Why don’t we make some? What kind do you like?”

  Carla’s eyes rounded. “Really? Can we make a whole bunch of cookies?” She hopped off her chair. “Oatmeal raisin chocolate chip! That’s what I wanna make.”

  I did a mental run-through of the cupboards. Oatmeal—check. Raisins—check. Chocolate chips—maybe. I scrapped the idea of parking Carla in front of some kid video while I graded homework papers. “Let’s do it.” I headed for the kitchen, expecting Carla to follow me, but turned back to see her still standing by the dining room table. I paused at the doorway. “You okay?”

  “It’s my birthday Saturday,” she blurted. “I’m gonna be ten.”

  “Why, that’s right. Amanda and I came to your birthday party last year.” A party Florida would rather forget. I wondered if there would be a party this year.

  “Since we gonna make cookies, can we make enough to take to school on Friday? Ya know, like some of the other mamas do when they kids have birthdays?”

  How easy to say, “Sure. No problem.” But was it a problem? How would Florida feel if I stepped in and did her mama thing? Except, I reasoned, given everything going on at the Hickman household, I doubted cookies for Carla’s third-grade classroom was on the priority list. Second problem. If my class found out the teacher made cookies for Carla, was I setting myself up to make cookies for all the kids’ birthdays? If not, would I be accused of playing favorites?

  But I grinned at Carla. Life was slippery; didn’t fit neatly into all the pigeonholes. We had to take risks—if the risk was about love. “Tell you what. Sure, we’ll make cookies you can take to class on Friday. On one condition.” I leaned close to her ear. “You can’t tell anybody at school that you made them at my house. Deal?”

  WE FOUND HALF A BAG of chocolate chips—some lowlife chocolate fiend had snacked away the other half, and it wasn’t Willie Wonka!—giving us enough goodies to make four dozen oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip cookies. Carla counted and recounted the cookies, making sure we saved enough so every kid in the class could have two, then insisted we leave those at my house. “Otherwise, they be gone by Friday,” she said darkly. “Cedric eat ’em all his own self.”

  I wasn’t sure they’d be any safer at my house, but I promised I’d guard them with my life—having to “cross my heart and hope to die” again.

  Denny took the call saying Hickmans were home and could we bring Carla? “What happened at the hearing?” I asked him. Denny just shrugged and shook his head.

  Men! Denny in particular was missing the curiosity gene. Which is why I took Carla home. I mean, did the case get dropped or not? Probably not. Wouldn’t whoever called have been praising God and yelling with joy if Chris’s case had been thrown out?

  Florida confirmed my fears, after sending Carla inside and closing the front door behind her, leaving us standing out on their front porch in thirty-degree weather. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the frosty air, eyes smoldering. “Judge turned down the petition. Said Smuckers could argue ‘not guilty’ at Chris’s trial. So that’s the next thing we facin’—another hearing to decide if he gets tried in juvie or in adult court. ’Cept they don’ call it a trial in juvie—a disposition or somethin’. No jury either. Just the judge, decidin’ my baby’s whole life.” She frowned at the cigarette. “Huh. Tryin’ ta give up these things, but it ain’t easy, not with all this crap goin’ on.”

  I felt tongue-tied. Sheesh! What could I say? I blew on my hands to warm them, then thrust them back into my jacket pockets. “How can I pray, Flo?”

  She sucked on the cigarette again and shook her head. “Don’ really know, Jodi. Sometimes it feel like my prayers just bouncin’ off the ceiling, know what I’m sayin’?” She flipped the cigarette stub into the darkness and sighed. “Maybe pray that Carl an’ me, we can just keep hangin’ on ta God’s hand.” She reached for the door handle. “Guess I’ll see ya Sunday. Thanks for keepin’ Carla.”

  I opened my mouth to ask if they were planning anything for Carla’s birthday on Saturday, but the door closed abruptly behind her.

  THE TV NEWS that night flashed the attractive face of a Palestinian woman who blew herself up along with four Israelis. Watching the news felt like a punch to the stomach. Oh God, not a woman! I didn’t understand the hatred that drove suicide bombers to throw their lives away to kill “the enemy.” But a woman? Women were life-givers! Weren’t we? Didn’t women keep the world sane when all hell was breaking loose?

  I felt so sick about it, I almost forgot to bring Carla’s cookies to school on Friday—I’d “hidden” them upstairs in Stu’s apartment to thwart the Baxter cookie monsters—but thankfully she remembered and dropped them off at the back door on her way to work. “Count ’em. They’re all there.” She grinned at me under her red felt beret and headed for the garage.

  Monday would be a school holiday—Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday—so we had a nice all-school program that Friday morning commemorating the civil rights leader. Back in our classroom, I mentioned that Carla Hickman almost shared a birthday with the famous African-American and had brought everyone a treat. Carla, true to her word, kept mum about the cookie origins, beamed happily as we sang “Happy Birthday” to her and to Dr. King, and only threatened to punch Lamar one time, when he started to help himself to the last four cookies, left over because two students were absent.

  “Those cookies are for . . . for Miz Douglass, ain’t that right, Miz Baxter?” Carla thrust the plastic container with the four orphan cookies at me. “You give ’em to her, okay?”

  Which gave me a lovely excuse to drop into Avis’s office at lunchtime, avoiding both the noisy cafeteria and the teachers’ lounge with its nonstop droning TV. But the moment I saw the tightness in her face, the missing smile, I remembered. Rochelle was supposed to get results back yesterday from the HIV retest.

  I shut the door to her office and sank into a chair. “Bad news?” I whispered.

  Avis nodded. Sudden tears glistened in her eyes and she grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk. “No question. Rochelle tested positive for the HIV virus.” The tears spilled and she blew her nose.

  “Oh, Avis.” I could barely grasp the reality of it. What did it mean? What was going to happen to Rochelle? Was there anything that could be done? How—

  Avis stood up abruptly and paced behind her desk, then turned back to me, her voice low and intense. “I am so angry, Jodi! So angry I could spit. Do you know why? Rochelle says Dexter is the only man she’s ever slept with, that she’s been faithful to him from day one.” The side of her mouth twisted slightly. “Well, she didn’t say whether day one was before or after their wedding day . . . but I believe her. Which means . . .” Avis gulped for air, as if she couldn’t breathe.

  I watched pain and anger twist Avis’s beautiful face into something almost terrifying.

  “Which means,” she finally breathed, “that Dexter is the one who infected her. That pretty-boy Don Juan has not only been abusing my daughter, but he’s going to kill h
er too.”

  9

  I was tempted to snuggle deeper under the covers the next morning when my inner alarm woke me up at six. Why couldn’t my body clock tell the difference between weekdays and weekends? But the memory of Avis’s muffled tears wetting my shoulder as we just held each other in her office the day before, got me out of bed and shuffling toward the kitchen to start the coffee. I needed some time alone to pray, to talk to God, to ask Him how in the world this made any sense!

  Ten minutes later I was in the recliner in the front room where the Christmas tree had stood, flipping open my Bible in the glow of the floor lamp. Denny’s warm robe and the hot coffee soothed my body, but I missed the glittering Christmas tree lights, as if cheer had been snuffed out from my spirit too.

  The Psalms . . . that’s what I needed. Good ol’ King David somehow got away with ranting at God when he was upset. Yeah, Psalm 69—that was a good one. I’d pray it on Avis’s and Rochelle’s behalf. Maybe mine too. I took a breath and spoke aloud in the stillness, my mind paraphrasing the verses even as I read.

  “God, it’s Jodi here. This news about Rochelle feels like floodwaters rising clear up to their necks, about to drown them. Avis is sinking right now into the mud, unable to keep her feet on solid ground. She’s overwhelmed, God! I’m sure she’s worn out calling on You for help, calling until she has no voice left! She’s looking for You, God—trying to understand why this is happening. Why aren’t You answering?”

  My eyes skimmed part of the chapter until I came to verse 13: “But I’m praying to You, O Lord, looking for Your favor. In Your great love, O God, answer me! Answer Avis! Answer Rochelle! Answer with your sure salvation. Rescue them, O God, from the muck. Don’t let them sink! Don’t let these floodwaters, this terrible disease, swallow them up! Don’t just throw Rochelle’s life away into a pit. Answer us, O Lord, out of the goodness of Your love! Answer quickly, because Avis and her family are in trouble, Lord, and it hurts—it hurts all of us who love them . . .”

  I heard Denny clear his throat behind me. “Uh, sorry to interrupt, babe. Just want to let you know I’m heading over to the church. Going to pick up Carl on the way.”

  “What?” I squinted at my watch. “It’s only six-forty! Doesn’t men’s breakfast start at eight o’clock?”

  “Yeah.” He came over to the recliner, bent down, and kissed my nose, smelling like mint toothpaste. “But Peter Douglass talked to Carl about the men at church praying for Chris, and for him and his family. Carl was kinda shy about it, said he’d rather do it with just a few guys he knows instead of the whole men’s breakfast. So a few of us are getting together ahead of time to pray with Carl.” I saw him grin in the glow of the lamplight. “I asked Ben Garfield to come. Said he would. Mark Smith is coming too.”

  “Really?” For a moment I forgot I was mad at God. “That’s great!” I chuckled. “God’s got Ben in His sights, for sure . . . oh! Let Wonka in, will you? He’s been out there quite a while.”

  When the back door closed behind Denny a few minutes later, I squeezed my eyes shut. Thank You, God. Thank You for reminding me that You are answering our prayers. Maybe not on our timeline, but we’ve been praying for Ben a long time, and there he is, joining the guys for a Jesus prayer meeting. I giggled to myself. Knowing Ben, half the reason he’d agreed to come was probably to get out of the house for a couple of hours, escaping baby duty. But who cared? Didn’t Ruth say Ben might go to church if he could hang out with Denny and the other Yada husbands?

  On the way to the coffee pot for a refill, I passed the kitchen calendar and realized I had one other thing to be thankful for this morning. I still had a whole week before I had to show up for overnight duty at Manna House.

  “HE WHAT?” I started laughing as Denny reported the morning’s events while he threw stuff into a small duffle bag. “He brought Isaac to the prayer meeting?” I still couldn’t get used to the image of white-haired Ben Garfield walking around with a baby in a baby carrier. Would wonders never cease?

  My grin faded. “Yeah. Isaac. Wish he paid that much attention to Havah. I think he overcompensates with Isaac because of that birthmark on his face.”

  “Yep. Fed him a bottle, burped him, put him to sleep over his shoulder. Gotta tell you, Jodi, that guy is nuts about that kid.”

  Denny shrugged, hunting for his clipboard. “Don’t worry about it. They’ve got twins, remember? Makes sense for them to divvy up the childcare.”

  Yeah, maybe. But I pushed the thought aside, following Denny back into the kitchen. “How was the prayer time with Carl? Did he stay for the men’s breakfast too?”

  He rummaged in the refrigerator. “Yeah, it was great. Just five of us—Peter, Mark, Ben, me, and Carl. Well, and Isaac.” He chuckled. “Gave Carl a chance to just talk about how he feels with his boy in lockup—he hides a lot of that, you know. He’s scared, big-time . . . Jodi? We got any more bottles of water in here?”

  I pulled one out of the refrigerator door, right in front of his nose.

  “Oh. Thanks.” He threw it in the duffle bag and shrugged into his down jacket. “But no, he didn’t stay for the men’s breakfast. Mostly because we all encouraged him to go home and take Carla out for breakfast for her birthday. Told him it was important not to neglect his other kids in his worry over Chris.”

  “Great idea!” Hopefully Ben Garfield would take the hint too.

  Denny headed for the back door. “Varsity game’s over by three. I should be home by four.” Pulling open the door, he waggled his eyebrows at me. “Anything happening tonight I should know about? Or can we go out? See? I’m asking early.”

  “Hm. I’ll think about it, see if I get any better offers . . . Just kidding! Close the door! No, wait.” I pulled Denny back inside and shut the door. “Did Peter Douglass mention anything about Rochelle? I mean, did you guys pray for her too?” I had told Denny the news about the HIV test and how devastated Avis was.

  He shook his head. “He didn’t say anything, and I hesitated to ask. You said yourself you didn’t know if Avis had told him yet. Look, I gotta go.”

  I leaned against the door after Denny left. I didn’t get it. Avis was a strong woman. She knew how to lean on God front and center, especially since Conrad died and left her a widow. But this thing with Rochelle was tearing her up! She needed the support of her new husband. Maybe she had told him, and Peter just didn’t want to bring it up, afraid it would take away from the focus on praying for the Hickmans.

  “I dunno, Wonka,” I muttered to the dog, stepping around his bulk as I headed for the basement to switch loads in the laundry. “I can’t figure Avis out, sometimes. But guess it’s not easy getting married in your fifties. Trying to merge your old family with your new one.” Down in the basement, I pulled a load of whites out of the dryer and stuffed wet wash-and-wear into it. But I knew one thing—I was gonna get on her case. She couldn’t keep this all bottled up inside. She needed support! And Rochelle did too.

  “IT’S NOT THAT EASY, JODI.” Avis spoke quietly into the phone. No tears now. “Rochelle isn’t ready to tell the world. People . . . react funny when they find out you have HIV or AIDS. You know that.”

  I did know that. Did I want someone who was HIV-positive or had AIDS to check out my groceries? Handle my money at the bank? Teach my kid at school? It was hard to let go of the myths about how HIV could be transmitted when it got in-your-face personal.

  “And the minute someone says they are HIV-positive,” she went on, “everybody’s thinking, ‘Oh, are you gay?’ Or, ‘Must’ve been sleeping around, tsk tsk.’ ”

  Exactly.

  “But to defend herself, Rochelle would have to point the finger at Dexter—and she’s not ready to do that. He hasn’t even been tested yet.”

  “Why in the world would she want to protect Dexter?” The cad.

  “I think”—her voice got tight—“she’s hoping they could work it out, get back together. He is Conny’s daddy, you know.”

  I stifled a snort, cra
dling the phone in my ear while I pulled a clean towel out of the laundry basket and started folding. When I could trust myself, I got to the point: “The thing is, Avis, how can Yada Yada pray for Rochelle and Conny—and you!—if you keep this a secret? In fact, did you tell Peter yet?”

  A silent beat hung in the air. Then, “Yes. Yes, I did. Last night. He . . . didn’t say much. Just held me and let me cry.”

  Well, good. That was a start. I glanced at the clock. Almost four. “I better go, Avis. Denny wants to go out tonight and I still gotta do something with this rag-mop hair. See you tomorrow at Yada Yada? We’re meeting at . . .” I looked at the list posted on one of the kitchen cupboard doors. “Florida’s house. Wait—do you think that’s a good idea? I mean, what they’re going through with Chris and all that?”

  “Flo’s not shy. She’d say something if it’s not okay. Besides”—Avis’s voice took on the old, familiar “everything’s under control” tone—“didn’t Becky say the next time Yada Yada met at the Hickmans, she wanted an apartment blessing for her squirrel’s nest on the second floor? And seems like it’s somebody’s birthday . . . who did we celebrate last year in January? Not Chanda—we missed her last year. Somebody else . . .”

  I groaned. Now I remembered. Nony. Why didn’t we celebrate both Chanda and Nony at our last meeting? Well, I knew why we hadn’t. Chanda needed her own celebration. But who was going to bake a cake this time? Get a card for all of us to sign? Why in the world didn’t we plan ahead for this kind of stuff!

  “Well, I’m not going to stay home tonight to pull it together,” I sniffed, knowing I sounded like a snit.

  TURNED OUT HOSHI TAKAHASHI had everything under control. She pulled me aside at worship on Sunday morning, said she had ordered a cake from the Bagel Bakery and Ruth and Yo-Yo were going to bring it. “You already did the meaning of Nony’s name last year, correct?” she said softly. She smiled, dark eyes twinkling. “So this year I have a little surprise we can give her. Not exactly a birthday card, but something we can sign and give to her.”