by Neta Jackson
I giggled. “Nope. Besides, this will be cheaper. And lots of fun.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him close, rubbing noses with him. Eskimo kisses, we used to call them as kids. “Aw, c’mon, Denny. Otherwise I’ll have to sit out all the ‘couples skates’ by myself—or end up skating with some dark-eyed lothario in tight leather pants.”
Maybe it was the “tight leather pants” that did it, but I squeezed a reluctant promise from my hubby of twenty-one years to accompany me to the Super Skatium the following Saturday. I called some of the other Yada sisters to see if any of their guys were coming. Yo-Yo said her brothers wanted to know “Who else is comin’?”—meaning kids their age, which I couldn’t tell her. My own kids had ignored the invitation so far. Florida said she was still working on Carl, but he might be more open to it if he knew Denny was going. “Kinda depends on how Chris’s hearing on Wednesday turns out. An’ I need another favor . . .”
“This Wednesday?” I peeked at our kitchen calendar. I’d written “FLO 38” in red marker across February 11. “But that’s your birthday, Flo!”
She snorted in my ear. “Yeah. Some birthday present, huh? But if the judge doesn’t assign Chris to adult court like those other perps, that’d be about the best birthday gift anyone could give me right now.”
“You want me to take Carla home with me after school again?”
“Yeah. That’s what I was gonna axe ya. Would give me some space to handle whatever comes down before I have to relate to the other kids.”
“Oh, Florida.” My heart ached for my friend. “Come on, let’s pray about it. We gotta keep faith that God’s gonna work this out. If Chris didn’t do this—”
“If, Jodi?”
I stopped. Why did I say “if ”? Well, I didn’t know, did I? And Chris had been hanging out on the edges of the Black Disciples all year. Wasn’t that why the Hickmans moved to Rogers Park from their old neighborhood? Only there wasn’t any place in Chicago “safe” from gangs if you were looking for trouble. Wannabes like Chris got pressured into lots of petty crime—and some not so petty—just to prove they were “down” for their homeboys.
But Chris insisted he’d only hopped in the car for a ride home. Did I believe him? Would a judge believe him? If that’s what happened, someone better tell him, “With friends like that, who needs enemies!”
I blew out a breath. “I’m sorry, Flo. Poor choice of words. Let’s pray that God will give Chris favor with this judge and assign him to juvenile court.”
“Yeah, Jodi.” She sniffed. “Do that.”
So I did, right there on the phone, prayed that God would be present at that hearing on Wednesday, prayed that Chris would not only be assigned to juvenile court, but that God would bring him out of the JDC and restore him to his family. “Oh Jesus! Put a hedge of protection around that boy while he’s separated from his family! And when he comes out, Lord, give him honest opportunities to develop that artistic talent You’ve given him!”
Florida was silent when I finished. “Flo? You still there?”
“Yeah.” Another silence. Then, “You really think Chris got him some talent?”
CARLA CAME HOME WITH ME after school on Wednesday. Willie Wonka, who seemed to have perked up on his new diet of canned dog food and two pricey prescriptions, lumbered to his feet when we came in the door and gave Carla a tail wag and a lick on the face, much to her delight.
Over hot chocolate and toast with cinnamon sugar, we plotted the afternoon. “Can I make a card for my mommy? It’s her birthday today, but . . .” Carla’s face fell. “I don’t got no present for her.”
I grinned. “You absolutely can make a card for your mom. Not only that—ta da!” I pulled a chocolate cake mix out of the cupboard. “And not only that . . .” I flashed her my recipe card for craft “salt dough.”
For the next hour, we were busy mixing the cake, licking the bowl and the beaters, and making salt dough. Before I could warn her, Carla stuck her finger in the salt dough and popped it in her mouth. “Yuck!” Much spitting followed, while I tried not to laugh. But by the time the cake came out of the oven, Carla had crafted five rather lumpy napkin rings out of the salt dough on a cookie sheet, which we popped into the oven for twenty minutes while I scrounged in my craft supplies for poster paints, paint brushes, and a bottle of varnish.
Denny arrived home, gave me a passing peck on the cheek, and headed for the front room and the TV news. Right on his heels, Amanda dumped her jacket and school bag on the floor, gave Wonka his kissy-face greeting, and leaned over the dining room table. “Hey! Salt dough. Whatcha makin’, Carla?”
Carla beamed and held up one of the brightly painted napkin rings. “See? It gots Chris’s name on this one.” She picked up another. “An’ this purple-an’-pink one’s for Mommy. See? M-O-M. For her birthday!”
“Cool.” Amanda peered into the plastic bowl of dough. “Can I make something?” She scooped out a blob of dough and went to work.
I hid a smile as I disappeared into the kitchen to ice the cooled cake. If I had asked Amanda if she wanted to play with salt dough, she would have given me The Look, absolutely sure her mother still lived in the Dark Ages.
The phone rang. I barely got out a hello when Florida screeched in my ear. “Praise Jesus, Jodi! The attorney didn’t even hafta make a big case. Judge looked at some papers, said somethin’ like, ‘This kid’s got no priors . . . wasn’t identified as the gunman . . . he’s only fourteen . . . whatever the court decides at his disposition, there’s no way I’m going to send this case to adult court.’ Then he set a court date for April somethin’, an’ bam! That was it! Oh, hallelujah! Praise Jesus!” Florida’s voice faded temporarily while she did some serious praising in the background. When she came back on the phone, she said, “Carl is so relieved, I might even get him to the roller rink on Saturday.”
“That’s great, Florida! See? God really answered our prayer!” But I was thinking, April? That’s two months away! If Chris was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and he’s not guilty, they’ve still had him locked up for five months of his life. But I didn’t say any of that to Florida. One day at a time, and this day the news was good.
As we got cake, craft, and Carla ready for the half-mile ride home, she suddenly gave me a big hug. “I like third grade,” she announced, grinning up at me. “I wish you could be my teacher next year too.”
I was so surprised, it took me several seconds to find my voice. “That,” I finally said, returning her hug, “is just about the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
AMANDA WAS PAINTING a couple of salt dough hearts when I got back from taking Carla home. “What are you making, Michelangelo?”
No answer. More delicate painting. Then she held up two hearts on key rings. “Which one do you like, Mom?”
One heart had delicate white flowers painted on the red background; the other had funky polka dots. Both had AB + JE in the center. I pointed to the one with flowers.
She lifted the polka dot heart. “I like this one. It’s for José. You know, for Valentine’s Day.”
My choosing the one with flowers had probably sealed its fate. “That’s nice.”
“Yeah. But I’m gonna give it to him after the roller-skating party, in case he falls down or something and breaks it.” She hopped up. “Thanks for the salt dough, Mom.”
I watched her go and shook my head. By the time I figured out how to step with my teenagers, they’d be gone and I’d have to start all over learning a new dance. Empty nest . . . adult kids . . . grandchildren . . .
Whoa. Did she say roller-skating party?
AS IT TURNED OUT, Josh also decided to go roller-skating because Edesa was bringing the Enriquez kids—including José, hence Amanda’s change of heart—and he borrowed the church van to pick them up. I was hoping Ben Garfield would bring Yo-Yo Spencer and her brothers, but Ruth just snorted. “Skating, schmating. Broken necks we don’t need, Jodi. Who would bring up Isaac and Havah?” So Denny and I picked up the
Spencers and met the rest of our party at the Skatium for the four o’clock skate.
Had to admit, Chanda’s Lexus and Stu’s silver Celica seemed a bit overdressed for the parking lot full of five-year-old Hondas and Fords. Nony and Mark had declined, but they sent Marcus and Michael in their minivan with Hoshi, who also picked up the Hickmans. I never did hear from Avis and Peter, but they didn’t show. No surprise there. Couldn’t really imagine Avis on roller skates—but given all they were dealing with right now, letting loose with a little undignified fun might’ve been just what they needed!
Oh, well, we had a good turnout anyway.
I felt almost giddy lacing up my rented roller skates. As Denny said, it’d been more than twenty years since I’d been to a skating rink! The live organ music was gone, replaced by an unseen DJ spinning unfamiliar CDs, stopping the music now and then to announce in a throaty voice, “All Skate” . . . “Ladies Choice” . . . “Couples Only” . . .
My first few times around the rink during All Skate, I had serious doubts about my declaration, “It’s like riding a bike! You never forget!” Picking me up after a spill, Denny laughed and took my hand. “Come on.” Hand in hand, I gradually found my “skate legs” and started to enjoy myself . . . until the DJ sent us off the rink saying, “Guys Only. Ladies, if you value your life, leave the floor . . .”
I didn’t remember that one. But I clumped together with my Yada Yada sisters behind the railing, making irreverent comments about Pete Spencer, Josh, and José racing each other around the rink like a trio of speed demons. The DJ had even cut the music. We applauded the younger boys—Marcus and Michael Smith, Chanda’s Tom, Cedric Hickman, and Yo-Yo’s brother Jerry—holding their own against the tide of bigger teenage boys and twenty-somethings. Denny and Carl, meanwhile, wisely took the opportunity to duck over to the concession stand and get a Coke.
Another All Skate, then Couples Only. “It’s Valentine’s Day, lovers,” the DJ smirked. “Get out on the floor and get your groooove on.” The music wasn’t exactly the good ol’ sixties love songs we used to skate to, even in the late seventies and early eighties. In fact, I didn’t recognize any of the music, if you could call it that. Mostly noise to my ears. But it was fun seeing Carl skating with Florida, nothing fancy, just hand in hand, grins on their faces. Denny took my left hand and put his right arm around my waist. I leaned against him, and we floated around the curves . . . left, glide . . . right, glide . . .
We passed Josh and Edesa skating together slowly—she’d said this was her first time ever. I didn’t see Amanda and José on the floor, but didn’t give it much thought. Didn’t want to rush them, anyway.
I half-closed my eyes, aware of Denny’s arm snug around my waist, pulling me gently along, holding me up without seeming to. No wonder the Bible said, “Two are better than one . . .” Oh God, this is so much fun!
When the Couples Skate was over, I took a break and joined a few other Yada Yadas sipping Cokes and munching on nachos. “Kinda surprised they playin’ these kind of songs with all these little kids here,” Yo-Yo was saying.
I blinked. What kind of songs?
Edesa nodded. “Si. The words make me feel ashamed.”
“Uh,” I stammered. “Have to admit, I can’t understand the words. What’s going on?”
Stu rolled her eyes knowingly. “Probably just as well, Jodi.”
I sat down on a bench and tried to listen. Still didn’t understand much . . . but by concentrating I caught enough to feel my face redden.
Good grief. My kids are here, listening to this crap? The other Yadas had brought their kids at my urging! I saw nine-year-old Carla and Chanda’s girls, Dia and Cheree, out on the floor, wiggling their behinds suggestively and giggling.
Edesa must have seen the shocked look on my face. “Do not be upset, Sister Jodi. You did not know. None of us thought about it. But if the other mamacitas don’t mind, maybe it will be good to cut our time short.”
I stood up. “Well, sure. But before we slink out of here with our tails between our legs, I’m going to talk to the DJ. This just isn’t appropriate for a Family Skate.”
I had to ask three different people before I found where the DJ was hidden behind his glass wall, and then had to wait while he announced, “Ladies Choice. This is Ladies Choice, gents, so suck in that gut and your Valentine just might ask you to skate.” He punched a button and looked at the window where I gestured at him to open the door. “Yeah?”
My little talk lasted about sixty seconds. It did not go well.
“Look, lady. I play these songs all the time, and you’re the first person who’s complained about it. This is what the kids are listening to. It’s what they want to hear. If you don’t like it, take it up with the manager . . . Gotta go.” The door shut in my face.
Ooo! Now my blood was up. I clumped my skates on the threadbare “carpet” back to my friends. The lights were down; Ladies Choice was still on the floor. I saw Chanda flash by hand in hand with a guy in his thirties, a pretty good skater. Becky had asked Carl Hickman, with Florida’s blessing, I guessed. But to my surprise, Amanda was sitting on a bench, arms crossed, glaring at the darkened skating rink with the spinning colored lights flickering around the walls and ceiling. I squinted at the circling skaters.
A dark-haired Latina skated past, arm in arm with José Enriquez.
I darted a glance at Amanda. Uh-oh. Should I say anything? It was Ladies Choice, after all. The other girl had probably beaten her to it. But I knew she wouldn’t want my sympathy, not in public anyway.
After the skate, I saw José make his way over to Amanda and plop down on the bench next to her, laughing, but she turned her face away, mouth pinched. For a few minutes, he seemed to be arguing with her, but finally he threw up his arms and left her alone.
I sighed. Oh, Amanda.
We didn’t stay for the end of the Family Skate. Some of the younger set griped about it, until we reminded them we were heading for Giordano’s for pizza and root beer. All twenty-six of us, adults and kids, crowded into Giordano’s party room, generating a lot of laughter and happy bedlam.
Make that twenty-five. Amanda said she had a stomachache and wanted us to drop her off at home. No, she did not want us to bring her any pizza.
Denny and I didn’t get home until after nine o’clock, after dropping off our passengers. Josh was still out, driving Edesa and the Enriquez crew back to Little Village. The house was dark. Denny and I entered quietly, not wanting to disturb Amanda if she was asleep. I listened at her bedroom door.
Muffled sobs broke the silence.
I stood uncertainly in the hallway, wondering if I should go in. And that’s when I saw it in the hallway, broken into pieces as if it had been stomped on.
The heart-shaped key ring Amanda had made for José for Valentine’s Day.
19
The next morning Amanda appeared briefly in her rumpled sleep shirt, hair tousled, mumbling that she didn’t feel good and wasn’t going to church. She disappeared back into her bedroom. “Let her be,” Denny advised. “Timing is everything.”
As we drove to church, I watched the gray streets go by without really seeing them. I felt badly for Amanda, but my feelings were mixed. She and José had been sweet on each other for over a year already, and they were only sixteen. A year ago this month José had come up with the big idea to throw a quinceañera for Amanda—a formal “coming out” fifteenth birthday party, a Mexican tradition, though by that time Amanda was fifteen-and-a-half. Delores’s son was a sweet boy, but they were really too young to get serious with each other. Some distance wasn’t a bad idea in my book.
“Hey. Look at that,” Denny said, pulling into a parking space facing our shopping center church.
I looked up. Painted across the wide glass windows in a bold red script were the words: SOULEDOUT COMMUNITY CHURCH. A few early shoppers paused and read the sign before heading for the large Dominick’s grocery store that anchored the shopping center. Well. There it was. T
he new name of our church. I smiled. I think I like it.
I found it hard to concentrate on worship that morning, though. Roller-skating had been fun, and fun was what we needed, but I also felt embarrassed, inviting my Yada Yada sisters and their families into a situation I hadn’t really checked out, music-wise anyway. That language! I cringed just thinking about the few phrases I’d caught. A far cry from the sweet love songs of my parents’ generation. Even rock and roll was tame by comparison. Made me mad that the DJ had blown me off, telling me to speak to the manager if I had a problem . . .
Hey. That was a thought. I could gripe . . . or I could do something about it. My brain started composing a strongly worded letter. Maybe I should start a petition—
A nudge in my spirit pulled me up short. Jodi? Where are you? Did you come to worship Me today? Let’s spend some time together . . .
I squeezed my eyes shut. I’m sorry, Lord. Yes, I want to worship You. I pigeonholed the letter I’d been writing in my head and focused on the song the praise team was singing . . .
Knowing You, Jesus, knowing You . . . There is no greater thing . . .
The song was a new one to me, but easy to pick up. We sang it through two more times, and the words began to sink deeper into my spirit. How glad I was to be in a church where Jesus was “the main thing.” It kept me centered.
The words of the song continued to whisper in my spirit all that afternoon as I worked on a card for Florida’s birthday, reviewed my lesson plans for the coming week, and composed a letter to the roller rink manager.
Knowing You, Jesus . . . There is no greater thing . . .
I sat at the dining room table, chewing on the end of my pen. How easy it was for me to be consumed with everyday busyness, to fret over all the trouble around me, to spin my wheels even over things I could do nothing about—and forget just to spend time in God’s presence. Hadn’t the Holy Spirit already shown me there was a difference between knowing about God and knowing God? I’d started on the journey, but I knew how easy it was for me to get distracted.