by Neta Jackson
The line moved slowly. I had plenty of time to gape at the stylish women’s suits and big hats—most of them silky black on black, or black with white or silver trim. I suddenly felt terribly under-dressed in my ordinary blue-and-black print dress. I had a gorgeous black dress at home—the slinky black number Denny had bought for me two birthdays ago—but it was definitely not funeral-appropriate.
As the line inched along, I wondered how many of the women present that day had sat in one of the chairs at Adele’s Hair and Nails getting cut, processed, permed, straightened, weaved, braided, or curled . . . laughing, chatting, tsk-tsking over somebody’s child, or complaining loudly about the latest runaround with “the system.” Knowing Adele, she had probably functioned as Mother Confessor to hundreds of women who knew she would listen, give a word or two of sympathy or encouragement, even pray for them, and keep her mouth shut.
“Excuse me . . . thank you . . . excuse me . . .” A familiar male voice interrupted my wandering thoughts as Denny squeezed into the line next to me. “Made it,” he breathed into my ear. “Tie on straight?” I looked him up and down, grinned, and nodded.
We had almost reached the front. Watching what others did, I shook hands with the people in the front row, murmuring, “Hello. My name is Jodi Baxter. I’m a member of Adele’s prayer group . . . you’re Adele’s aunt? I’m so sorry for your loss.” This went on for five or six people and then I was toe to toe with Adele’s overly made-up, bleached-blonde sister dabbing at her eyes. “Sissy? I’m Jodi Baxter, Adele’s friend. We met briefly at the hospital.” Sissy shook my hand limply, a hankie pressed to her nose.
Adele sat next to the aisle. A stylish black hat with a modest brim and a wide black ribbon around the crown hid her short, black-and-silver natural ’fro. She looked up at me, eyes sad but calm, and smiled, showing the tiny gap between her front teeth. “Jodi and Denny Baxter . . .” When Adele used both my first and last name, I never knew what to expect. To my surprise, she stood up and hugged us both before turning to Amanda and Josh, who were crowding on our heels. They got hugs too.
Then it was our turn at the casket. Two male ushers stood impassively on either side, each with one white-gloved hand behind his back. A shimmering white brocade covered the casket, as if the material had been sprayed on. A spray of pink and white roses with a pink ribbon that read “Dearest Mother” in gold script lay on the closed lower half. The upper half was open, lined with tinted pink crepe, shirred and thick and soft. I willed myself to step close and look at the body lying stiffly on the pillow . . .
MaDear? It didn’t look like her. The spark of life that had lit up her glittering eyes, whether happy, sad, or angry, was gone. But the freckles dusting the yellowish cheeks were the same. I reached into the casket and brushed the back of my hand against her cold, waxy skin. “Good-bye, MaDear,” I murmured, pushing the words past the lump in my throat. “See you in heaven. I loved you, you know.”
I started to turn away but felt Denny’s arm go around my waist and hold me there. His other hand gripped the casket. We stayed another long minute until the ushers sternly waved us on.
It took a long time for everyone to greet the family and pass by the casket, but the service finally started with the small organ belting out Tommy Dorsey’s “Precious Lord, take my hand . . .” A procession of officials in black robes—pastors, ministers, and visiting pastors—walked slowly and solemnly down the two middle aisles. The choir, in dark green robes and bold, gold-brown-and-red Afro-centric stoles, slow-stepped in their wake. The pastors and ministers stood in a row across the platform while Paul and Silas’s senior pastor, listed in the program as “Rev. Arthur B. Miles III,” gave the invocation.
As the ministers took their seats, the choir launched into a spirited rendition of “Some glad morning, when this life is o’er, I’ll fly away . . .” The choir swayed; people clapped. “Just a few more weary days and then, I’ll fly away . . .”
The church quieted as a lanky man from the family row—probably that Mississippi cousin—stood up and read the obituary printed on the back side of the program. “Born Sally Rutherford, August 2, 1923 in Tupelo, Mississippi, to a hardworking family that endured many hardships in the Jim Crow South . . . Married Emil Skuggs in 1942 . . . Moved to Chicago with two young daughters after the death of her husband, often working two jobs to give them an education . . . She is survived by a younger sister and brother and two loving daughters . . . and leaves a host of family and friends to celebrate her life and miss her physical presence.”
My mind stuck on the words, “endured many hardships.” How many in this congregation knew those hardships included the horrific lynching of her fifteen-year-old brother for being “too uppity” around white folks? Hardships, indeed.
The obituary was followed by a congregational hymn: “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! Oh what a foretaste of glory divine . . .” Halfway through the hymn, I glanced at my program and realized that the Scripture reading was next. Did Denny remember? Had he brought his Bible? I poked him and pointed it out in the program: Psalm 27 on the left side, Mr. Dennis Baxter on the right. He nodded.
He seemed calm enough. I’d be a wreck about now if I had to get up in front of all these people, a white face in a sea of black, with half the women probably thinking, “Who’s that white chick, and why is she wearing that pathetic rag?” Kinda funny that Adele had asked Denny to read the Scripture, though. Why not Avis or Nony or one of her other Yada Yada sisters?
“. . . will be read by Mr. Dennis Baxter,” Rev. Miles was saying. “Come on up here, brother.” Well. At least it wasn’t me, thank goodness. I gave Denny’s back an encouraging smile as he made his way up the aisle, up the two carpeted platform steps, and made his way to the podium. He took a small Bible out of his inside suit coat pocket, glanced in Adele’s direction with a brief smile, then began to read.
“Psalm 27 . . . The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” As my husband read the words of the psalm, I suddenly realized it was talking to me. My depression that morning had actually been fear. Fear of loss. Fear that I’d lost my chance to make it right with my grandmother. Fear that all the ongoing prayers we’d been praying in Yada Yada—for Florida’s boy and Nony’s husband and Avis’s daughter and Becky fighting to get her parental rights back—would go unanswered, just like our prayer for MaDear’s healing. Even my stupid fear a few minutes ago of what people here were thinking of me.
But what in heaven’s name did I have to be afraid of? The Lord was the strength of my life—and Adele’s, and MaDear’s, and my family’s, and of all my Yada Yada sisters and their families. Hadn’t we seen God’s hand in our lives again and again? Just like the psalmist had written: “Though an army may encamp against me, my heart shall not fear . . . For in the time of trouble He shall hide me in His pavilion; in the secret place of His tabernacle He shall hide me; He shall set me high upon a rock.”
As he neared the end of the psalm, Denny’s voice grew stronger. “—I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living!” Denny closed his Bible and started to return to his seat. But Adele stood up, stepped in his way, and folded him in a long embrace.
Suddenly I realized why Adele had asked Denny to read that psalm at MaDear’s funeral! It was her way of laying to rest that painful episode when MaDear’s confused mind thought Denny was the white man who had lynched her brother decades ago in Mississippi. Two Christmases ago, Denny had bravely asked MaDear to forgive him for something he hadn’t done, because the old lady needed closure. “And because somebody needs to,” he had said. And MaDear had laid her hand on his head and forgiven him.
But I knew Adele still struggled with the tragedy that had torn her mother’s family apart, and the not-always-subtle bigotry she still had to deal with, like being ignored by the cops when she went to the police station to get her jewelry back that Becky Wallac
e had stolen. Adele had many reasons to “lose heart”—and yet, in spite of everything, she still believed in “the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”
That was the strength Adele brought to Yada Yada. That was the strength she gave to me: “Whatever comes your way, Jodi, deal with it and go on . . . because God is our light and our salvation, and God is good.”
I saw Denny’s lips form the words, “Thank you,” when Adele released him from her embrace. I touched his arm when he sat down, but he was busy fishing for his handkerchief and blowing his nose.
That’s when I understood Adele had offered Denny closure too.
24
I tried to concentrate on the rest of the funeral service. One of the visiting ministers was reading a handful of “resolutions” from various congregations in Chicago and Tupelo, paying tribute to the life of Sally Rutherford Skuggs. They got a little long and repetitious, but my ears pricked up when Rev. Miles took the pulpit to preach the eulogy, using 1 Thessalonians 4:13–18 as his text.
“Brothers and sisters,” he thundered, “even though we have to say farewell to our elder sister for a time, we are not full of sorrow like people who have no hope. No! Because we know something the world doesn’t know—or chooses to ignore. And that is”—he paused dramatically—“the reality, the fact, brothers and sisters, of the resurrection from the dead.”
Half the congregation was on its feet, shouting back to the preacher. “Yes!” “Tell the truth, Pastor!” “Praise Jesus!”
“If God the Father raised Jesus from the dead, then we who call on His name will also be raised from the dead, and we will be reunited with all the dead in Christ who have gone before us. Sister Adele, you will see your mother again, and she’ll have a new body, one that sickness has not ravaged, and her mind will be clear and sharp—”
Now Adele was on her feet, practically dancing on the front row, hand in the air, tears running down her face. “Thank You, Jesus! Thank You! Thank You!”
Watching Adele, it suddenly occurred to me that I would see my grandmother again too. Not the decrepit creature I remembered—shuffling around the house, mumbling to herself—but a strong woman with a vigorous body and a quick mind. I stifled a giggle, thinking about Gram and MaDear matching wits in heaven. Maybe MaDear would tell Gram that I’d grown up a little, and I’d be coming too, one of these days, to tell her I was sorry and could we spend part of eternity getting to know each other again?
“—Then we who are still alive and remain on the earth will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air and remain with Him forever. So comfort and encourage each other with these words.”
The rest of the church was on its feet now as the organ punctuated the pastor’s closing words. In the midst of the praise all around me, I whispered my own praise. “Thank You for MaDear, Jesus, for giving me a second chance to love a ‘grandma’ these last two years.” The tears ran again and I used up half my travel packet of tissues mopping my face, probably smearing my mascara.
But my once-heavy spirit had reached zero gravity.
“MOM!” Amanda tugged on my arm as the pastor invited the congregation to go downstairs to the fellowship hall for the repast. “Don’t we drive out to the cemetery or something? I mean, don’t they have to bury her?”
“—Please allow the family to leave and be served first,” the pastor was saying.
“I think the body is going to be cremated and the ashes taken to Tupelo for burial,” I whispered back.
Amanda’s eyes widened. “You mean, burn her bod—!”
“Shh!” I hissed. “Later, okay?”
The closed casket remained at the front of the church as the family of Sally Rutherford Skuggs processed up the aisle and disappeared down the stairs to the fellowship hall. The ushers, crisp and unflappable, allowed each row to follow, starting near the front, and working toward the back.
When we finally nudged our way into the fellowship hall, we headed for the long row of tables at the other end loaded down with hot casseroles, salads, chicken, and cake. When Denny and I finally got our paper plates filled, we made our way through the noisy crowd to a table populated mostly by Yada Yada folks. Denny put his plate down on the end of the table where Peter Douglass and Carl Hickman were digging in.
“Anybody see Yo-Yo?” Becky said between munches on a piece of crispy fried chicken. “She told me yesterday at work that she was gonna try to come.” She licked her fingers as the rest of us shook our heads.
“Guess we all used to Ruth and Ben takin’ that girl wherever she needs ta go,” Florida said, a forkful of beans and cornbread halfway to her mouth. “But I don’t see Garfields, neither.”
Becky shrugged. “Maybe one of the twins is sick or somethin’. If I had a car, I could pick up Yo-Yo. Could pick up Little Andy on Sundays too—sure would be a lot easier. But . . . guess that ain’t gonna happen for a while.”
“Huh. You and me both, girl.” Florida jabbed the plastic fork at Becky. “But we got us a two-car garage out back of our house, so I’m thinkin’ God gonna fill it one o’ these days. For both of us.”
Becky sighed. “Yeah, but it ain’t gonna happen on my part-time salary from the Bagel Bakery. Man! I need me a new job!”
As the chatter resumed around us, Florida leaned closer to me, her voice lowered. “What’s with that boy of yours, Jodi, sittin’ over there all by hisself? He look as miserable as a wet cat in a bubble bath.”
I followed her glance and saw Josh parked in a metal folding chair against the wall, his tie and collar loosened, picking at his plate of food. He did look miserable. In fact, if I thought about it, Josh hadn’t been himself since the night of the fire at Manna House. I said as much to Florida.
“He still blaming hisself for that? Ain’t nobody else blamin’ him that I know of. Girl, if we let our screwups dog our footsteps, we all be headin’ down a dead-end street.”
I snorted. “Tell me about it.” Seemed like I had enough “screwups” the past couple of years to sink any “good Christian girl” on her way to sainthood. Maybe Denny and I should talk to Josh, find out what was going on . . .
Just then, I saw Estelle, large, round, and comforting, make her way to the chairs along the wall and sink down beside Josh. He gave her a polite nod, but in a few moments, she had him half-grinning in spite of himself and shaking his head as if trying not to laugh. Did that woman know how to work wonders, or what?
By this time, Nony, Hoshi, and Chanda joined the rest of us as we scooted chairs to make room, and Chanda waved at Edesa and Delores, who had just waded through the line for the first time. “Now, this what mi tinkin’,” Chanda said, casting her eyes this way and that, as if making sure she wouldn’t be overheard—though it was hard enough to hear ourselves talking face to face. She leaned in. “Now, we sistas know Adele be stubborn as old Billy Goat Gruff when it come to letting us know she need som’ting. So we gotta check on her wit’out letting her know we doing it. What you tink of dat idea?”
We all looked at her. “Think about what idea?” Stu said.
Chanda rolled her eyes. “Hair! Hair!” She grabbed her own braided extensions and shook them. “We all make appointments at Adele’s Hair and Nails in de next two, t’ree weeks. Give us excuse to see how she doing!”
I FELT DRAINED by the time we got home around six, but I checked the kitchen calendar. Next Saturday would work for me. I could use a cut . . . maybe even a color. That’d be fun. Besides, Denny had wickedly pointed out a few gray hairs not two days ago, the jerk. Huh. I’d show him. Go blonde or something—maybe a redhead. Or get my hair cut short. Spiky, like Yo-Yo’s. That’d freak him out.
Yeah, right, Jodi. You’re as likely to go redhead or spiky-haired as get your navel pierced.
I wrote “Haircut?” on the first weekend in March, then flipped back to February. It’d been two weeks since Yada Yada met upstairs at Stu’s apartment. Where were we meeting tomorrow? . . . “Wait a minute,” I mumbled aloud. “Tomorrow is
the fifth Sunday in February. How did the shortest month of the year get a fifth Sunday?”
“Leap year, babe.” Denny was raiding the refrigerator. “We’ve got an extra day to use up. Wanna do something?” I’d announced no supper tonight since we’d just eaten the equivalent of four Thanksgiving dinners at the repast. How could the man eat again?
I turned the calendar back to March. “Huh. Monday is General Pulaski Day. No school. Sheesh! Didn’t we just have Presidents’ Day off two weeks ago? How are kids going to learn anything if they keep shortening the school calendar!”
“Don’t knock it, kiddo. Chicago’s tip of the old chapka to its Polish son.” Denny raised the can of Pepsi he’d found, as if making a toast. “One of the perks of working for the Chicago school system. A family holiday!”
“Used to be a family holiday,” Josh grumbled, coming in the back door just then with a wheezing Willie Wonka. “I gotta work on Monday.” He opened the refrigerator, not even bothering to shed his winter jacket. “We got anything in here to eat?”
Men. Didn’t they ever outgrow the hollow-leg syndrome?
DENNY WAS GOING TO ASK AMANDA if she’d like to go out to a movie Sunday afternoon for some daddy-daughter time, but we scrapped that idea when Pastor Clark announced a leap year party for the youth that night at the church. “Your ticket to the party is to bring a friend who doesn’t attend our church already,” he said. A month ago, that would have been a no-brainer for Amanda. José, who else? But when we got home after church, she started wailing, “Who can I invite? I don’t know anybody!”