The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  Which might be another good reason the relationship with José had dialed down, I thought. Amanda needed a broader circle of friends.

  “I just won’t go!” she pouted. But with some prodding, Amanda finally called a couple of girls in her Spanish club at school who lived in Rogers Park—and to her surprise, both said they’d like to come. “Josh, can you drive me and pick them up? Puh-leeease?”

  I didn’t see that one coming. With Amanda out for the evening, I’d been hoping Denny and I could talk to Josh. Most days we passed each other like the proverbial ships in the night. On the other hand, might be a good thing for him to hang out with the youth at SouledOut tonight. For a while, he’d seemed ready to jump on board with Pastor Cobb’s vision for youth; then Manna House had taken up all his free time. But now, he was bobbing around like a rubber ducky in a Jacuzzi . . .

  “Do you know what’s going on with Josh?” I asked Denny over hot cider and an appetizer called Avacado con Salsa y Queso at the Heartland Café later that evening.

  He shook his head, dipping corn chips into the baked avocado. “Figured he just needed some time to sort things out after the fire.”

  “But that was five weeks ago! He seems so . . . deflated lately.”

  Denny pursed his lips. “Yeah. Know what you mean. He was so fired up about his volunteer work at Manna House. Of course, part of that was working with Edesa, but who knows where that relationship is going. Maybe he’d be ready to talk about going to school next year . . . what? Are you okay?”

  A couple of corn chips had suddenly created a traffic jam in my throat. I took a swig of hot cider to wash them down. “Ohmigosh, Denny,” I choked. “School? I’m sure the deadline has passed for renewing his application to the University of Illinois! Wasn’t it January first or something like that when he was sending out applications last year?” I pushed my mug and plate away. Sheesh! Why didn’t we get on his case a couple of months ago! The thought of Josh hanging around the Baxter domicile another whole year, not doing much, made me lose my appetite.

  I pressed my fingers against my temples. Okay, okay. Old Jodi response or New Jodi? I could freak out, or . . . I could pray, ask God for wisdom, talk to Josh, cool my jets, pray some more . . .

  But for that, I needed time. I ordered another hot cider and changed the subject. “Denny, remember all that crappy music at the roller-skating rink? Still sticks in my craw, thinking of all those kids listening to that sleazy music every weekend. The DJ I talked to that night just blew me off.”

  He snorted. “Yeah. I remember.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about writing a letter to the manager, maybe sending a petition from those of us who were there that night, asking the rink to offer at least one skate time every weekend that’s truly ‘family friendly’ . . . what do you think?”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “What do I think?”

  “Yeah.” I could feel my face coloring. “I don’t want to ride off on one of my ‘good ideas’ again without getting your input this time.”

  To his credit, Denny laughed. “Ah. The ol’ lemonade stand syndrome.” He cleaned out the bottom of the avocado dip with the last few chips. “A letter sounds good. Petition sounds good. But don’t get your hopes up too high, Jodi. It would probably take a major boycott of the place to sway management to—”

  He must have seen the light go on in my eyes because he suddenly threw up his hands. “Now, wait a minute. I was not suggesting a major boycott! I just meant . . .” He blew out a huge breath. “You know good and well what I meant.”

  25

  Yeah. I knew what he meant. We’d gone to the rink once. It wasn’t as if we were regular customers. But still, maybe the letter and petition would be worth a try. And maybe we’d go back sometime if they didn’t have R-rated music to skate by.

  So while Denny took Amanda on a daddy-daughter date to Walker Brothers Original Pancake House the next morning (their favorite breakfast haunt), I took advantage of the school holiday to compose a polite but assertive letter to the management of the Super Skatium about our experience on Valentine’s Day.

  “We brought a large group with us,” I typed into the computer, “including parents, children, teens, and singles, but our entire group left early because of the sexually explicit music, which we thought was highly inappropriate for a general audience that included children and young teens.” Then I suggested having at least one family-friendly skating session each weekend. “If so,” I concluded, “we would be happy to patronize your establishment more often and encourage others to do the same.” Well, at least once more.

  I read my letter over several times, then sent it by e-mail attachment to the other Yada Yadas who had gone to our “Valentine skate,” asking what they thought about adding their names and addresses to the letter at our next meeting. I hit Send, not sure if anyone else had given the problem another thought after that night. But at least I wasn’t jumping on my high horse this time and riding off in all directions.

  That done, I was strongly tempted to find the book my parents had given me for Christmas and start planning flower boxes for the front and back porches this spring . . . but with a sigh I pulled out my school calendar and lesson plans to review. Hm. March. Women’s History Month. What could I do this year besides the typical read-a-biography-and-report-on-it yawn?

  And who to highlight? We’d already celebrated Mary McLeod Bethune, whose name graced our school, for Black History Month. I looked at the suggested reading list. Marie Curie, Jane Austen, Gwendolyn Brooks, Florence Nightingale, Clara Barton, Susan B. Anthony, Sojourner Truth, Amelia Earhart, Dr. Sally Ride . . . Hm. Those last two would appeal to third graders. Airplanes and spaceships.

  I chewed the end of my pen. But what about courageous women like Gladys Aylward, an Englishwoman who became a Chinese citizen, ran an orphanage for abandoned children, and challenged the ancient ritual of binding little girls’ feet—a painful custom that had kept women mincing on tiny feet for centuries. But what about the fact that Gladys was a Christian missionary too—did we have to hush that up? Could I include her name, or would the PC police come knocking on my door?

  I decided to make up my own reading list and include some notable women of faith like Gladys Aylward, Mother Teresa, and Betty Greene, the World War II test pilot who helped to start Missionary Aviation Fellowship. And instead of book reports, maybe my third graders could pretend to be the person they chose and tell her story in first person. Boys could pretend to be newscasters reporting on a famous woman.

  Excited, I turned the computer back on and started my list. But would it fly?

  THE DRONING TV in the teachers’ lounge made sure I kept abreast of the news that week, whether I wanted to or not. John Kerry had virtually wrapped up the Democratic nomination for the presidential election . . . a space probe had discovered evidence of water on Mars . . . and suicide bombers had hit several Iraqi mosques, killing 170 Shiite worshipers.

  I was tempted to turn a deaf ear, but a nudge in my spirit said, Pray, Jodi. Pray for the news . . .

  Avis was cautious but open to my revised list of “Notable Women Who Changed the World.” “Add some Jewish and Muslim heroines to your list, Jodi, and I might be able to defend it if anyone raises questions.”

  Okay. That would take a little more research. Had to admit I was out of touch with most Middle Eastern history, in spite of America’s war in Iraq. But Jewish . . . I was tempted to ask Avis how far back I could go in time. There was always Esther, the Jewish girl chosen by King Xerxes to be queen over all Persia in 400-something B.C.—who ended up putting her life on the line to save her people from total annihilation. The story was a great read, even in the Old Testament.

  Just for fun, I Googled “Queen Esther” when I got home on Thursday to see what other interesting facts I could come up with—and discovered that Purim, the Jewish holiday celebrating Esther’s courage, an ordinary woman God had put into the royal palace “for such a time as this,” was only a few days aw
ay!

  I called Ruth Garfield, all excited. “Ruth! Why didn’t you tell us Purim was this month?”

  “Did you ask?”

  Argh. “How am I supposed to know if—! Never mind. We’re celebrating Women’s History Month at school, and I was wondering if you . . . would you come to my class one day next week and tell them about Purim and Queen Esther?”

  A brief silence. “Me you’re asking?”

  “Yes, you, you goose! Please?”

  “Love to, Jodi. I would. But . . .” She sighed. “I’m still criminal. Can’t drive. And Ben is working part time. Who would take care of the babies?”

  My mind spun like a top, sorting through possibilities. Estelle. She’d love to take care of the twins. “Leave it to me, Ruth. Just tell me a day that’s good for you and I’ll work out . . . something.” I glanced at my kitchen calendar. “By the way, Yada Yada is supposed to meet at your house Sunday night. Still good for you?” And, I noticed, it was Ruth’s birthday the day after . . . the Big Five-O.

  “Sure. You come to me, anything works. What’s that clicking sound?”

  “Oh . . . call waiting. I think it’s Denny’s cell. Talk to you later.” I pushed the Flash button. “Denny?”

  “Hey, babe. Just want to remind you that tonight’s my first time volunteering at the JDC. My team partner is Oscar Frost, you know, the guy who plays saxophone at church. Nice kid. He volunteered too. Anyway, might not be home till ten or so. Save some supper for me, okay? . . . What’s so funny?”

  All I could see in my mind was Chanda putting her hand on her hip and saying, “That fine Oscar Frost.” I was trying so hard to stifle my giggles it came out snorting. “Nothing . . . tell you later . . . I’ll pray for you, okay? I want to hear all about it.”

  But when I hung up the phone, I leaned against the counter and laughed aloud. Wait until I told Chanda who Denny’s partner was for the JDC Bible studies. Or maybe I shouldn’t. She’d bug Denny to death, wanting to know every little detail. What a hoot!

  AS I DROVE TO ADELE’S HAIR AND NAILS Saturday morning, I noticed three young teens standing on a street corner, hunched inside their gray hooded sweatshirts, baggy jeans hanging half off their butts, as if waiting . . . for what? Would this trio end up at the JDC like too many other young men? Like . . . Chris Hickman? Kids with stressed-out families, kids with talent, wanting to belong, but hanging with the wrong friends, “catching a case.”

  Denny had come home Thursday night so wired we both got to bed late. “What a bunch of sharp kids, Jodi. Most of them polite, too, believe it or not. Not what I expected. Real leadership types, if pointed in the right direction. I came with six New Testaments that Captives Free provided—but at least four other guys begged me to get them one too. Talk about a ripe situation, getting to these kids before they get sentenced to prison—or go back out on the streets.”

  “Did you see Chris?”

  He’d grinned big. “Oscar and I got assigned to his unit! Didn’t know that till he showed up tonight, though. He acted a bit distant; maybe he was surprised to see us there. I was friendly but didn’t acknowledge I knew him or his family. He stayed for the study.”

  Just seeing a familiar face must be encouraging, I thought, pushing open the door of Adele’s Hair and Nails, setting off the little bell above the door. The sharp odor of hair relaxer snaked up my nose, making my eyes water. Or maybe it was just the difference between the chilly March wind outside and the moist, warm air inside the salon.

  Or maybe because I knew MaDear would not be in the back room today, sorting her buttons.

  “Jodi Baxter.” Adele caught my eye in the wall mirror, as she stood behind the customer in the first chair. “I smell a conspiracy.”

  “Hi, Miz Baxter!” piped up a childish voice. Avis’s grandson hopped off the couch in the waiting area and tugged on my jacket. “Grammy’s over there.” Conny pointed at the hair dryers halfway back in the narrow salon. “An’ Mommy’s getting her hair all pretty.” The finger swung to the first chair.

  The young woman in the chair also caught my eye in the mirror and gave a little smile. “Rochelle!” I said. “I didn’t recognize you all covered up in Adele’s plastic.”

  “Uh-huh.” Adele went back to sectioning Rochelle’s wet locks and rolling them up on squishy pink curlers. “Just coincidence, I suppose, that you and Avis and Rochelle ‘just happened’ to come in this morning. Stu and Estelle were here last night. Chanda’s coming this afternoon . . .”

  I laughed, stooping down to give Conny a hug. I shrugged out of my jacket and hung it up on the coat rack. “Guess we all need perking up with spring coming.”

  Conny ran to his mother. “I gotta go!” he whispered loudly, tugging on her arm.

  “I’ll take you, little man.” I held out my hand to him. “Your mommy and grammy are kinda busy right now.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Baxter.” Rochelle smiled at me in the mirror. Sheesh. The girl was gorgeous, even with pink knobby curlers framing the deep golden glow of her skin.

  “Hey. Call me Jodi. When I have grandkids, too, like your mom”—I cast a grin in Avis’s direction, who couldn’t hear a thing we were saying—“then you can call me Mrs. Baxter.”

  Conny frowned up at me under his mat of loose, dark curls, as if considering whether I could handle this major assignment. Then he gave me his hand, and we threaded our way down the middle aisle of Adele’s salon, waving at Avis parked under one of the beehive hair dryers as we passed, heading for the cubbyhole bathroom that said, “Employees Only.”

  My heart squeezed tightly as we entered the back room, and I saw MaDear’s empty wheelchair. On the floor beside the chair sat the jar of buttons and the empty egg carton she’d used for sorting—colors, sizes, memories . . .

  “I gotta go!” Conny reminded me, tugging on my hand.

  I turned on the light in the bathroom, pulled down his corduroy trousers and “big boy pants,” and sat him on the toilet. “You okay?”

  He waved me off. “I can do it myself.”

  “Okay.” I grinned. “I’ll be right here if you need me.” I stepped outside, leaving the door open a crack.

  Adele bustled into the back room. “You’re in the chair next, Jodi . . . oh, he’s not done. No problem. I wanted to give you something anyway.”

  She bent over with an oof! and picked up the jar of buttons. “Here.” She thrust the jar into my hands. “I want you to have these. Kind of a thank you for all the times you came to ‘play’ with MaDear.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. I brushed them away with the back of one hand. “Oh, Adele. I . . .” My voice got husky. “Thank you. It’s the best memento you could’ve given me of your mom.”

  “Thought so. Well, come on up front when you—”

  We both heard the bell tinkle up front, both heard the angry male voice bark, “Where is he, Rochelle? Where’s my son?”

  “Uh-oh.” Adele moved so fast out of the back room, she seemed to be moving on roller skates. My feet, on the other hand, felt nailed to the floor.

  Dexter!

  Female voices. Avis . . . Adele . . . Rochelle . . . Then Dexter’s voice, louder. “Fine! You don’t want to come home. But you can’t steal my son from me! Where—”

  “Is that my daddy?” piped up a tiny voice from within the cubicle.

  I darted into the bathroom, pulled the door shut behind me, and hooked the lock. “Hey, little guy. You done?” Keep calm, Jodi. Keep calm.

  Conny swung his legs and shook his head.

  I turned on the water in the sink, full blast. “Sometimes running the water helps, did you know that? Say, do you know this song?” I held up my hands, thumb to finger, finger to thumb, and started to sing in a whisper voice. “Itsy, bitsy spider, went up the water spout. Down came the rain”—I wiggled my fingers like raindrops—“and washed the spider out . . .”

  Conny giggled. I sang another nursery rhyme, and another, and another, all the while the water in the sink splashed and gurgled. Somewher
e up front I could hear muffled shouting. I sang louder. Finally, the little boy slid off the stool. “All done.”

  “Yea! What a good boy.” I washed his hands as slowly as possible, and then the moment I dreaded . . . opening the door. What was happening out there? Was Dexter still in the shop?

  “Tell you what, buddy.” I put my finger to my lips. “Let’s play hide-and-seek. You stay here a minute, while I look for another hiding place, okay?”

  He nodded, eyes bright. I listened at the door. I heard voices in the distance, but no one was in the back room. I risked unhooking the latch. “Shhh. Let me see if the coast is clear. Then we can find a new hiding place, okay?” Conny nodded again, crouching down low behind a large, twenty-four pack of toilet paper.

  I unlocked the door, stepped out into the back room, and closed it softly behind me. I couldn’t see the front of the salon from here, but I heard Adele’s commanding voice: “Out. Out this second, or I call the police. Rochelle has a restraining order against you, and they’ll slap your sorry butt in jail faster than you can say ‘mama.’ ”

  “Hey, I just happened to be out on the street, saw my lady in here—”

  “Like hell you did! Avis, call the police . . . OUT!”

  The bell over the door jangled. I heard Avis screech, “Lock it!” The next moment, feet came flying and Avis and Rochelle burst into the back room.

  I pointed to the bathroom. Rochelle jerked open the door and gathered Conny tightly in her arms. “Oh, baby, baby . . . are you all right?”

  Conny squirmed. “Aw, you found us. Wanna play hide-an’seek?”

  26

  I don’t know who was more upset, Avis or Rochelle. Avis paced back and forth in the small back room, mouth tight, brow furrowed, arms crossed tightly across her middle, while Rochelle rocked a squirming Conny, who was much more interested in playing more hide-and-seek.

  We heard banging on the glass door up front. A moment later Adele appeared in the back room. “Uh, Avis and Rochelle? You need to, uh . . . Jodi, can you . . .?”