by Neta Jackson
“Maybe she changed her mind,” Yo-Yo said nervously as I punched the doorbell.
The door opened. “Ay ay ay! You come at last.” Ruth gave Yo-Yo a mama bear hug, as if she hadn’t been sure we’d show. Then, ignoring me entirely, she bustled off into the next room, tossing off a half-dozen instructions over her shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” Ben snorted, standing in the foyer holding her coat. “The shtick is all written down. You’d think we were taking off for a week in Honolulu.” He rolled his eyes. “She’s had the shpilkes all morning. Oy vey.”
I slipped Yo-Yo a tissue and hinted that she should use it on her cheek where Ruth had left a lipstick-red smudge. Yo-Yo rubbed furiously. It was the only time I’d seen anything close to makeup on her clear, boyish face.
Ben finally dragged Ruth out the door. Yo-Yo and I stood at the picture window, each holding a twin, and waving good-bye. Ruth hollered something at us, but Ben practically stuffed her into the big Buick and pulled away.
Yo-Yo and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Sheesh. The rest oughta be a piece of cake,” I gasped.
Yo-Yo jiggled Isaac on her shoulder. “Hey there, big guy. You ready to go to sleep or somethin’? . . . Whoa. Jodi! What was that? My shoulder is all wet!”
Isaac had thrown up his last meal all over Yo-Yo’s T-shirt and his own sleeper.
I laid Havah tummy-down on a blanket in the living room with a few toys and did my best to sponge off Yo-Yo’s clothes with a washcloth from the bathroom. Found a clean sleeper for Isaac and changed his wet diaper while I was at it. He kicked and wiggled, but I sang a couple of rounds of “Six Little Ducks” and finally managed to get him clean and packaged once again.
“Hey.” Yo-Yo stood in the doorway, hands stuffed in her overall pockets. “You’re good at that. I never did babysit or nothin’ when I was a kid.”
I grinned. “I’ll show you. It’s not too bad one at a time.”
“Yeah. But two? Glad we doin’ this together.”
According to Ruth’s list, we were supposed to feed the twins baby food at noon, then put them down for a nap. The jars of peas and carrots ended up all over their faces, the high chairs, and us—sort of like vegetarian finger paint. The peaches went better, but the whole process meant another change of clothes for both babies this time. I changed Havah, then held her while I led Yo-Yo step by step through the process with Isaac . . .
Take off the soiled sleeper. Peel back the sticky tabs of the disposable diaper, throw it in the diaper pail, and wipe his bottom with a baby wipe. Dust on baby powder, while making sure he doesn’t nosedive off the changing table. Now pick up his feet with one hand, slip the new disposable under his bottom, and press the tabs. Wrestle his arms and legs one at a time into the sleeper, snap the snappers . . .
“Whew!” Sweat beaded Yo-Yo’s forehead. “I had no idea it was so much work!”
I nodded. Frankly, I’d almost forgotten.
We put the twins down in their cribs, darkened the room, and wound up their musical mobiles—but the babies immediately set up a wailing duet. “Ignore them. They’ll get quiet,” I said as we tiptoed away.
They didn’t. The wailing got louder. Yo-Yo couldn’t stand it. “Forget the list,” she said. “Let’s just hold them. What’s wrong with that?”
We tiptoed back into the room and each picked up a baby. The wailing dwindled to hiccups by the time we got back to the living room. “Put on some of that high-falutin’ music they got,” Yo-Yo said, settling down into a rocking chair with Isaac. “Aw, look, he wants to suck my finger.”
Cradling Havah with one arm, I found a Mozart clarinet concerto, stuck it in the CD player, then settled down in Ben’s recliner. Nestled in the curve of my arm, Havah looked up at me with her large dark eyes. “You’re a beauty, little one,” I murmured . . . and watched as her eyelids flickered, dropped, and closed.
I glanced over at Yo-Yo. She was watching the baby in her arms, a look I’d never seen there before. Tenderness? Longing? Awe?
“He’s asleep,” she whispered, still staring at Isaac’s face, gently rocking.
“Havah too,” I whispered back. The music, turned low, blanketed the room. I almost drifted off myself.
The clarinet concerto finally ended. “Thanks, Jodi,” I heard Yo-Yo say.
I opened my eyes. “Thanks? For what?”
“For what you an’ Flo said, about how it’s time to give back.” She looked down at the baby sleeping in the nest she’d made with one ankle crossed over the other knee. “Didn’t know givin’ back was like gettin’ too.”
30
How’d it go?” Denny looked up from the computer when I got back.
“She’s legal. Finally! Ben looked like he had a few more white hairs, though.”
Denny laughed.
“But it was a big deal for Yo-Yo to help take care of the twins. I think she and Isaac bonded. A good thing.” I opened the fridge and pulled out the two lasagnas I’d made that morning. A very good thing—like sticking a finger in the dike of her crumbling relationship with Ruth and Ben. I turned on the oven to preheat. No, more like picking up a slipped stitch and knitting it back into a seamless whole.
I glanced at the clock. Four-thirty already. Stu was supposed to pick up Precious and Sabrina and bring them about five-thirty. Estelle was baking homemade French bread and pie. Guess all I needed to do was set the table and add a tossed salad. Wine with Italian food? No, better not.
“Amanda!” I yelled. “Did you clean the bathroom? . . . Denny, would you vacuum the living room before they get here? And where’s Josh? He needs to take Wonka for a walk around the block.”
By the time we heard the garage door go up, I’d lit candles on the table and the lasagnas were bubbly. Estelle came in the front door with her bread and crumb apple pie (“Don’t like them back stairs in rain or snow, uh-uh,” she complained) just as Stu and our two former houseguests came in the back.
“Precious! Sabrina! I’m so tickled to see you guys again!” I gave Precious a hug, then held her at arm’s length. Both had their hair braided into long extensions. “Girl, you are looking good. Gee, you two look more like sisters than mother and daughter.”
Precious laughed and poked Sabrina. “Uh-huh. Hear that, ’Brina?”
Sabrina, dressed in tight jeans, skimpy tank top, and a body-hugging sweater, turned her eyes away, as shy as the day she first came to our house—and then she saw Willie Wonka. “Aw, there’s my baby.” The teenager squatted down and hugged the dog, who obligingly licked her face.
We took down the child gate until everybody got in and the food was on the table, then penned Wonka back in the kitchen. He whined at the gate.
“Can’t we let him in?” Sabrina petted him over the gate. “He don’ scare me anymore.”
“It’s not that, Sabrina.” I tried to be delicate. “He’s having some, um, bowel difficulties. We keep him in the kitchen lately, close to the door.”
“Eww.” Sabrina made a face and found a chair on the far side of the table. Amanda looked disgusted. I wasn’t sure if it was because I said the “B” word, or because Sabrina’s loyalty to her dog was so shallow.
After holding hands around the table and singing “Thanks! Thanks! We give You thanks!”—though we didn’t sound quite as good as when T. D. Jakes sang it—the lasagnas disappeared at an incredible rate. Good thing I’d made two! The conversation bounced from one person to another, as we caught up after almost two months.
“We’ve got a new name for our church,” Stu offered. “SouledOut Community Church. The teenagers came up with it . . . Can I have some more garlic bread?”
Precious passed the breadbasket. “Now that’s cool. I like that. Sabrina an’ me, we worship now an’ then with the Salvation Army. But I’d like to find us our own church. Whatchu doin’, Estelle? You ever finish that vest you was crochetin’ for your grandboy?”
Stu laughed aloud. “That, and two more, plus about ten outfits for herself.”
>
“Humph. Gotta do somethin’ to keep these hands busy. Won’t be doin’ much sewing for the next few months, though. I’m goin’ back to school—at my age!” Estelle beamed. “I applied this week for the Certified Nurse Assistant program at Chicago Community College.”
“That’s where Edesa goes to school!” Amanda piped up.
“Did go to school,” Josh murmured. “She transferred to UIC. Getting her degree in Public Health now, remember?”
“Oh. Well, aren’t they connected or something? They’re both in the Loop.”
“Speakin’ of school, Sabrina gettin’ almost all Bs now,” Precious bragged. “Some of them Salvation Army folks helping tutor her, praise Jesus.”
“Ma, don’t.” Sabrina rolled her eyes.
“Well, baby, we got lots to be thankful for. Even that Manna House fire gonna reap good things, you wait an’ see.”
“Well, now, that’s right,” said Estelle. “Reverend Miz Handley called me up this week, said the board wants to set up an advisory board made up of former residents and volunteers, an’ asked me who I thought would be good to ask.” She pointed her fork at Josh. “I told her she should ask you, Josh. You one of the few mens who volunteered, and you always had good ideas.”
This time I did not imagine it. The color drained right out of Josh’s face.
“Uh . . . I don’t think so.” He laid down his fork.
“Now, why not?” Precious jumped in. “You an’ that girl Edesa really livened up Manna House. The kids was always excited when you two showed up. That’s what that advisory board needs—some youthful blood.” She looked around the table. “Now wouldn’t that be grand if Manna House rose from the ashes, like the Phoenix bird, bigger an’ more beautiful each time? The old had to go so the new could come.”
I gaped at her. “How’d you know about the Phoenix bird?” A homeless single mom from the streets of Chicago didn’t seem the type to read mythology.
Precious simpered at me. “Girl, you could put me on that Jeopardy show with what I know.”
“Uh, could I be excused?” Josh didn’t wait for an answer but picked up his dishes, stepped over the gate in the doorway to the kitchen, came back empty-handed, and headed for his room.
“Josh? Wait a minute.” Estelle, for all her bulk, was up from the table and heading off our son in the hallway in less than two seconds. A moment later, she crooked her finger at Precious and the three of them headed for the living room.
“Well, if we’re done . . .” Amanda pushed back her chair. “Wanna listen to Audio Adrenaline in my room, Sabrina?” The two girls disappeared with only, “Call us when you serve the pie, Mom.”
Denny, Stu, and I looked at each other. “Uh, what just happened here?” Stu said.
I folded and unfolded my napkin. “Estelle wants to talk to Josh, I guess.”
Denny scratched the back of his head. “Hm. Hope she knows what she’s doing. He’s not been the talking type lately. Guess I’ll make coffee.”
For the next several minutes, the three of us puttered in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, cutting Estelle’s crumb apple pie, getting out dessert plates, pie forks, and coffee mugs. “Don’t get out the ice cream yet,” I said. “I’ll go see if they’re ready to come back for dessert.”
I slipped off my shoes and padded silently down the hallway toward the living room, not sure if I should interrupt. I heard Josh’s voice. Well, at least he was talking.
“. . . should never have let the kids talk me into plugging in the tree again. I knew it was a fire hazard. My mom and I talked about it.”
I stopped, realizing this was not the time to go in.
“But, oh yeah, I wanted to be Mr. Nice Guy to the kids. Everybody says, don’t be hard on yourself. It wasn’t your fault, Josh.” Josh’s voice turned bitter. “Well, you know what? That doesn’t help! I feel like it was my fault. If I’d taken out that tree, it never would have happened! What if . . . what if someone had gotten hurt that night? Or killed? It could’ve happened. Kids, women, who had nothing in the first place, ended up with less than nothing! Oh, God . . .”
The last words were muffled. I peeked around the corner of the archway into the living room. Josh’s head was in his hands. Estelle and Precious sat on either side of him on our couch. Tears puddled in my eyes and spilled over. Oh, my son, my son . . . I wanted to rush into the room and gather him into my arms. Don’t keep blaming yourself!
And then I heard Precious say, “Sounds like you need to be forgiven.”
Josh lifted his head and looked at her. “Yes.” His voice sounded strangled, but he nodded. “Yes . . . yes . . .”
“Well, now.” Precious put her arm around my son. “I forgive you. I know what you done—or didn’t do—wasn’t on purpose, an’ we all make mistakes. But you right, it coulda been a whole lot worse than it was, only by the grace of God. But He got that grace for you, too, baby. He knows you sorry, and He forgives you. An’ so do I.”
Josh’s shoulders began to shake. Suddenly he was sobbing into his arms. I could hardly stand it, but I knew God was holding me back. It’s not for you to do, Jodi, said the Voice in my spirit. He needs their forgiveness, the residents of Manna House.
“I forgive you, too,” said Estelle, also putting an arm around Josh. “Now go on, let it all out. It been too long a-comin’.”
As quietly as I could, I fled to my bedroom, shut the door behind me, and fell on my bed. Oh, God, Oh, God! my heart cried out. Why couldn’t I see it? The brick wall that had been closing in on my son ever since the fire was his own sense of responsibility and guilt. He could have prevented what happened. He didn’t. He didn’t need to be told it wasn’t his fault.
He needed to be forgiven.
31
The weather turned windy and cold again on Sunday with snow flurries predicted—the first day of spring, ha!—but I didn’t even care. The cold spell in Josh’s heart had broken last night. I could feel it in the atmosphere.
Josh had excused himself from pie the night before, but when it was time for Precious and Sabrina to go home (well, if you can call a shelter “home”), he came out of his room and offered to drive them. He still wasn’t back when we went to bed—we hadn’t set any curfew since he’d graduated from high school—but he was up early the next morning and jogged the short mile to the Howard Street Shopping Center to set up the sound board. And when we got there, I saw him talking to Rick Reilly. Interesting. Josh had blown off the youth-ministry brainstorming meeting yesterday. What now?
“We celebratin’ Stu’s birthday tonight?” Florida asked me after church.
I blinked. We’d already celebrated Stu’s birthday at our house—but that wasn’t Yada Yada. “Um, sure. Got any suggestions?”
“Stu been a good friend to Little Andy an’ me,” Becky popped in. “I’d like ta make the cake. But not one o’ them round things. Flat. In the pan.”
I laughed and gave Becky a hug. “You got it. I’ll pass the word. We meet at Chanda’s tonight. You guys want a ride?”
But when I pulled up in front of the Hickman house later that afternoon, I had to laugh. Florida, bundled in her winter coat, was sitting like a snow queen in her new wicker furniture on the porch. “Tol’ ya I was gonna sit on my porch the first day of spring, rain or shine!” she yelled. But when Becky came out with a cake pan, Flo ran for the minivan. “Turn that heater up, girl! My fingers is froze.”
Avis was already at Chanda’s house when we arrived, getting the VIP tour of Rochelle’s new bedroom and “the boys’ room,” which Conny was sharing with Chanda’s boy, Tom. Florida and I ran up the stairs to peek, too, while Becky took her cake to the kitchen.
We had a good turnout at Yada Yada that night, including Ruth, who drove herself and Yo-Yo, and didn’t let us forget it. “What? You are surprised? If I can birth two babies at my age, what’s a little ol’ driver’s license?”
Yo-Yo rolled her eyes behind Ruth’s back. “Huh. The license was easy; it’s the driving th
at needs a little work,” she muttered.
Our other surprise was Hoshi, who arrived with Nonyameko. “Most of the Northwestern students have gone home for spring break.” Hoshi grinned, returning our hugs. “ReJOYce Campus Club meeting was cancelled.”
“What about dat Sara?” Chanda asked, as she and Rochelle brought in a tray of coffee mugs along with a pot of good Jamaican coffee. The aroma was heavenly. “Did you bring her? Don’t she only live a couple burbs nort’ of ’ere?”
Hoshi shook her head. “She says no every time I invite her. But I told her we pray for her and are grateful for what she did, turning in those men who hurt Dr. Smith.” Hoshi’s lip suddenly trembled, and she busied herself looking for a tissue in her pocket.
Nony put an arm around Hoshi. “It is all right, my sister. God is working out His purpose in spite of what happened. One day Sara will come so we can love on her.”
“Mm-hm,” I heard Adele murmur. “So I can get my hands on that hair too.”
I gaped at Adele. “That’s it! That’s what we can do.”
Adele frowned. “Do what?” Others were looking at me, too.
“Hoshi, do you know when Sara’s birthday is? Something to celebrate. We could collect money as a gift to give her the works at Adele’s Hair and Nails—haircut, color, set, manicure, pedicure . . . you know, the works! Hoshi can tell her it’s from all of us, to let her know she doesn’t have to be afraid.”
“Dat’s a good idea.” Chanda reached for her purse. “’Ere’s a twenty to start.”
I felt like rolling my eyes. She didn’t have to announce how much. But others nodded, liking the idea. I took Chanda’s twenty. “Whatever people want to contribute. We can collect next time too.”
Just then, Becky entered with her cake in an aluminum nine-by-thirteen pan, candles flaming. “Happy birthday to Stu . . .” she warbled, and we all joined in. Estelle had brought a card “From the Whole Gang,” which we all signed. But Becky had the best idea of all.