The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

by Neta Jackson

  “Wonka . . .” My voice barely came out in a whisper. Denny immediately squatted down on one knee and held his fingers to the dog’s neck.

  “Oh, Mommy! . . . Oh no! He’s not . . . he’s not . . . is he?” Amanda started to cry. Josh reached out and put his arm around his sister, pulling her close.

  Denny, still down on one knee, turned and looked up at us . . . and nodded slowly.

  I burst into tears. Amanda threw herself down and covered Willie Wonka’s body with her own. “Wonka! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!” Her whole body shook with sobs. “You’re my only friend, Wonka! Please, please, don’t go . . .”

  And then our arms reached out for each other, all four of us surrounding our beloved dog, our friend, whose love was unconditional . . . and we cried.

  33

  I didn’t go to work that day. I couldn’t. We let Amanda stay home too. We called the high school and said we had a death in the family—which was true. But when I called Bethune Elementary, I simply told the office I had a family emergency and needed a substitute. “And could you leave a message for Mrs. Douglass to call me?”

  The rain was still coming down hard. Denny stood on the porch, hands in the pockets of his jeans, watching the rain cascade off the garage roof, forming a wet trench on the ground. Finally, he motioned to me to join him outside and to close the door. “I suppose we could call Animal Control and they would—”

  “No, Denny! They’ll just . . . just ‘dispose’ of him in some garbage pit. A dead animal doesn’t mean anything to them. We can’t let Willie Wonka . . .” I choked up.

  “I know. That’s what I was going to say. Maybe we’re supposed to call Animal Control, but I want to bury him ourselves. Only problem . . .” Denny tipped his chin at the soggy backyard. “We can’t dig a grave in weather like this. Weather report says it’s supposed to clear later this afternoon, though. Might be all right tomorrow.” He shook his head. “But I don’t know, Jodi. Think Amanda can deal with it? Wonka’s body in the house all day, I mean. Especially if she’s not going to school.”

  “Better than the alternative!” I snapped—and immediately repented. “I’m sorry, Denny. I just can’t bear the thought of strangers taking Wonka away.”

  “I know.” His voice was tender. He pulled me into his arms and we just held each other for a few minutes.

  “Whoa! Look at the lovebirds.” Stu came clattering down the back stairs, half hidden under her umbrella. “I’m late. See you later.” She dashed for the garage.

  Just as well. I wasn’t ready to talk about Wonka yet. We’d tell her tonight.

  When we came back into the kitchen, Amanda had wrapped her bright yellow comforter with the black geometric designs around the dog’s body—way too much blanket for our small kitchen. But I quietly toasted some bagels for Denny and Josh, who decided to go on to work. “We’ll bury him tomorrow, sweetie,” Denny said, kissing the top of Amanda’s head as he came back into the kitchen, dressed in slacks, shirt, and tie. “When the rain stops, okay?”

  She nodded mutely.

  He tipped up her chin. “You going to be okay?”

  Amanda pulled away and didn’t respond. He let her go, grabbed a bagel and a travel mug of coffee, and headed for the garage, Josh right behind him.

  Suddenly the house felt cavernous. Yawning like an empty mouth, and nothing to fill it. What was I going to do all day? I couldn’t put on some loud gospel music to drown out my sorrow, as I usually did. It wouldn’t feel right, not with Wonka’s motionless body wrapped in his yellow-and-black shroud on the kitchen floor. Maybe not going to work was a bad idea. I could go in late . . . . no. I should stay with Amanda.

  The phone rang. “Jodi?” It was Avis. “Ms. Ivy said you had a family emergency! What happened?”

  I told her about Willie Wonka. “Amanda’s a wreck. I need to stay with her. And to be honest, I’m pretty much a basket case myself. I’m sorry, Avis. Just today.”

  “Oh. Well . . .”

  I could almost hear her struggling between the professional Mrs. Douglass (“What? You want to stay home because your dog died? What about your third graders, who are very much alive? I’m putting you on professional probation!”) and Avis, my friend.

  Avis won. “All right, Jodi. Family emergency it is. And . . . I’m really sorry for your loss. Give Amanda a hug for me.”

  Her words wrapped themselves around me, and I had another cry after we hung up. Get hold of yourself, Jodi Baxter. You didn’t cry this much when MaDear died! I blew my nose and stood looking at the garish yellow-and-black pile in the corner of the kitchen. Should I try to find another blanket? Something smaller and—

  “Mom?” Amanda came into the kitchen, noiseless in her socks, and stood beside me. Our arms slid around each other’s waist. “I don’t wanna put Wonka into the wet ground just wrapped in a blanket. Can’t Daddy and Josh make a box or something? We could line it with something soft, maybe cut up my comforter, and sew it to fit.”

  Cut up her comforter! Suddenly it didn’t matter. Why not? What was one comforter anyway, compared to a decent burial for Amanda’s lifelong friend?

  THE RAIN STOPPED SHORTLY AFTER NOON. That evening, Josh and Denny built a box—basically, the deep bottom drawer from an old chest of drawers sitting unused in the basement, with a new lid that fit snugly over the top. Amanda and I cut up her comforter and sewed it together on two sides, vaguely resembling a dog-size sleeping bag. Amanda then sewed a pillowcase out of the same padded material, stuffing it with pieces of wadded-up comforter to make a pillow for Wonka’s head to rest on.

  It was time to let Wonka’s friends know. I dialed upstairs when I heard Stu arrive home. “What?” she cried into my ear. “Why didn’t you tell me this morning? I rushed right past you . . . Oh, Jodi, I feel so stupid.”

  “It’s all right, Stu. We weren’t ready to talk about it.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jodi. You want me to call anyone? The rest of Yada Yada?”

  Relief sighed in my spirit. “Yes, please. We’re going to bury him in the backyard tomorrow morning at ten—in case anyone wants to come. Like maybe Becky. She and Wonka were good buddies when she lived with you.” Becky . . . I felt like bawling all over again. Little Andy had wanted to come play with “the doggy” a couple of Sundays ago, and it hadn’t happened. Now it never would.

  Josh and Denny lifted Willie Wonka’s limp body into the soft bag, then laid him in the box, head on the pillow. “Don’t put the lid on, not yet,” Amanda begged. She bent down and kissed Wonka’s still-silky ears—then fled to her bedroom.

  I checked on her before going to bed. She lay curled up in her bed, her old faded comforter, once pink, now barely beige, in service once more. As I leaned over to kiss her, she grabbed my arm and pulled me onto the bed. “Mom? Why is God taking everything away from me?”

  I could barely breathe.

  “I mean, first José left me . . . and then MaDear died, and, and, she was practically a relative . . . and now Willie Wonka.” The sobs started again. “I mean, why, Mom?”

  I didn’t have an answer. So I just held her and let her cry.

  SOMETIME DURING THE NIGHT, the clouds disappeared and the early morning sun kissed rooftops, trees, and bushes, inviting the world to come outside. Josh and Denny dug a hole out by the garage, where Becky had worked so hard to make a flower garden last year. I stood and watched them, suddenly aware of the sparrows flittering through the still-bare tree limbs. A few landed on the bird feeder Denny had hung for me last year, pecked hopefully, then flew away, still hungry.

  But I turned away. I couldn’t think about the birds. Not yet.

  At ten o’clock, Stu and Estelle came down the back stairs and joined us in the backyard. A huge white-and-silver SUV I didn’t recognize pulled up in the alley behind our garage. A moment later, Florida, Cedric, and Carla tiptoed respectfully into the back yard, followed by Chanda’s three kids and Becky Wallace—carrying Little Andy! “I get Andy two full weekends a month now, not
just Sundays,” she whispered to me, setting the curly-headed boy down. “Ain’t God good?”

  Andy made a beeline for Denny. “Hi, Big Guy!” he squealed, throwing his arms around Denny’s leg. And then he saw the open box. The little boy stared. “Why is the doggy in the box?”

  Denny shot a quick glance at Becky, who mouthed above Little Andy’s head, “I didn’t know how to tell him!”

  Denny nodded at Becky, gathered all the children around the box, and started talking to them in a calm voice. “When dogs get very old, one day their body just stops working, just like people. But that doesn’t mean we forget about them . . .”

  I leaned toward Becky. “How’d you get here? I mean, whose monster SUV?”

  She snorted. “Chanda’s. She leasin’ it for a few weeks ta see if she wants somethin’ that big. Came in handy today, fer sure.”

  Chanda joined us in the backyard ten minutes later, muttering, “De parking all chacka-chacka in dis neighborhood.” But she hushed when she realized Denny was inviting the children to say something about their friend, Willie Wonka.

  “He never bited me,” Little Andy said solemnly.

  “Sometimes he licked my face,” Carla added.

  “Whenever we came to see him, he wagged his tail.” Dia wiggled her skinny rump. “I wish I had a tail to wag.”

  We laughed softly, then fell silent around the box holding our beloved Willie Wonka. “Amanda?” Denny prodded gently.

  Amanda pulled something out of a paper bag. It was her old, favorite stuffed Snoopy dog, more grey than white now, one eye missing, one ear sagging. She laid it in the box with Wonka’s body. Her lip trembled. “I . . . guess I have to grow up now.”

  Just then, footsteps came running on the walk alongside our house. José Enriquez burst into the backyard, followed by a gasping Edesa. “Are we too late, Señor Baxter?” he cried. The teenager’s dark eyes took in the circle of adults and children around the hole, the pile of dirt, the box still sitting on the winter-dead lawn. “Amanda, I—”

  Amanda didn’t let him finish. She threw herself into José’s arms and burst into tears. “Oh, José! You came!”

  THE BACKYARD WAS QUIET NOW. Chanda’s vanload decided to go to the zoo and thank God for all the animals. The pile of dirt had been shoveled back into the hole and smoothed over the top. Becky promised she’d be back to plant some special flowers over the grave. “We’ll call it Wonka’s garden, right, Andy?”

  I peeked out the kitchen window as I chopped vegetables for soup. José and Amanda sat cross-legged on the damp ground, shoulders hunched, picking at the brown grass, talking. On the porch, Josh and Edesa sat on the porch swing, soaking up spring’s first rays, sometimes talking, sometimes just sitting quietly as the swing squeaked gently.

  “God,” I murmured, putting the lid on the pot and turning up the heat, “thank You for little graces, even in the middle of sad times like today . . . for José showing up, just when Amanda needed a friend . . . for Edesa and Josh able to sit comfortably together—though You might be the only One who knows what’s going on with those two.” I don’t think prayers are supposed to end with rolling eyes, but I did it anyway.

  When the pot was bubbling and the smell of garlic and basil filled the kitchen, I opened the back door. “Edesa! José! You want to stay for lunch? Got plenty of soup.”

  José jumped up. “Oh no, I can’t, Señora Baxter. I have to rehearse with the band at one o’clock. My father’s on the road today, so I am filling in. What time is it?”

  I glanced at the kitchen clock. “Fifteen minutes to twelve.”

  Amanda danced on her toes hopefully, but José shook his head. “Gracias, Señora Baxter. But we came by el and—”

  “Chill, José.” Josh pulled out his car keys and playfully tossed them in the air. “I’ll take you guys home. We only need thirty minutes to get there—forty, tops. Stay for Mom’s soup.”

  34

  Denny said he didn’t want a big hullabaloo for his birthday, not so soon after losing our dog. So even though Stu and Estelle offered to come downstairs to help us celebrate on April first, I said no thanks, we were putting off his birthday until the weekend, and then we were going out to dinner, “just family.”

  It had been a strange week. The tears had dried up, but the hollow feeling in our lives remained. No Willie Wonka to trip over when we came in the door. No click-click-click of his nails on the hardwood floors. No muzzle pushed into our laps as we watched TV or sprawled in the recliner. And especially no kissy-face ritual when Amanda came home from school.

  But I couldn’t let Denny’s actual birthday go past unnoticed, even though we’d put off going out until Friday. So while he was at the JDC Thursday evening, I made a chocolate tunnel cake. It even came out of the bundt pan in one piece, shiny and firm, belying its gooey center. I lit candles in the living room, put the cake on our old oak coffee table that was “fashionably stressed” after years of snacks and feet—with and without shoes—and made a pot of decaf coffee.

  “What’s this?” he said, coming into the living room after his long day, dropping his briefcase and loosening his tie. He lifted an eyebrow suspiciously. “You promised no April Fool’s jokes this year.”

  “No joke. Just cake. I promise.”

  The front door banged. “I smell chocolate,” Josh said. He stopped at the living room door. “I thought we weren’t celebrating Dad’s birthday till tomorrow.”

  “Well, um, I cheated. Get your sister. We’re having cake.”

  A funny peace settled over the living room as the four of us dug into the cake by candlelight. “Mm,” Amanda said, ignoring her fork and breaking her slice into gooey pieces, licking her fingers after each bite. “You haven’t made this for a long time, Mom—oh!” She looked at her father guiltily. “We didn’t sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ ”

  He gave a dismissive wave. “That’s okay. Just eat.”

  “But can we say happy birthday? Even if, you know, we’re kinda sad?”

  Denny chewed thoughtfully. “Sure. Because I am happy, you know.”

  “You are? But—”

  “Well, I’m sad because we’re missing Willie Wonka. But, I’m happy we got him when you were just a pup, snickerdoodle”—he reached over and pinched Amanda’s nose—“because it was fun watching you two grow up together. And I’m happy because my wife, who’s put up with me for twenty years—”

  “Twenty-one,” I corrected. “Twenty-four if you count dating.”

  “—and my two best kids—”

  “You only have two kids,” Josh pointed out.

  Denny ignored the interruptions. “—are here with me right this moment, eating ‘tunnel of fudge’ cake. It doesn’t get much better than that.”

  “Da-ad.” Amanda rolled her eyes.

  “I’m serious. Who knows if we’ll all be together next year? Actually . . .” Denny put down his empty plate and leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, looking around our small circle, “. . . Willie Wonka’s death marks the end of an era for the Baxter family. I realized that was true, ’Manda, when you put your Snoopy dog in the box with Wonka’s body and said, ‘Guess I have to grow up now.’ ”

  She made a face. “Yeah. But I was kinda mad. I didn’t want any ol’ stuffed dog if I couldn’t have my real one.”

  Denny reached for our daughter and pulled her close to him on the couch, wrapping one arm around her shoulder. “But it’s true, you know. You’ve had a rough time this winter. José broke up with you. MaDear died. Now Willie Wonka’s gone. Familiar props have been knocked out from under you.”

  “But José came back! Well, not really. He said he’s missed me, wants us to still be friends. Not like, you know, before—all tight and exclusive and stuff. But . . .” Amanda shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m glad we can be friends.”

  Denny smiled at her. “Exactly. I think God knows you’re strong enough to forge ahead even without the familiar props. In fact, tonight at the JDC, our study group came across this
verse.” He fished in his briefcase for the Bible he’d taken that night, and flipped pages. “Okay, here it is. First Corinthians, chapter thirteen: ‘When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. But when I became a man’—you know, grown—‘I put childish things behind me.’ ”

  He looked up. “Oscar and I talked to the boys that part of growing up is learning to face up to the consequences of mistakes and bad decisions. But it’s also learning to overcome disappointment, even the loss of friends or family. Life isn’t always fair. Bad things happen. But life keeps rolling. We have to keep rolling, too. Roll with the punches, roll with God’s help.”

  “Can I see that?” Amanda reached for her dad’s Bible and studied the page. Then her eyes widened. “Look at the next verse! It says, ‘Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.’ ” She looked up thoughtfully. “It’s kinda saying we don’t always know why things happen, but we will someday—because God knows everything about us.”

  I watched my husband and daughter, gratefulness squeezing my heart. Amanda had cried, “Why, Mom? Why?” I didn’t feel badly that I didn’t have any answers that night. That wasn’t the night for answers. But tonight, she was listening. Listening to the Word.

  Josh cleared his throat. “Uh, can I cut in? I know you guys have been waiting for me to grow up, leave the nest, whatever.”

  I hid a grin. Well, yeah.

  “But what you said, Dad, about God sometimes knocks the props out from under us . . . guess that sums up what I’ve been feeling. When Dr. Smith was attacked by those racists, well, that knocked the rosy color off my world, that’s for sure. But I kept doing this, doing that, thinking I wanted to save the world, college could wait, all that stuff, until . . . well, the fire, you know. Kinda burned up my self-confidence.”

  The candles were starting to drip wax on the coffee table. But I couldn’t take my eyes off my son, sandy hair falling over his ears and curling down onto his neck, blue tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of his T-shirt, both knees of his jeans ripped. Jesus was right. It was what was on the inside of a person that counted with God.