by Neta Jackson
As the choir scattered, the “Christmas pageant” began . . . with a teenage Mary startled by a ten-year-old angel wrapped in a sheet. “You’re gonna get pregnant, and it was the Holy Ghost who did it!”
Kids giggled and the adults tried to stifle their laughter as the “angel” appeared to a teenage Joseph and told him to quit messing around and marry Mary. The “trip to Bethlehem” around the multi-purpose room resulted in Mary and Joseph getting told at the Christmas tree, the couch, and the refreshment table: “Sorry. Don’t got no room.” A box filled with towels served as the “manger,” in which a very much alive baby Gracie kicked and fussed, setting off a sweet “Aww” around the whole room.
Finally, the “angel” found a bunch of “shepherds” in a far corner and told them: “I’ve got great news! Jesus is born—and you’ll find Him in a barn.” The “shepherds” in bathrobes and bath-towel turbans ran full tilt and skidded to a stop beside the box with the baby, grinning and giggling.
As the audience clapped and the children took their bows, suddenly my throat tightened and my eyes watered.How utterly appropriate to see the Christmas story here in this homeless shelter. An ordinary teenage Mary, a working-class Joseph, a bunch of “shepherds” who in today’s world might have been auto-shop mechanics. When Jesus was born, angels had to announce it because it happened right under everyone’s noses; so humble and ordinary, most people missed it. People still missed it—
A commotion at the back interrupted my thoughts. Heads turned; a number of adults and a few children in winter coats wearing “Santa’s elves” caps swept in through the double doors carrying bags and boxes of gaily wrapped Christmas gifts. The shelter kids cheered and started a mad scramble.
“Hey! Hey!” Josh grabbed a few shirts and pulled them back. “Come on now, all you kids sit on the floor around the tree . . . that’s right. These good folks are from Weiss Memorial Hospital, and they’ve brought gifts for everyone. Come on, let’s show some appreciation!” Josh led the clapping as Precious and others took the coats of the Weiss Memorial elves and helped them put the gifts under the tree for distribution.
As one of the women put her load of gifts under the tree and straightened, I squinted and stared. The woman looked familiar, someone I knew or had seen before—and then I saw the boy with her.
Hakim Porter! With his mother, Geraldine Wilkins-Porter.
They were standing off to the side, watching as Josh and Edesa read the nametags on the gifts and handed them out, when I approached. “Mrs. Porter?”
Hakim’s mother turned. The African-American woman—I vaguely remembered she worked as a licensed practical nurse—looked as slim and professional as the last painful time I’d seen her in my classroom at Bethune Elementary, when our hands had briefly touched, somewhat easing the tension between us, though she had been unable to forgive me. Now, recognition twitched at the corners of her eyes. Her lips parted slightly.
“Mrs. Baxter. I didn’t realize . . . ” She seemed confused about why I was at a women’s shelter.
I smiled, trying to put her at ease. “My son is on the advisory board here.” I decided not to mention the upcoming wedding in a few hours. Too complicated. But should I tell her Hakim had been to our house recently and shoveled our walks? I glanced at the boy, standing just behind his mother and nearly as tall, and caught his worried eyes and urgent shake of the head. So I just held out my hand. “Hello, Hakim. It’s wonderful to see you again.”
He shook my hand, then faded from sight.
“Well . . . Merry Christmas. We can’t stay long.” Geraldine Porter turned as if ending the conversation. “Boomer?” The woman frowned. “Now, where did that boy go? I told him not to go running off ! He’s always disappearing on me.”
Boomer? My mouth went dry. I licked my lips. In my mind I felt the jerk again that sent me sprawling, saw the shadowy figure who’d come back, heard the distant voice yelling, “Boomer, you idiot! Get outta there!”
16
Boom . . . Boomer?” I hoped my voice didn’t squeak.
Mrs. Porter looked at me quizzically, as if she’d already forgotten I was there. “Oh. Just a nickname.
He used to have a boom box he carried everywhere, B like an extra appendage. His cousins started calling him Boomer. Now they have me saying it.” She swiveled her head. “Excuse me, I need to find him.”
I stood rooted in the same spot, my thoughts and feelings spinning. It all fell into place, like twisting a Rubik’s Cube one last time and suddenly all the colors matched. Hakim had been with the teens who had stolen my purse and knocked me down. It was Hakim who had come back to help me, had found my phone, had dialed 9-1-1. Someone had yelled, called him “Boomer,” and told him to run.
Across the room, Geraldine Wilkins-Porter and her son retrieved their coats and headed out the double doors. At the last moment, Hakim turned, caught my eye, and lifted his hand in good-bye. I waved back weakly.
I sank into the closest chair. It must have been Hakim who had returned my stolen purse and credit cards. But . . . why?
Stupid question. Because he feels guilty. He’s sorry but can’t say it, can’t admit he was part of what happened.
The party was basically over. The Manna House staff must have sent the names of each child to Weiss Memorial with a wish list, because all the children seemed delighted with their gifts. I pushed myself out of the chair to help with cleanup. Lord, this can’t just be coincidence!—even Hakim and his mother showing up today. But what’s it all about? I’d like to tell him I forgive him, but . . . I don’t even know where he lives. And his mom obviously doesn’t know he’s been showing up to shovel our walks. Lord, I don’t know what You want to happen, but please, at least bring Hakim back to our house once more. Give us some time to talk . . .
THE SHELTER SWIRLED with activity as laughing residents helped transform the multipurpose room into a “chapel” for the wedding. No baskets of flowers—too expensive, Josh said—but two iron candelabras Edesa had borrowed from Iglesia del Espirito Santo stood at the front of the rows of folding chairs, each holding five long white tapers and decorated with wide red bows.
Delores Enriquez, the honorary mother of the bride, showed up with her entire family at two-thirty and immediately took charge of coordinating wedding setup and details. I was delighted to see her husband, Ricardo, show up with his large guitarron. Ricardo had a way of coaxing love from his big guitar—perfect for a wedding.
José, Delores’s oldest, seemed as if he’d grown six inches since I last saw him at Lane Tech’s graduation last spring. A first-year student at UIC, he was as tall as his father, maybe five-seven, although he seemed taller because of his slender build. Amanda screeched with delight when she saw him, throwing her arms around his neck and then babbling like an auctioneer as the two “just friends” caught up on the months they’d been at different colleges.
My mom offered to stay with Gracie when Edesa put the baby down for a nap in the portable crib in Edesa’s stripped-down room. Most of their things had already been taken to the “Hickman Hilton,” as I heard Denny refer to it. “Smart move,” I teased my mom. “Way to sneak in a nap too.”
Stu and Estelle arrived with the dresses—hidden in garment bags, of course. A parade of jean-clad Yada Yada sisters turned up with food, garment bags, and wedding gifts. Yo-Yo and the Garfields arrived with the wedding cake from the Bagel Bakery. After helping to set up chairs, I zipped downstairs to the dining room where the reception would be held to take a peek, but decided not to tangle with Ruth, who was insisting that the cake table had to be moved. “A place of honor it must be. No, no, not there—here!”
On my way back up the stairs to the main floor, I passed Emerald, Delores’s next oldest, as she shepherded her three younger siblings toward the rec room on the lower floor. “Oh, Señora Baxter!” The girl’s eyes danced, her long hair a cascade of dark waves falling behind the red ribbon she wore. “My quinceañera is this spring! Will you come?”
What? She’s fifteen already? Impossible . . . “Of course, Emerald. You will be a beautiful Quinceañera.” I gave her a hug. “Who is going to be your escort?” Emerald giggled and shrugged. I watched her disappear.
It seemed only yesterday that the Enriquez family—José especially—had spearheaded a quinceañera, the traditional Mexican coming-of-age party, for our Amanda. I was grateful José and Amanda had survived their first teenage love and breakup and been able to remain friends—though even my heart had skipped a beat when José came in, no longer a boy but a dark-eyed, handsome hunk.
“Jodi!” Delores cornered me as I came back into the multipurpose room. “Did Josh or Edesa speak to you about reading the scripture during the service?”
I shook my head. “Nope. You know what they say about the mother of the groom: ‘Wear beige and stand in a corner.’”
She looked into my eyes, reading my heart. “Be patient, Jodi. They’ve only had two weeks to put this wedding together. They would like you to read the scripture—Colossians 3, verses 12 through 14. Do you have your Bible?”
I shook my head. “No, I wasn’t expecting . . .”
She smiled. “No problem. Reverend Handley let me borrow hers, just in case.” She handed me a worn brown leather Bible with Elizabeth Handley engraved on the front in gold scroll letters. “And here’s the order of service. You can see when the scripture reading comes. Peter Douglass printed it at his shop. Isn’t it beautiful?”
The folded program on creamy, watermarked paper was indeed beautiful. A swell of gratefulness drowned my momentary crabbiness. Thank You, Jesus, for all our “brothers and sisters” who are doing so much to make this hasty wedding a beautiful moment in time.
I looked at my watch. Three-thirty. Maybe I could disappear for a while to practice reading the scripture and get myself dressed before helping Amanda. Some peace and quiet, some prayer and Scripture, sounded like just what Dr. Jesus ordered for my sweating palms.
Josh—my oldest child, my only son—was getting married in less than two hours.
I HAD FINISHED dressing and was hooking Stu’s earrings into my earlobes when Denny, still in his jeans and sweatshirt, peeked into the bunkroom I’d been using. “Jodi? I think you need to come out here.” His words suggested alarm, but not his grin.
“What?”
“Just come!” He grabbed me by the hand and pulled me down the stairs to the main floor. As we neared the multipurpose room, I heard squeals and a babble of excited voices. At the doorway, Denny stepped back and pushed me forward.
On the other side of the room, an animated swarm was milling at the back of the rows of chairs, mostly my Yada Yada sisters, laughing, squealing, hugging. I saw Josh pumping the hand of someone, an African-American man in a dark suit . . . and then I saw the black-and-gold African head wrap next to him, the gracious tilt of the head, the wide smile framed by the rich color of dark oak.
Astonishment sucked the breath right out of my body. Nonyameko and Mark! Two seconds later, I was pushing my way into the knot of bodies around the Sisulu-Smith family. I reached for Nony, who was laughing and trying to hug everyone at once.
“You’re here! You’re here! I thought—oh! Oh! This is wonderful!” I hugged Nony, hugged Mark—oh! That beautiful man, still wearing an eye patch, but otherwise looking fit and handsome, still sporting an elegant goatee—and then hugged their two young teens, Marcus and Michael, who were wearing black dashikis embroidered in white and seemed a bit uncomfortable with all the fuss.
“Oh, man, Dr. Smith,” I heard Josh say. “If I’d known you were going to be here in time for the wedding, I would have asked you to stand up with me or something.”
Mark Smith laughed. “Not a good idea, son. I might topple over from jet lag. It is enough that we can be here to witness this magnificent event.”
“Oh,Nony.” My eyes were tearing up. “We thought . . . I mean, weren’t you going to spend Christmas with your family in Durban? How did you . . . I mean—”
Nonyameko wrapped her arms around me. I could smell the soft fabric of her flowing tunic, the warm musk of her skin. “Oh, Jodi. When we got Edesa’s e-mail, that she and your Josh were get-ting married on Christmas Eve, we could not stay away. We did not tell anyone because we were not sure we could change our tickets and we did not want to disappoint. Holiday travel, you know. But . . . ” Her smile warmed me all over. “God made all the rough places smooth. Here we are.”
I was so happy I could hardly speak. Everyone was here. My Yada Yada sisters had come home because they loved Edesa and my son.
Nony looked around. “Where is Edesa?” I realized Amanda and Estelle were missing too.
“She is getting dressed,” Delores said, “which is what you should be doing as well, Joshua Baxter.” She looked disapprovingly at the array of jeans and sweats. “The rest of you too—shoo, shoo! Get dressed.”
The Yada Yadas dispersed reluctantly, but the room definitely was quiet after they disappeared upstairs to the bunkrooms to dress. I realized Denny’s parents had also arrived while I’d been dressing and were talking to my parents, who were sitting on a couch in a corner of the room. My father was holding little Gracie, dressed in a frilly white outfit I suspected came from Delores’s children. I slipped over to greet the senior Baxters, letting Nony and Mark slip away to greet Ben Garfield, who was riding herd on his two-year-old twins.
“Jodi, dear.” Kay Baxter, her silver-blonde hair cut short and sassy, kissed me on both cheeks, something she probably picked up in France. “You’re looking well. Didn’t you break your leg or some-thing?” Her eyes took in the multipurpose-room-turned-chapel. “This is all rather sweet. But surely there is a church somewhere they could have used in a safer part of town? I wasn’t sure I wanted to get out of the taxi!”
Oh, brother. Sometimes I wondered how this couple had given birth to my Denny.
Denny’s father rolled his eyes. “Kay, sweetheart, it was perfectly fine. So, this is the baby?” he said to my father. “She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she?”
The baby . . . I had hardly had any time to think about Gracie the past few days or the fact that I had agreed to take care of her after the wedding. Oh God, I feel pulled in too many directions!
Well, let the grandparents fuss over her for now. My time would come.
I politely chatted with both sets of grandparents until Denny showed up in his black dress suit, white shirt, and a red tie. Ricardo Enriquez began to play his solo guitar; our voices lowered to whispers. Peter Douglass and Carl Hickman acted as ushers, greeting people as they came in, giving out programs, and seating those who needed help. Peter Douglass beckoned our family group, seating the four grandparents and Gracie into the second row on the “groom’s side,” then steering me to a seat in the front row.
But Denny didn’t sit down. “Where are you going?” I whispered.
My husband grinned, his dimples going deep. “I’m going to escort the bride.”
I shook my head, laughing silently. Actually, it was kind of fun not knowing all the plans for the wedding. Surprise after surprise.
The room filled. Katrina evacuees and shelter residents, dressed in the best clothes they could manage under the circumstances—which in some cases meant clean jeans and T-shirts—filled half the seats. Our Yada Yada Prayer Group and their families were sprinkled on both sides of the aisle. At the last moment, Delores Enriquez hustled up the aisle with her three youngest children in tow, handed a bulging diaper bag and bottle to Gracie’s caretakers behind me, and sat in the front row on the “bride’s side.” We glanced at each other and grinned. “Our” children were getting married.
17
As Ricardo launched into a medley of Christmas carols on his guitar, Emerald Enriquez walked down the aisle carrying a lit candle, wearing a simple white dress with a red sash and . . . red heels. Oh my. She A really is growing up! After lighting all the candles on both of the iron candelabras, Emerald joined her mother and siblings on the front row . . . a
nd on cue, three men walked in solemnly from the door off to the side. I smiled. Their only similarity was that each carried a Bible and was wearing a suit.
I felt a poke from behind. “Who are they?” Kay Baxter whispered.
“The man on the left is Pastor Rodriquez,” I whispered over my shoulder, “Edesa’s pastor, from Iglesia del Espirito Santo. The other two are our pastors from SouledOut Community Church—Pastor Clark and Pastor Cobbs.” My soul wanted to sing—or at least gig-gle with pleasure. A Latino pastor, a white pastor, and an African- American pastor, all on the same platform (although there was no platform). Josh and Edesa had brought them together—had brought all of us together—in this place and on this day.
Florida must have been thinking the same thing. From two rows back, I heard her stage whisper. “Now ain’t that a picture of what it’s goin’ ta be like at the Marriage Feast of the Lamb! Know what I’m sayin’?”
The side door opened again, and Josh walked in, followed by José. I had a twinge of familiar “labor panic”: This is it! There’s no turning back! I blew out a deep breath and found a smile. Josh, his sandy hair trimmed up for his wedding, wore a black suit, open-necked white shirt, and a red vest. José, dark-eyed and dark-haired, wore a similar black suit, open-necked shirt, and red vest. Unrelated thoughts bumped in my head: How in the world did Estelle manage to make vests too? And . . . Wow. Gotta admit, both young men are drop-jaw handsome.
As if by instinct, heads turned. Amanda walked slowly down the aisle in time to the sweet guitar music. Her honey-colored hair was piled on her head, with curls and tendrils mixed with skinny red and white ribbons. Adele must have been busy in the back room, I thought. The simple red dress rippled like water as she walked. She carried a single long-stemmed white rose. I heard murmuring around me . . . “Lovely.” But what I saw was the wink José sent her way.