2-in-1 Yada Yada (27 page)

Josh actually rolled his eyes at me. “No, Mother. The club owners are adults—gotta be, right? They
say
that so the place won't be crashed by college kids and party types.” He looked down on me from his five feet eleven. “I thought you'd want us to go.”

“Want
you to! Why?”

“Because it's Pete asking us to go.”

“But you hardly know Pete! And he's had a very rough life— his mom's an addict, his sister was in jail. I mean, kids like that easily get caught up in smoking or drinking or doing drugs, and I don't want—”

“Mom.” Josh's voice took on a weary tone, as though explaining something to a child. “This Yada Yada thing today? They were
your
friends. You acted like you wanted us to be friends with their kids, right? So . . . we're just trying to be friends.” He threw up his hands, turned, and disappeared into his room. At that moment he looked just like his father.

“Yeah, Mom,” Amanda echoed. “Besides, Florida smokes and she's
your
friend. She was smoking right here.”

“What do you mean?” Of course I knew Florida smoked, but I hadn't noticed her “dipping out for a cig” today.

“Out front—you know, when we were all eating in the back. Yo-Yo too.”

Oh, great. Just great. I wanted to be friends with these women in Yada Yada. I really did. But I hadn't counted on what kinds of things my kids might pick up from the lifestyles of such a diverse group.

“Well, you're right,” I said. “But those are habits they picked up before—” But Amanda and Willie Wonka were already tussling their way down the hall toward the living room.

Grrr.
Why did I keep ending up on the losing end of arguments in this house? But I still felt uneasy about that flyer. I needed to talk with Denny . . . when we were talking again, that is.

I tossed the flyer on the dining room table and took the first load down to the basement. At least the washing machine was free. In fact, I hadn't seen our upstairs neighbors all weekend. Maybe they'd gone out of town for the holiday. I kinda wished they'd seen our multicultural backyard party today . . . maybe they wouldn't be so standoffish.

Upstairs I heard the phone ringing, then Amanda's voice a moment later. “Mo-om! It's for you!” I hustled up the basement stairs and picked up the kitchen extension.

“This is Jodi.”

“Sista Jodee?” The Jamaican accent on the other end could be only one person.

“Oh!” I tried not to sound surprised. “Hi, Chanda.”

“Sista Jodee?” The voice on the other end hesitated.

What did she want? Did she leave something at my house this afternoon? “I'm here, Chanda. What is it?” I heard a snuffling noise, like she might be crying.

“Sista Jodee, I got somethin' for Yada Yada to pray about, but . . . I don't have a computer. Could you send it to other people by e-mail? I can't wait till our next meeting.”

Couldn't help feeling good that Chanda had called
me.
“Sure, Chanda. I'll get a pencil . . . okay, go ahead.”

Again I waited through some snuffling. When she did speak her voice was so quiet I missed what she said. “Try again, Chanda. I can barely hear you,” I said, plugging my other ear.

“I . . . found a lump in my breast,” she whispered from the other end. “I'm so scared, Sista Jodee. My mother, she died from breast cancer. What if . . . what if I got it too?”

I FELT OVERWHELMED by Chanda's phone call. No wonder she'd acted like a scared rabbit when she first got here today . . . and no wonder she'd been so eager to have Yada Yada meet again. Without being able to get in on the e-mail loop, she was pretty isolated from the prayer group except for one-on-one phone calls. And who did she know well enough in the group to just call and talk? Adele? Maybe, maybe not.

The TV was still going in the living room. Sounded like the whole family was in there now, laughing at some show. I was tempted to join them, to just let everything be
okay.
I even took a few steps in that direction, and then stopped. I did promise Chanda I'd send her prayer request on the e-loop. And—I groaned—I still had all this laundry to do.

I was still sitting at the computer when I heard the TV go off and a noisy threesome tromping down the hall. “ 'Night, Amanda! 'Night, Josh!” I called.

“ 'Night, Mom,” they called back, disappearing into their caves—though I knew good and well they'd stay up late listening to music or reading or talking on the phone, because they could sleep in tomorrow. The teenage version of Memorial Day.

I sensed Denny standing in the hallway behind me, watching my back. Half-turning my head I said, “Denny?”

“Yeah?”

I turned and faced him. He looked so boyish standing there in his jeans, hands in his pockets. I knew he hated the distance that came between us when we quarreled, hated it as much as I did. “I . . . wanted to say thanks for everything you did today to help pull off Florida's party. Grilling, cleaning up . . . but mostly just liking my friends and showing it.”

Denny hunched his shoulders and propped himself against the open archway between dining room and hallway. “Don't know if Nony said anything when you guys were meeting today, but sounds like she's putting a lot of pressure on Mark to emigrate to South Africa. But from what Mark says, it just ain't gonna happen. No way does he want to raise his sons in Africa.”

“No . . . she didn't say anything today. But I'm not surprised.” This wasn't what I wanted to talk about.

“I'd still like to hear more about how Stu ‘found' Carla. What in the heck does that mean?”

“Sure.” I drew a breath. “Wanna talk now?”

He peered at me for a long moment. He knew good and well what I really wanted to talk about. “Tell you what . . . we both got a day off tomorrow. We'll talk then, okay?”

I tried not to let my disappointment show. But he was probably right—tomorrow would be better. We were both tired now. “I've got to spend some time at school getting ready for Parents Day this week,” I reminded him. “And we're meeting the Whittakers and the Browns at Lighthouse Beach around four for a picnic.”

“We'll make time,” he promised. “Coming to bed?”

“Yeah. Give me a minute.”

I turned back to the computer and stared at the e-mail message on the screen I'd been writing . . .

To: Yada Yada

From: [email protected]

Subject: Prayer Request from Chanda

It was GREAT to see everybody this afternoon. (We missed you, Hoshi!) What a fantastic way to celebrate Florida's five years of sobriety!

Chanda called this evening with a prayer request: She discovered a lump in her breast (last week?) and is really scared. Her mother died of breast cancer. She really wants our prayers. Don't think she's seen a doctor yet. She could use lots of encouragement.

Florida and Stu, please keep us up to date on what happens next, now that Carla is found. (Like Avis said, what an answer to prayer! I'm still praising the Lord!) We still need to pray, right?

Just a reminder to mark your calendars for two weeks from today. Adele said we could meet at her house that Sunday, five o'clock.

I'd been kinda surprised when Adele volunteered to host the next get-together of Yada Yada. 'Course we weren't going to do a party—just prayer. Still, I hadn't expected Adele to be the first volunteer.

I moved my cursor to “send,” then hesitated.
“. . . still praising
the Lord”?
Hardly. I mean, yeah,
theoretically
I was still praising the Lord that Carla had been found. But I hadn't been doing any
actual
praising since Avis had said the last “Amen.” And
“We still
need to pray, right?”
Right. I seemed to recall promising God that morning that I'd “make it up to Him” when I hit the floor running with everything I had to do to get ready for church and Florida's party. But somehow it was easier to
talk
about praying for all these requests than actually
praying.

I deleted the “still praising the Lord” phrase, hit “send,” and shut down the computer.

I'd pray tomorrow. I really would.

29

D
enny and I finally talked. Not exactly sure we came out at the same place, but at least we talked. I woke up early enough on Memorial Day to get some quiet time in the living room with my coffee, Willie Wonka, and Jesus. That was a good start. For a while I just soaked up the pleasure of not having to rush out of the house on a Monday morning and let myself fantasize about the day school would be out. Frankly, I could hardly wait. My first year teaching in a Chicago public school was hardly the high point of my teaching career—even with a good principal like Avis. Part of me longed for the third grade class I'd taught in Downers Grove, where everybody spoke standard English, and I only had to deal with thirty different personalities, not thirty different cultures.

I wasn't sure I was ever going to “get it.” Frankly, I dreaded starting over again next fall with an entirely new class. A lot of the kids were sweet, but it only took one eight-year-old thug-in-the-making to ruin it for everyone, including me.

But I prayed. Prayed for Chanda and the fear she was dealing with, and that she'd suck up the courage to get to a doctor. Prayed for Ruth, for the loss of the little girl she'd hoped to adopt but instead lost forever. Prayed for Florida, that she could be reunited with Carla as soon as possible. Prayed for Carla, who hadn't seen her mommy in five years.
(Five years . . .
I couldn't even imagine not seeing Amanda for five years.) I even prayed for the foster family who would have to give her up.

And I prayed for Denny and me, that we could get over this little hump.
I mean, Jesus, we've been married almost twenty years—
twenty good years—and we have learned to work out a lot of differences.
How come we're suddenly tripping over this?

I spent several hours at school, along with quite a few other teachers taking advantage of the holiday to decorate our classrooms, and felt pretty ready for the Parents Day coming up on Friday . . . providing Kevin kept his pencil to himself and didn't vandalize anybody's work, or we didn't have a bomb threat or something.

Denny and Josh were over at Touhy Park shooting baskets when I got home, and by the time they got home and showered, it was time to pack up the bratwurst, buns, charcoal, lighter fluid, and the hot beans I'd left baking in the oven and head for Lighthouse Beach.

So it was almost eight o'clock that evening before Denny and I had a chance to take a walk, leaving Amanda and Josh, over their protests about “homework,” to clean up the picnic stuff. We walked hand in hand down Lunt Avenue toward Sheridan Road and ended up at Panini Panini sidewalk café, where we ordered iced coffee— decaf.

I told Denny everything Stu had told us about tracking down a foster child they thought was Carla. “That's gotta be tough,” he said, twisting his iced coffee around and around on the round glass tabletop. “Tough for the family who's been taking care of her for five years, tough for Carla, tough for Florida who's been working so hard to put her life together again.”

I pulled out the flyer Yo-Yo's brother had given to Josh and Amanda. “What do you think of this?” I asked, not wanting to wave all my red flags yet, since I didn't really have much ground to stick them in.

He gave it a good once over. “Hmm. I don't think so—not till we know a lot more about what goes on at these teen raves. So for this coming Saturday, anyway, it's out.”

I gaped at him in happy relief. How did Denny do that? Yes or no—bam, that's it. Well, I'd let
him
tell Josh and Amanda.

We were silent for a while, slurping our iced coffees till we were sucking air at the bottom. After getting Denny's agreement on the teen rave thing, I hated bringing up a sore point. Maybe, like he said, I was making too big a deal over the whole thing. And I
could
take responsibility for jumping all over him.

I set down my plastic cup. “Denny? About yesterday . . . I really do see that you felt caught in the middle between Ben Garfield and me about the beer. And I'm sorry that I made it such a big issue . . .”

He tore his eyes away from the assorted species of humanity walking by the sidewalk café in everything from sloppy sandals to combat boots. “Okay, thanks. I appreciate your saying that.”

“But I'm still confused about why you bought all that beer in the first place.”

A finger tapped impatiently. “I thought we went over that.”

“I know, but . . . “ I'd thought of another point in my favor. “I mean, after your dad's heart attack last year, doesn't it make sense not to drink at all? I mean, that stuff tends to run in families.”

He shrugged slightly. “Actually, there are a lot of studies that say a moderate amount of alcohol is good for your heart.”

“But . . .” Frustration began to lick at the edges of our conversation. “It's not just that. We've got teenagers who are very impressionable. And what if we offend some of our new friends who got saved out of all sorts of addictions?”

He seemed to be studying my face. “That's really it, isn't it? It would embarrass you if your new friends saw a bottle of wine or some beer at our house.”

“No! I . . .” I stopped.
Be honest, Jodi.
“Okay, yeah. I . . . I just don't want anybody to be offended, or think—”

“—or think your husband's a lush.” Denny looked at me hard. Then, to my surprise, he leaned forward and took my hands. “Jodi. We've been married almost twenty years. Have I
ever
gotten drunk? Or abused alcohol in any way?”

I looked down at our entwined hands. “No, but . . .” Why couldn't he just not do it because I didn't want him to?