2-in-1 Yada Yada (57 page)

Hoshi, dressed neatly in beige slacks and cotton sweater set, held out a bouquet of daisies as I opened the door. “Am I too much early?”

“No, no, right on time.” I took the flowers and gave her a hug. “You didn't have to do this!”

She smiled—a bit sadly, I thought. “My mother would say, don't arrive at host's house with empty hand!”

“Well, come on—oh, help! My sauce!” I ran for the kitchen, hoping Hoshi would follow.

The Gorgonzola sauce had only begun to brown slightly on the bottom.
Major
save. I quickly poured it into another saucepan, dumped a box of linguini into the big pot of water boiling on the stove, and hunted for a vase for the flowers. As I cut off their stems and ran water into the vase, I craned my neck to look into the dining room but couldn't see Hoshi.

“Hoshi?” No answer. I retraced my steps and found her standing in the archway of the living room, seemingly lost in thought. “Hoshi, are you all right?”

She turned quickly, as if I had startled her. “Oh. Yes, I am all right. Just . . . seeing this room makes me think about that terrible woman. How could she do that?—hurt my mother? We do not treat guests to our country that way.”

I wanted to slap myself upside the head. It had never occurred to me how coming to our house—the scene of so much trauma the last time she was here—might make Hoshi feel.

“She hurt me too,” Hoshi murmured. “More than if she had cut me with that awful knife. She cut me off from my family.”

“Oh, Hoshi. I am so sorry.” I felt so helpless. The cut on Mrs. Takahashi's hand would heal long before the cut in Hoshi's heart.

The corners of her mouth turned upward politely. “It is not your fault, Jodi. You are kind to invite me to dinner. Can I help?”

It was Amanda's turn to set the table, but I let Hoshi carry out the plates and utensils to give her something to do. I did drag Amanda out of her bedroom, though, and sent her out to the garage to fetch her father and brother, who were still tinkering with our “lightly used” minivan. Finally everyone was corralled in the dining room.

Hoshi, bless her, smiled like a saint at Josh, light bulb and all. We held hands around the table, and I marveled how long and smooth Hoshi's fingers were as Denny prayed. “Lord God, bless this food, bless the hands that prepared it, bless our sister Hoshi, and we also ask Your blessing on her family in Japan. Amen.” Denny was not long-winded when it came to mealtime prayers.

Hoshi looked up. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter.”

“Just Denny, please. Hey, this looks great, Jodi.” Denny passed the pasta dish to Hoshi, followed by the salad bowl and garlic bread. I was glad to see Hoshi fill her plate. The kids had been right to keep it simple.

Amanda, of course, asked Hoshi what meals were like in Japan. Hoshi laughed. “Fish. Lots of fish. And rice. Japan is an island, you know. So fish is one of our main sources of food.”

“Like sushi?” Amanda wrinkled up her nose.

“Well, yes, but we eat much fish, many kinds. Lots of shrimp, scallops, oysters. Also
ika-yaki
—grilled squid. And
hanpen,
a steamed fish cake. Also seaweed salad, called
kaisou.”

I wanted to laugh. Josh and Denny were practically drooling, while Amanda looked like she'd just gagged on a fly. Yet I had to give her credit for not spewing the usual,
“Eewww. Gross.”

“Maybe you could fix us some Japanese food sometime.” Josh was nothing if not direct.

Hoshi beamed. “Yes! I only wish I could cook like my mother. Now, she is good Japanese cook.”

At the mention of Hoshi's mother, the table got quiet and the smile drained from Hoshi's face. I was tempted to cover up the silence with my usual blather, but instead I let it sit a moment. Then I said, “I wish we had gotten to know your mother, Hoshi— your father too. I am sure they are wonderful people.”

She lowered her eyes and blinked rapidly. “Yes. Yes, I wish this too.” Then to my surprise, she abruptly changed the subject. “Tell me, Jodi, about your school.”

I was impressed. Hoshi obviously felt deeply about her parents, but she also seemed eager to move forward. So I launched into the saga of my first week of school, including Ramón's threat to “smack” anybody who bullied other kids, and Britny matter-of-factly accepting my suggestion to visit England someday, since that was the meaning of her name. That brought a smile to Hoshi's face. When I talked about Hakim and the shell he seemed to carry around him, her expression grew thoughtful.

“I wonder,” she said, “if he is sad about something. Sad children do not volunteer to do things.”

“Oh. Oh my.” That was a thought. I laid down my fork. “Like what?”

“Maybe his mother and father just got separated or divorced,” Amanda chimed in. “That would make
me
sad.”

I caught Denny's eye. Did Amanda ever worry about that? We'd never given her cause—had we?

But Hakim, now. “That could be . . .” I murmured. Hakim had been the only one who didn't want to find his name on the Welcome Bulletin Board that first day. “I wanted to encourage him, so I told him his name meant ‘wise healer.' Even suggested he might be a doctor someday. But he almost got angry. Said, ‘Don't want to be a doctor. They ain't no good anyway.' ”

“Hmm,” said Denny. “Maybe his mom is sick or in the hospital.”

“Or maybe his family lost someone they know in the 9-11 tragedy,” Josh suggested. “It's the first anniversary this week, you know.”

I nodded. What Hoshi said made so much sense. Whatever was making Hakim sad, I hoped I could show him I cared and that our classroom was a safe place to come out of his shell.

HOSHI'S COMMENT stayed with me the rest of the week as I observed Hakim. He didn't react in any special way to the moment of silence our school observed the next morning in memory of the 9-11 victims. He didn't seem motivated at all, though when he did apply himself to his work—with constant nudging from me or Christy—he was bright enough. He balked when it was his turn to read in reading group, but he would read aloud if Christy sat with him one-on-one. “He knows most of the words,” she reported. “Just doesn't seem to care what they say. If I ask him questions about meaning, he just shrugs.”

I knew it. There was a smart kid underneath all that stubbornness. We were going to dig him out, I told Christy, inch by inch, like archaeologists carefully exposing rare bones with a toothbrush. And as the weekend finally arrived, I decided to ask Yada Yada to put Hakim on their regular prayer list.

I was glad Yada Yada was scheduled to meet this Sunday evening—the first time since Bandana Woman had terrorized us. We needed to get together (not at my house, though, thank goodness!) to catch up with each other and pray. Hoshi needed some healing, for sure. All of us did, for that matter.

Today was Saturday . . . what else was happening this weekend? I jolted my mind awake with a cup of hot coffee and checked the kitchen calendar.
Whoa.
It said,
“Jodi PT 11 a.m.”
I had totally forgotten I had a physical-therapy appointment this morning— and Denny was out in the alley washing the car. I mentally rearranged my morning as I studied the calendar. Today was the fourteenth—almost two weeks since Bandana Woman had been arrested.

Was Saturday different than any other day at Cook County Jail? The sergeant had said B. W. was in detox, but had she been arraigned yet? My arraignment had been two weeks and one day after the accident—but then, I'd been in the hospital. How soon would her trial date be set? Soon, I hoped. I wanted my wedding ring back!

I refilled my coffee mug and wandered out to the alley, where Denny was hosing down the minivan behind our garage. “Hey, Denny. Forgot to tell you. I've got an eleven o'clock at the physical therapist. Will the car be done?”

“Guess so. I was gonna wax it, but I guess I'll do that next time.”

I watched as he took a soapy brush to the front grill. “Um . . .

would you be willing to call Sergeant Curry this morning and ask if a trial date has been set for Bandana Woman?”

He snorted. “Bandana Woman? Is that what you call her?”

Did I really say that out loud? “Well . . . yeah.”

“Smarty. Same initials as her real name, huh?” he grunted, moving the bucket to the side and starting in on the wheels.

I frowned. Bandana Woman. Becky Wallace. B. W.
Sheesh.
It had never occurred to me. “Whatever. Will you call?”

“They said they'd call
us,
Jodi.”

“I know, but . . . Yada Yada meets tomorrow night, and I'm sure people will want to know—especially if they're going to be called to testify.” I picked up the hose and rinsed the still-soapy grill.

Denny sighed. “All right. I'll try.”

“Great.” I let the hose fall and headed toward the house.

“Or you could do it!” he called after me. I pretended I hadn't heard him.

THE THERAPIST put me through a bunch of range-of-motion exercises with my left leg, which I did pretty well except for a leg lift lying on my side, which nearly killed me. “That's the one you need to be working on,” she said, jotting some notes for me. “One more session. Two weeks okay?”

I wanted an excuse to put it off. Only two weeks? I'd never be able to do that leg lift in such a short time. Yet I couldn't use my birthday and my folks coming as an excuse, since that was this coming week. I sighed and accepted the appointment card.

A thunderstorm rolled through our neighborhood that afternoon, watering our pathetic patch of straw-colored grass and leaving the air smelling like it'd just come out of the wash. Denny asked if I was up for a walk to the lake after supper. “We could stop at the Heartland Café on the way back,” he tempted.

On the way to the lake, cars full of young Latinos passed us, honking and waving and flying huge Mexican flags from their windows—a sure sign Mexican Independence Day celebrations had started. I did okay on the walk to the lake, but I was glad to collapse at one of the Heartland's sidewalk tables on the way back. We ordered their homemade salsa and chips to split between us. The café was full, a buzz of conversation and laughter going on all around us. I sipped my ice water and watched people strolling by, enjoying the last weekend of summer with their babies or dogs or just their own selves before fall officially arrived next week.

“I called Sergeant Curry,” Denny said.

“Huh?” I turned back to my husband. Our chips and salsa had arrived and I hadn't even noticed. “Oh . . . great! What did he say?”

To my surprise, Denny didn't answer right away.

“Denny? Did a trial date get set?”

He shook his head. “There isn't going to be a trial.”

I couldn't have been more startled if he'd thrown his glass of ice water in my face.
“What?”

20

I
must have screeched, because several heads turned in our direction. I shrank down into my chair. Denny let out an exasperated sigh. “There's not going to be a trial, Jodi, because she pled guilty at the arraignment yesterday and she's gone. They took her to the women's prison in Lincoln today.”

“Oh. I thought you meant they were going to let her go.” I thought about what he'd said. “Doesn't everybody get a trial? You know, America and all that.”

Denny shrugged. “Why waste time and money on a trial if a person pleads guilty? Guess the judge sentenced her right then and there.”

“But we didn't even testify! How does the judge know what sentence to give if he hasn't heard the evidence?”

“The police took our statements, you know.”

A big mad was building inside of me. Not good enough. I wanted a judge to hear firsthand how B. W. had barged into my home and terrorized all my friends. Hear Hoshi describe her frightened mother and that wicked knife, how the long-awaited visit had been cut short. Wanted Bandana Woman to have to listen too. Now she'd pled guilty and denied us the privilege.

All I knew was, she better get more than Yo-Yo's eighteen months.

I sucked in my breath. “So. Did Sergeant Curry say what her sentence was?”

“Yeah. Ten years for assault.”

I took a sip of water to steady my nerves. “What does that mean? That she'll be out on parole in a measly five years?”

Denny shook his head. “Dunno. They've got ‘truth in sentencing' now. Not sure when her parole could come up.”

The waiter refilled our glasses of ice water, and we munched on the chips and salsa for a while in silence. So Bandana Woman got a short ride to prison. Wasn't that good news? Why did I feel so disturbed?

Denny and I held hands as we walked down Lunt Avenue toward our house, past the houses hunched between the newer apartment buildings. Had to admit he'd been pretty tolerant with my reaction to the news. I wondered what the sisters in Yada Yada would think. Should I e-mail them tonight or just tell them tomorrow?
Guess tomorrow is soon enough.

As we reached our front walk, I stopped short. “Wait a minute.

If Bandana Woman has gone to prison already, does that mean we can get our jewelry back?”

Denny shrugged. “Probably.”He saw me open my mouth again and beat me to the punch. “No,
you
can call Sergeant Curry and ask him.”

AMANDA WAS WAITING FOR US when we came in, nervously bouncing in her socks. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. Can I go to Iglesia tomorrow for church?”

I tried to catch Denny's eye, but he chose that moment to squat down and greet Willie Wonka, who assumed we were all standing in the hall for his benefit. Okay, if Denny wasn't going to deal with this, I would. “Honey, you were there two weeks in a row in August. A visit now and then is fine, but we need to be faithful at our own—”

“I've
been
at Uptown the last two Sundays!” she wailed. “Besides, the Mexican Independence Day parade is tomorrow— maybe Edesa would take me and Emerald after church.” I'm sure she sensed that Denny and I were wavering, because she moved in to nail the deal. “We get extra points in Spanish for cultural activities, you know.”