The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught (22 page)

“No problem! Mi call you tomorrow. De girls, dey be
so
happy to stay wit you!” And Chanda bubbled out the door to a waiting taxi.

DENNY WAS ON THE PHONE when I got home. Sounded like the August men's breakfast was turning into a workday at New Morning's facility. I studied the kitchen calendar. Five days taking care of Chanda's girls would pretty much kill my last full week at home before the required professional development days just before Labor Day.

I poured myself a glass of iced tea and went out to the swing on the darkened back porch to think. Everybody else in Yada Yada was either working or had
really good reasons
not to nanny-sit two extra kids. What was my excuse? I was off for the summer. Was I just being selfish wanting to salvage my last few days of summer break? Once school started, I'd have a classroom full of eight-year-olds—
more
than full, if Avis's predictions were accurate—five days a week for the next nine months!

But if I didn't take the girls, where would that leave Chanda?

The cicadas, invisible in the darkness, struck up a rousing chorus. Denny came out onto the back porch, iced tea in one hand, a candle jar in the other. He set the flickering candle on the porch railing and sank into the swing beside me.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out a hand and twirling my limp brown locks around his index finger. “Why don't you make an appointment at Adele's shop, have her do that twisty thing with your hair again for our anniversary? ” A slow grin spread across his face in the candlelight. “You looked pretty hot, gotta say that. And wear that slinky black dress I got you. We'll do dinner and a show on Thursday, OK? ”

OK, OK. Had to figure out Chanda first. “Um, Denny? Chanda asked me if I'd be willing to take care of Dia and Cheree when she goes to Hawaii next week.”

Denny snorted. His touch in my hair disappeared. “Hawaii! How many days are you talking about? You didn't say yes, did you? ”

I was startled by his reaction. “Well, no. But I don't really have a good reason not to. School hasn't started yet, and—”

“Well, I can give you some good reasons. One, I've just started a new job. It's stressful. I don't want a houseful of little kids underfoot for a whole week.”

“You! You'll be at work all day. I'd be the one taking care of them.Why is this about you? ” I could feel my back stiffening.

“OK. Reason number two. School starts in a couple of weeks. Don't you have lesson plans to do? If you end up babysitting for a week, I know you; you'll be up half the night after everyone's gone to bed in order to be ready. Then you'll be tired, cranky, burn the coffee—”

“Oh,
stop
. See, it is about you.You just don't want a cranky wife.” I meant to say it jokingly, but it came out nasty.

He flinched. “Of course it's about me—and you, and Amanda, and Josh. When are you going to realize that your Yada Yada friends sometimes have to take a backseat to your family? You don't have to say yes to everything.”

I felt my defenses rising. “Of course our family comes first! But just how terrible would it be to spread some of our blessings around a little bit? We've been married twenty years—”

“Twenty-one next Thursday.”

“
OK.
Twenty-one! My point exactly. A grace Chanda has not enjoyed for even a day. She's got three children by three different daddies, not one of whom offered to marry her. She likes our family. I'm sure she thinks the girls would be safe here. Not only that, Denny Baxter. Before Chanda won the lottery, before she had scads of money at her disposal, while she was still cleaning houses on the North Shore, struggling to make ends meet—it was Chanda who showed up at our house after my car accident and cleaned it from top to bottom,
no charge.
Wouldn't this be a way to thank her? ”

Denny zipped his lip and looked away. The cicadas were deafening. Then he got up, sending the swing wobbling. “Fine. Do what you want to do.” The screen door banged behind him.

We slept that night two feet apart, backs to each other.

AMBIVALENCE BOUNCED ALL OVER MY THOUGHTS the next morning: Mad at Denny for turning a simple request into major marriage muck. Mad at Chanda for giggling her way to Hawaii, oblivious to everything but her own greedy pleasure. Mad at myself for not knowing what I should do. I felt caught between Chanda and Denny and my own mixed-up motives.

“OK, Lord,” I muttered, taking my Bible and a mug of coffee out to the back porch swing after the three worker bees had scuttled out the door. “How did this get to be such a big deal? ” I sat quietly, my Bible closed, watching the sparrows fight over the dwindling birdseed in the birdfeeder.
Argh.
Hated to admit it, but Denny was right. I was feeling like I “ought” to do it. But was “ought to” such a bad thing? If we only did what we wanted to do, it'd be a pretty selfish world.

On the other hand, maybe I “ought to” consider my husband more. If he said it'd be stressful having two little girls underfoot all next week so soon after starting a new job, why didn't that weigh more with me than doing Chanda a big favor? And he was right. That would be my last chance to get my lesson plans in order, do all my preparation for school, set up my classroom . . .

But how could I say no to Chanda? If I didn't take the girls,who would?

Then I started to laugh. Here I was,wrestling with my “problem” in good Old Jodi style.Didn't Scripture say we could ask for wisdom? I flipped open my Bible to the book of James.There it was in the first chapter: “If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him.”

I took a deep breath and blew it out. “OK, God, I need some wisdom. I don't know what to do. I don't really want to take care of Dia and Cheree for five whole days, but kinda feel I ought to. But what's right for my family? What's right for Chanda? Will You show me? ”

No big answer thundered from the clear blue sky. Even the Voice in my spirit was quiet. But I suddenly felt untangled. OK, the problem was in God's lap. I didn't have to solve it right this minute. I felt . . . free.

I popped out of the swing, startling Willie Wonka who was already deep into his first nap of the day at my feet. I called Adele's Hair and Nails to make an appointment for Thursday morning to get my hair done.Maybe I'd go early and take MaDear for a walk in her wheelchair. Only ran into one hitch. Adele's assistant was sick, and she had to reschedule all this week's appointments.Didn't have anything free until Saturday morning, and that was because she just got a cancellation.
Saturday!
Oh well. Denny would have to take his bride “as is” this time—or go out on Saturday evening instead.

Hm.Not a bad idea, actually.

I DIDN'T REMEMBER when Becky said her interview was, but I happened to glance out the kitchen window in midafternoon and saw her on her knees, pulling weeds out of the flower garden as if they were one of the ten plagues of Egypt.

“Hey, Becky!” I yelled from the back door. “How'd it go? ”

No answer. Just a
so-so
waggle of her hand before jerking out another weed.

So-so? I poured two glasses of “swee'tea” over ice and headed down the steps and across our undersized backyard. “Here.” I handed her the tea. She rocked back on her heels and took the glass, mumbling, “Thanks.” The baggy T-shirt she was wearing over a pair of sweat shorts stuck damply to her skinny body, the electronic monitor she always had to wear strapped to one ankle of her bare leg. Not exactly “dressed for success.” I suddenly had an awful thought. Had
any
of us thought to ask Becky if she had anything to
wear
to this interview?

“Um, so did you go to the interview? Taking the bus go OK? ”

A nod. Another weed went sailing.

I lowered myself to the patchy grass, amazingly green for August. Had to be Becky's doing. I knew neither Stu nor we Baxters were good at remembering to water it. “So how'd it go? Did you get the job? ”

“If I want it.” She jerked another weed.

It wasn't the answer I was expecting, not the way she was acting. “Becky! That's great! Is there a problem? When do they want you to start? Don't they pay enough? ”

Becky gave up on the weeds and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Right after Labor Day. And pay's OK, I guess. Can't expect more doin' what I'd be doin'—wiping tables, washing dishes, takin' out trash, stuff like that. But the man said if I stuck it out for six weeks, he'd train me on the cash register, do counter stuff. I'm OK with that. I know I gotta prove myself, work my way up. But . . .” She flicked a ladybug off her arm, sent it flying. Took several long swallows from her glass of iced tea.

“Becky.” I laid a hand on her arm. “Tell me what happened. You don't seem too happy. But I know how much you wanted a job.This seems like an answer to our prayers.
Your
prayer.”

The long sweep of her Adele haircut fell over one side of her face. “Yeah.” She pushed back her hair and turned angry eyes at me. “So tell me, Jodi. How come God answers prayers but He don't go the whole way? Huh? Can you tell me that? I get out of prison early.God gets three cheers. But I end up on house arrest, can't go nowhere. Then Stu offers me a place to live. Sweet. But she gets a burr up her butt 'cause I'm not Martha Stewart. Finally, parole officer says I can get a job. I get an interview. Hooray, God. Then the Jewish guy tells me they ain't open on Saturday, I gotta work Sunday.” She spit out gutter words that would've earned a
bleep
even on today's TV.

My mind was spinning.
Sunday?
Becky had a problem with working on Sunday? Avis maybe, or Nony. I was brought up that way too. But I hardly thought it'd be a problem for Becky. Yo-Yo worked Sundays.We all thought it'd be good when she got a different job, could go to church on Sunday. But one thing at a time.

And then it hit me. “You mean . . . Little Andy? ”

She nodded. “I ain't gonna give up my boy's visits.” Becky's eyes narrowed, her voice fierce. “Not for one minute. Had to fight too hard to get what I got already.”

“Oh, Becky. Maybe DCFS would change the day to Saturday. You never know.”

She snorted. “Maybe. But Big Andy's mama gonna put up a hissy fit, make it as hard as she can. She don't want Andy to visit me—period. She wants to take Little Andy away from me if she can.”

Becky's shoulders sagged. “An' that's not the only thing. I like takin' Little Andy to church. Makes me feel like we're a . . . a family. He gets to see everybody, play with other kids, learn about Jesus in Sunday school.” Her eyes filled with tears. “That's what I want, Jodi. To be a family. And for Andy to be part of God's family too.”

20

I
felt badly for Becky.What a choice! An actual job offer—nothing to sneeze at when you're an exfelon—versus her hard-won Sunday visits with her son. But sounded like Becky had already made her choice. Little Andy came first.

Too bad she wasn't clear on that before she messed up her head on heroin.

Not knowing what else to say, I took her hand, grubby from tackling weeds barehanded, and we prayed. In the middle of praying that “God would make a way out of no way,” I stopped.

Becky opened her eyes and looked at me. “What? ”

“I'm sorry. I just . . .” I felt like laughing. Was this wisdom? God's loving answer? “I just had an idea. Even if you took the job at the Bagel Bakery, it wouldn't start for a few weeks, right? How would you like a job for five days
next week
you could do right here at home? For pay? ”

BECKY JUMPED AT THE IDEA. Denny acted like I'd just come up with a peace plan for the Middle East. Even Stu the Magnanimous said sure, why not, sounded like fun, though she pulled me aside and asked if we'd keep an eye on things when she was at work.

When Chanda called that evening, I told her I had lesson plans and school prep and couldn't take the girls—but I knew someone who'd like the job. She sounded put out at first but perked up when she realized that we'd just be downstairs. “Dat's good, dat's good,” Chanda said. “And Becky needs de money.Tell her I pay her good.”

“You tell her! It's between you and Becky now.” I simpered at Denny, who could hear my side of the conversation. He gave me a thumbs-up.

But my qualification for the Nobel Peace Prize was shortlived—about as long as it took me to wonder why I hadn't heard from Florida by Tuesday morning. It'd been three days since the move. Had Chris come home? Maybe their phone wasn't hooked up yet.Did the Hickmans even have the same number? I dialed the old one just in case.

Florida answered. “Hey, Jodi. Glad you called.What's the number of Bethune Elementary? I gotta get Carla registered.”