Stand by Me (37 page)

But right now she felt alone with her secret.

The next few days seemed to drag, even though Kat's evening shifts at the coffee shop were busy. She'd hoped to catch Mrs. Douglass and ask her if they still needed tutors for the STEP program this summer, but it was the last week of school at Bethune Elementary and by the time the principal got home, Kat was at work.

On Wednesday Livie asked Bree if she'd go with her on the El to talk to the family in Wilmette, to help her figure out how to navigate, so Bree traded with Kat for the evening shift—which worked out perfectly for Kat. As soon as she got off work at five o'clock, she headed for the Morse Avenue El station and took the southbound Red Line. If everything worked out, she might even get back in time to go to that meeting at the church.

But . . . what was she going to say to Rochelle? Would she even be there? As the train swayed and jerked between stations, her thoughts became jerky prayers.
Oh God, help me here . . . I
feel caught in the middle . . . I don't really understand why Rochelle
doesn't want to talk to her mom . . . Am I getting myself involved in a
big mess? . . . Am I doing the right thing?

The day had turned hot and sticky. Getting off at the Berwyn stop, she walked quickly to Sheridan Road and down the two blocks to the Dominick's grocery store. Around to the back. A semi was unloading. Boxes of food were wheeled in. Store personnel came in and out, dumping stuff in the Dumpsters.

Man, how she'd love to see what the pickin's were tonight!

But no Rochelle.

Maybe it was still too early. But it was too hot to hang around outside. Kat went inside and wandered around the air-conditioned store, her mouth salivating at the heaping displays of vegetables and fruits in the produce section. Every fifteen minutes she walked outside and checked the back of the store.

Still no Rochelle.

But by six thirty the truck was gone. And by seven o'clock the double doors leading into the storerooms no longer swung open. Two men—street people by the look of them—showed up in the alley and started digging in the Dumpsters. She might as well check to see what was what before everything was gone.

But she had no sooner lifted a Dumpster lid and spied a box of overripe bananas than she heard a voice right behind her. “I was hoping I'd find you here.”

She whirled. “Rochelle!”

The young woman was dressed in a black tank top, khaki capris, and gym shoes with no socks. A cloth bag hung over her shoulder. Nice threads, though a bit rumpled, as if she'd worn them for several days. Her black hair seemed wilder than usual, thick and long and curly. Her honey-brown skin glowed with perspiration in the heat.

“You were looking for me?” Kat couldn't have been more surprised.

“Yes. I need you to do something for me.”

“You need . . . well, sure. If I can.”

Rochelle jerked her head for Kat to follow and they walked away from the two men digging in the Dumpsters. Eyes darting, as if to make sure no one was watching them, Rochelle dug in the cloth bag and pulled out a small square box wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red ribbon. “Could you sneak this into my mom's bedroom and put it on her dresser? It's, um, a belated birthday present, and I . . . want to surprise her.”

“Oh, Rochelle! Why don't you just come to the house and give it to her! She would be so happy to see you—”

“I can't. Just do it, will you? But she can't see you do it.”

Kat shook her head. “I don't understand. I'm not sure I could sneak into her bedroom. Why don't I just leave it outside her door at the top of the stairs? She wouldn't know—”

“No!” Rochelle's eyes flickered with panic. “That's not safe. It might get stolen. It's . . . it's special, and you have to put it somewhere she'll find it, but somewhere safe.” She thrust the box into Kat's hands. “Please. It's important.” She turned and walked quickly away.

“Rochelle! Wait! I need to talk to you about—”

“Meet me here next week!” she tossed over her shoulder and started to run.

And was gone.

Chapter 34

A
smile snuck past Avis's fatigue as she climbed the stairs to their third-floor apartment late Wednesday afternoon. Only two more days of school—and Friday was just an hour to pick up report cards and satisfy the school board that it was a “school day.” Oh, the excitement she used to feel as a kid on that final day. School's out, school's out!

She started to laugh, remembering the silly pop song her brother used to belt out this time every year.
“Can't wait for summer
to throw away my books . . .”
The middle part was a muddle, something about “fishing hooks” and “girls in their bathing suits.” Ha. But she could still hear her brother belting out the last line:
“Can't wait for summer, for good ol' summertime!”

Ah, those were the days. She'd been nine years old when the sixties rolled in. Summer meant playing hopscotch on the sidewalk outside their walk-up in Philly. Screaming and jumping in water spraying from a fire hydrant. Begging the boys to let her play baseball with them in the vacant lot. Innocent summer fun . . .

And then the world went crazy. The president was shot. Civil rights marches spread from city to city. Images on the TV burned themselves into her brain—snarling police dogs, fire hoses used on people, the Ku Klux Klan in their scary white hoods. Her daddy made her stay inside.

And then it got worse. Martin Luther King was shot. Hot and hopeless, people rioted in city after city, burning down their own neighborhoods.

Those were days she'd like to forget . . . like to think were behind them.

Shaking off the ugly memories, she let herself in the front door—and found Peter sprawled on the couch, watching the news on TV. “You're home early. Everything okay?” He usually worked late on Wednesdays and went straight to the church for midweek Bible study. Except it was the congregational meeting tonight.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just thought I'd come home early so we could, you know, go to the meeting together. I even picked up some Chinese on the way home so we wouldn't have to cook.”

“Brownie points for you, because I'm beat.” Avis kicked off her low heels and curled up on the couch next to her husband. “
Mm
. Wish we could just stay home tonight. Watch a movie. Play Scrabble. Soak my feet.”

Peter snorted. “Don't tempt me. Not exactly looking forward to this meeting tonight. But can't let the kids downstairs show us up, can we?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nick and the little blonde—Olivia—were leaving just as I came in. She was all excited, said she just got hired as a nanny up in Wilmette starting tomorrow. They were walking up to Howard Street so they'd be on time for the meeting.”

“Just the two of them?”

“Uh-huh. They said Brygitta has to work at the coffee shop tonight, and they didn't seem to know where Kathryn was.”

Avis shook her head. “That Kathryn—she's a strange one. Wonder why she left so abruptly Saturday night.”

“I have no idea. Maybe you should just ask her . . . Okay, okay, I see that look! But I was proud of you, Avis. You were a gracious hostess that evening, even though she stuck up her nose at our cooking.” He chuckled. “Nick, now, he couldn't get enough of it! Or her, for that matter.”

“Her, who?”

“Kathryn. Nick's sweet on her. Didn't you notice how he watches her out of the corner of his eye? And when she left, he was ready to chase after her.”

“
Humph
. Could just be looking out for her like a big brother.

She's an only child, you know. She needs a big brother.”

“
Huh
. Those weren't big brother looks. I'm a guy. I know these things.”

Avis laughed. “Then he'd better think twice, or he'll be eating Dumpster food and veggie burgers the rest of his life.”

Peter scratched his chin thoughtfully. “He's a nice kid. In fact . . . I've been thinking about offering him a job at Software Symphony for the summer. Would have to crunch some figures with our accountant, and it'd only be part-time, but we could use some help in the mail room. Sales picked up by a whisker last week. Maybe this economic slump is starting to turn around.”

“That'd be nice,” Avis murmured. She could feel her eyelids drooping. Oh, how she'd like to just stretch out here and fall asleep.

Peter pushed himself off the couch. “Put your feet up for five more minutes. I know how to serve up food out of those little white cardboard boxes. And then, guess we better go face the giants.”

The turnout was pretty good for a Wednesday night. Avis and Peter arrived at five to seven on purpose—not too early, to avoid getting into chatty conversations before the meeting, but not late, either. Avis hesitated before moving to her usual seat in the second row on the far right aisle. Did she want to be so close to the front tonight when at least part of the meeting would be about them? On the other hand, she didn't really want to be looking at other people, trying to second-guess their expressions.

She and Peter sat in their usual seats.

Pastor Cobbs, looking a lot healthier this week, started the meeting right at seven, even though people were still coming in. Calling Matt Kepler to the keyboard, the pastor started off with the hymn “How Firm a Foundation.” Even though the hymn was an old one and familiar, Avis closed her eyes and heard the words as if for the first time.

How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,

Is laid for your faith in His excellent Word! . . .

And then the second verse . . .

Fear not, I am with thee, oh, be not dismayed,

For I am thy God, and will still give thee aid;

I'll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand,

Upheld by My gracious, omnipotent hand.

“Thank You, Jesus,” she whispered as the hymn came to a close. She needed that assurance tonight, that God's Word was her foundation, and His Word promised that God would never leave or forsake them, no matter what happened in this meeting tonight. Would never leave or forsake Rochelle and Conny either.

“Praise God, church!” Pastor Cobbs seemed buoyant and confident as he gripped either side of the small wooden podium. “I'm glad so many of you came tonight, as we seek God's face about the future of SouledOut Community Church. We have several issues to attend to in the wake of the loss of our beloved Pastor Clark—one of which, certainly, is the question of calling someone to take Pastor Clark's place as copastor of this congregation. For that we will need a pastoral search committee, and I'm suggesting that names can be submitted this evening in writing to the elders for that purpose . . . yes, Brother Meeks?”

Sherman Meeks stood, polite and humble as usual. “Thank you, Pastor. It's true that you and Pastor Clark started this church as copastors, and it's been a blessing. But have you considered—should we as a church consider—whether God is simply putting the mantle on you to be our pastor without calling another?” And he sat down.