The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught (26 page)

I'd just started to pass the card around when a loud commotion at the back door caught our attention. Male voices, sharp and angry. “But I din't
do
it, Dad! Why would I do that to our own house? ”

“Then who did? Why our garage? You better tell me, boy! ”

“I don't know!”

“Like hell you don't!”

Florida's face got dark. She started to get up, but Carl burst into the room, one hand gripped tightly around Chris's upper arm. A frightened Cedric, clutching a basketball, slipped quickly up the stairs.

“Carl! Whatever it is—”

Carl looked ready to explode. “If you don't wanna hear it, Flo, you better go see for yourself.” He disappeared up the stairs pushing Chris ahead of him.

To my surprise, Florida just stood in the middle of the bare floor, as if rooted to the spot, afraid to move. “Come on, girl.” Adele lifted her big frame off the straight chair she'd been sitting on. “I'll go with you.”

“Me too,” I blurted. Meekly,Florida let herself be herded through the kitchen, out the back door, and down the rickety back steps. It was still light outside, only six o'clock, the pavement and alley still holding the heat from the day. The three of us rounded the corner of the one-car garage, badly in need of some paint, and stared at the garage door.

The letters
BD
had been splashed across the garage door in fresh, black spray paint, sitting above a scrawled six-pointed star and crossed pitchforks.

23

A
low moan rose to Florida's lips from deep in her belly. “They found us, found my baby. Oh Jesus, noooo . . .” “Flo!” I grabbed her and held on, afraid she was going to fall to the ground.

“Lowlife gangbangers,” muttered Adele. “Cockroaches have more decency. Come on, Flo. Come on, baby, it's all right.We'll get that mess off your garage.” She circled Florida's waist with her arm, and the two of us slowly walked her back to the house.

At the back door, Florida halted. “Maybe—maybe they not markin' our house on purpose. Maybe some taggers jus' picked our garage, randomlike. 'Cause I
told
Chris not to give our address to any of those gangbangers in our old neighborhood. Want him to get a fresh start, leave all those friends behind.”

Adele snorted. “Girl, you only moved a couple of miles. You would've had to move all the way to Lake Forest or maybe Canada to shake the dust of that neighborhood off your feet! These gangbangers, they're everywhere. But come on; it's not the end of the world. I've had my shop defaced at least three times since I opened up. It happens. You deal with it. You go on.”

Florida frowned in the glow of the dim yellow bulb above the back door. “I know. But, what if those BDs
are
leavin' a message, like, ‘We know who lives here'? ”

That's what I wanted to know. Was it just vandalism—or a threat?

Adele pulled open the screen door. “Maybe, maybe not. Chris said he didn't do it; that's one good thing. I believe him too. But doesn't surprise
me
if his old friends know where he lives. Still don't mean this won't be a good change for y'all.” She waggled a finger in Flo's face. “What you
do
know, Florida Hickman, is our God is bigger than all those gangbangers put together. Your family is under the blood of Jesus—an' we just anointed all the doorposts in this house under God's protection. Now you claim that, girl. You think the devil ain't gonna fight back? He might try, but he's
not
gonna get that child. Now, c'mon. These skeeters are eatin' me up somethin' fierce!”

Well, that was the second time in a month a family crisis erupted in the middle of our meeting. The others had pretty much guessed what the trouble was. But when we got back to the front room,Adele took over. “Don't anybody leave, now, 'cause there ain't anything we can do about that graffiti tonight—and we don't want that ol' devil to score any more points than he already got.”

Yo-Yo wagged her head. “I dunno. If this keeps up, I'm gonna think twice 'bout havin' Yada Yada at
my
place. I'm too young to have a heart attack.” I don't think she meant to be funny, but the tension broke and we all had a good laugh.

Then we prayed. Adele led us into a passionate prayer, putting Chris Hickman and all our children under the blood of Jesus. “No more!” she cried. “We gonna take back what that ol' devil tryin' to steal from us!”

After a while, we added prayers about Chanda's mammogram and Becky's job search.When Ruth heard us mention the schedule problem at the Bagel Bakery, she muttered, “Not to worry, young lady. You leave Mr. Hurwitz to me.”

As we finally left the Hickmans' house, which had been blessed and battered in the same evening, Stu said, “If you need any help painting over those gang symbols, Flo, just let us know.”

Florida snorted. “'Preciate it. But I think Chris gonna be slinging a paintbrush tomorrow. Maybe paint the whole garage! Needed it, anyway—Jodi,wait!” She grabbed me. “Speakin' of tomorrow, any way you could pick up Carla an' take her to Bethune Elementary? Avis wants to do some testing since she comin' into a new school, make sure she put in the right class. Test at ten, but I don't get off work till three.”

I shrugged. “Sure.Was going to start working on my classroom this week anyway.What time should I pick her up? ”

I TOOK DENNY TO WORK the next morning so I could keep the car, which had definite advantages. Besides picking up Carla, I could load all my school supplies and take them to school in one trip. And later I could shop for Amanda's school supplies—
Oh Lord, is she really starting her junior year? —
though I didn't dare get any school clothes without her along.
That
much I knew.

I was tempted to drive through the alley behind Florida's house to see if those menacing gang symbols had been painted over yet, but I stuck to business and picked up Carla, who was wearing new jeans and a pink “Girl Power” T-shirt, and drove straight to Bethune Elementary. I glanced over my shoulder into the second seat of the Caravan. “Do you know why our school is called Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary School? ” No answer. But I chatted away, telling the story about the teacher who ran a school for little girls from the railroad camps in Florida, about her motto over the doorway that said ENTER TO LEARN on the outside and DEPART TO SERVE on the inside, and the college that eventually grew out of that little school.

Carla said nothing until I pulled into the parking lot.Then, “
My
school was a lot bigger than this dinky school.” I did my best not to roll my eyes and simply herded her into the office and turned her over to Ms. Ivy, the secretary.

As I unlocked the door to my classroom, I was startled to see that my storage cabinet had been removed and replaced with another row of desks. I groaned. “Oh Lord, I forgot about all the additional students. What am I going to do? ” Had to admit my immediate concern was where I was going to store all my supplies, not how I was going to teach a classroom of thirty-one kids.

Place these children in My care, Jodi.
The Voice in my Spirit didn't seem as concerned about where I put my store of construction paper, pencils, and scissors.

I grinned inwardly,my frustration knocked down a few notches. “OK, Lord, here we go.” I didn't have my class list yet, but I walked up and down the rows of empty desks, touching each one, praying for the girl or boy who would sit there in one short week. As I touched the desk where Hakim Porter used to sit, I paused. Something was different—what? And then I knew.

The jagged scar he'd scratched into the desktop last year had been sanded off.

Unbidden,my eyes felt wet. Hakim was truly gone from my life.

TO MY SURPRISE, the week sped by quickly, in spite of two professional development days sponsored by the school district and a teachers' institute for Bethune Elementary. Avis—whom I had to start calling “Mrs. Douglass” again—handed out our class lists at the end of the institute day on Friday, and I ran my finger down the long list of names.Did I have time to look up all their name meanings and do a Welcome Bulletin Board for this new crop of students, as I'd done last year?

Abrianna Jones . . . Adam Smith . . . Bowie Garcia . . . Carla Hickman . . .

I blinked.
Wait a minute. Carla's supposed to be in fourth grade.
I sidled up to the group of teachers crowding around Avis, who was trying to field half a dozen earth-shaking questions. “What happened to the copy machine in the teachers' lounge? We can't
all
use the one in the office.” “Why do teachers have to supervise the lunchroom? I thought we were going to get parent volunteers this year!” “I was supposed to get new marker boards, but the old ones are still in my room! They're impossible!”

The crowd thinned. Avis finally turned to me. “Jodi, you have a question? ”

“Um, just a misprint, I think. Carla Hickman. She's on my class list, but she's supposed to be in fourth grade.”

Avis massaged her temples. “I'm sorry, Jodi. I should have called you. Carla's test results were too low for fourth grade. I recom mended she repeat third grade, especially since she's starting a new school.None of the other children will know she's repeating. It's an ideal situation to help her catch up.”

“But—”

“And when I had a conference with the Hickmans, Florida requested that Carla be put in your class. At least she'll know her teacher as she starts a new school.”

“Oh.”
Huh.
Wasn't sure how I felt about that. Carla could be a little snit! That's the last thing I needed—a troublemaker in class whose mother was one of my best friends.
Sheesh!
What if I had to discipline her or send home a note from school?

On the other hand, I was touched that Florida asked for me to be Carla's teacher. That said a lot about our friendship. Maybe it would work out . . .

I picked up the mail when I got home, rifling through the stack as I let Willie Wonka out into the backyard. Not sure why I bothered. Since the advent of e-mail, nobody wrote letters any more. Like today: Dominick's ad, water bill, L. L. Bean catalog, Mr. Coupon, a reminder from Uptown about the business meeting this Sunday, a letter for Josh—

Whoa
. A letter for Josh. OK, so I was wrong. I squinted at the return address: Mr. and Mrs. Harley Baxter. Why were Denny's parents writing Josh? They were pick-up-the-phone people—when they bothered to call. Probably a belated graduation card. They'd been on a cruise last June and couldn't make Josh's graduation. But why a business envelope?

I shrugged, put the letter on the dining room table, and stuck some chicken in the microwave to thaw. By the time my motley crew straggled in, I had lemon-and-thyme chicken breasts on the grill, a fruit salad with kiwi garnish, and fresh corn on the cob I'd picked up at the Rogers Park Fruit Market.My personal kickoff to Labor Day weekend! The end of summer! The beginning of the school year!

Amanda kicked off her sandals, threw her backpack into a corner, and squatted down to hug the dog. “My nanny days are over, Wonka! I'm a free woman!” she crowed, nuzzling his face and getting a face licking in return.

“Free until Tuesday anyway,” I said mildly, handing her a tray with paper plates, paper cups, and napkins. Maybe the bees would leave us alone long enough to eat on the back porch.

She took the tray, rolling her eyes. “Mother! School is
nothing
compared to the torture of babysitting three aliens disguised as children for a whole month”

“Yeah, but you're rich now, pipsqueak, so quit complaining.” Josh snitched a kiwi slice from the fruit salad on his way through the kitchen. “Can we eat now,Mom”

“Sure, as soon as your dad changes his clothes. And Josh—there's a letter for you on the dining room table. From your grandparents.” I herded Amanda out to the back porch, following her with the food, proud of myself for not hanging over Josh's shoulder.

Silence in the other room. Then Josh banged the screen door and flopped down on the porch swing, his face a big scowl. “What? ” I asked.

He jerked a thumb inside. “Dad's got the letter. Talk about pressure.”

Well, if Denny could read it . . . I hustled inside. Denny, stripped down to running shorts and a T-shirt, stood in the dining room, holding Josh's letter, his face gathered in a huge frown.
“What? ”
I said again. Denny handed me the typed letter—and a check.

“Dear Josh,” I read aloud. “Don't be foolish, son. Get a good education,
then
do your Good Samaritan thing, travel, live in a kib-butz, whatever. Don't waste that brilliant mind of yours. If money's the problem, let's just say we're investing in your future.This check should cover your first year at the University of Illinois. Love . . .” The letter was signed, “Harley and Kay.”