The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught (38 page)

But it might have been.

I told my class to sit at their desks and be quiet or there would be two extra math pages for
everyone
if I heard even a squeak. Alerting the teacher next door that I had to leave my classroom, I marched Carla to the office. “He started it,” she pouted, pulling back on my hand until I was practically dragging her. “Why only
me
in trouble”

“I will deal with Bowie later,” I said, sitting her down in the time-out chair in the school office. “Grabbing is one thing. But poking someone's eye with
anything
is very, very dangerous.”

Carla folded her arms across her tiny chest and stuck out her bottom lip. No penitence there. I wanted to shake the stubborn snippet. But I simply left the office, then leaned against the wall in the hallway. To tell the truth, I could use a time-out myself, give myself time to think.
Lord, how do I handle this?
Teachers were supposed to report to parents any hitting or violent behavior and ask for a parent-teacher meeting.

Not exactly a call I wanted to make to Florida. Last time she practically laughed when I told her Carla had given that kid a bloody nose.

But I tried to call her from the office before I left school for the day; only got Cedric. “Nah, Miz Baxter, Mama's not home. She workin' double shift now.”

“Oh.” Double shifts? What was
that
about? “Who's taking care of Carla”

“Me an' Chris—till Daddy gets home anyway.”

I called the Hickmans later that evening, got Carl this time, who said Florida wouldn't get off until eleven. “You say the boy's OK? He sounds like a bully to me, but . . . Can't you just handle it, Jodi? Do what you need to do . . . I know Flo don't got time for a parent-teacher meeting, not till we get this bill from the city paid off.”

If I'd been talking to Florida, I would've asked,
“What bill from the city? ”
But I just said, “Sure. I'll handle it, Carl. Don't worry about it,” and hung up. Only later that evening,while waiting at the back door for Willie Wonka to finish hs final “business” of the day, did it hit me.

Bill from the city.
Of course.
For the cost of cleaning off that alley wall Chris had tagged.

I DIDN'T WANT TO ASK FLO how much the city was charging them for the alley cleanup, but it worried me all week. Hundreds? Thousands? How did the city expect a kid like Chris to pay that off? It got dumped in the parents' lap, that's what, which made sense theoretically—but it killed me to think of Florida working from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. five or six days a week. Might kill
her
was more like it.

Seemed like the rest of us should help somehow. I wasn't sure where an extra hundred bucks would come from, but Denny
did
get a raise with the AD position this fall.Would a hundred dollars even make a dent? We'd need to multiply that somehow, but I wasn't sure Florida would want me calling around, drumming up money. The Hickmans had their pride. Especially Carl.

I was so caught up with the Carla problem and mulling over our church merger that the call from Ruth on Thursday surprised me. “So are the Baxters coming Saturday or not? ”

“Coming where? What are you talking about, Ruth? ”

“To our Sukkoth celebration. Ben was supposed to call you.”

“Um, not to my knowledge. Maybe he talked to Denny. You know how guys are about messages. Sukkot is . . .? ”

“Sukkot, Jodi! The Feast of Booths.What, you don't know your Old Testament? First Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement for our sins. Now we are rejoicing that God has been with us while wandering in the wilderness, living in tents. Seven guests we must have—Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph, Moses, Aaron, and David. You Baxters make four, and Yo-Yo and the two rascals make seven.”

I wasn't sure I was following all this, but I finally figured out she was inviting us over Saturday evening, the first day of the Feast of Booths— “To party!” I heard Ben yell in the background.

It didn't take much to convince Denny to give up a Saturday evening “to party” with Ben Garfield. The kids were another story.

“Mo-om!” Amanda wailed. “I love Mr. and Mrs. Garfield, don't get me wrong. But hanging around with
your
friends on a Saturday night—sheesh, Mom!”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Do you have other plans? ”

“Well, no, but . . .”

Josh, however,
did
have other plans. “Sorry,Mom. Can't do it.”

“Why? Another overnight at Manna House? ”
Ouch.
I immediately regretted the two imps of sarcasm that snuck into my tone.

Josh hesitated, trying to read me. “No. But I already told Sue—”

Sue again.
“Oh.Well, just thought it could be fun. Pete and Jerry are coming.” Unless Yo-Yo was having this exact same conversation with her two half brothers.

“Oh.” Josh made a face. “Well, sorry about that. But . . .” He shrugged.

But Amanda's ears picked up. “Pete and Jerry? Hey, Mom, if Josh isn't coming, can I invite José? ”

SO THERE WE WERE, seven honored
goyim
sitting on the deck behind the Garfields' modest brick bungalow, eating chicken schnitzel and potato knishes, talking and laughing under a plastic tarp that had been strung up over the deck to represent the temporary “booths” or “tents” of the wilderness. Strings of tiny white lights were wrapped around the deck railings and strung overhead under the tarp, making this “festival of booths” festive indeed.The October weekend weather cooperated beautifully, hitting a high of seventy-eight degrees that afternoon, and cooling off to the midfifties as the sun went down. The four teenagers—Pete and Jerry Spencer, seventeen and thirteen respectively, and Amanda and José, both sixteen—lolled about in the tiny backyard, holding their plates of seconds and thirds in one hand and kicking around a basketball, brought by Pete in the unrequited hope that there would be a hoop in the alley.

“You guys sleepin' out here on the deck tonight? ” Yo-Yo looked at Ben. “Mr. Hurwitz said lots of Orthodox Jews live out in their booths all week—what? ”

Ben was eyeing Yo-Yo from beneath scraggly white eyebrows. “Do I look like a Boy Scout, Yo-Yo? And can't you just see the Queen Elizabeth here” —he jerked a thumb in Ruth's direction— “docking up in a deck chair? ”

Ruth rolled her eyes and passed the last of the schnitzel right past Ben, dumping it on Denny's plate. “Eat, eat, Denny. You're skin and bones.” To which Denny laughed and gave her a big smackeroo right on the cheek.

It was good to see Ruth and Ben having fun. “Here's to Indian summer!” I lifted my glass of iced-tea-from-instant-powder (good thing she didn't invite Florida!) and clicked Yo-Yo's glass.

Ben lifted his bottle of beer and waggled his eyebrows. “Cheers.”

Ruth pushed back her chair. “Hot weather we don't need. Hot apple crisp we do. No, no, don't get up. I can bring it.” No one had moved a muscle to get up, but we did break into mutual chuckles as she waddled herself and her “cargo” through the back door.

Yo-Yo, slouched on a deck chair in the inevitable denim overalls, was chatty tonight; she seemed pleased to be invited to a grownup function and to be sitting with the adults. “Yeah, Becky's doin' good at the Bakery. Real good. For some reason she hit it off with Mr. Hurwitz, 'specially after Stu brought Little Andy by the Bakery one Sunday when she was takin' him home. Man! The fuss they made over that kid. Now Becky can do no wrong. She's Lil' Andy's mama, and that's that! . . .”

We kept talking, but it seemed to me that Ruth was taking a long time bringing out that apple crisp. “'Scuse me,” I said, getting up from the deck table. “I'm going to see if Ruth needs any help.”

But when I'd picked my way through the mudroom—full of coats and old shoes, shelves of canned goods, and gardening tools—and peeked into the kitchen, Ruth wasn't there. “Ruth? ” I called, heading through the narrow kitchen into the dining room. “Ruth”

She was sitting on a straight-backed chair in the dining room, one elbow on the table, her hand supporting the weight of her head. The other hand clutched her side.

“Ruth!”
I was at her side in two strides. “What's wrong”

She turned and looked at me, eyes glittering with pain. “Pain . . . my side . . .my head . . .”

“Ben!”
I screamed, running back through the kitchen. “Dial 911! It's Ruth!”

36

I
rode in the ambulance with Ruth and Ben while Denny took Yo-Yo and the kids to her place, promising to pick up Amanda and José later.When Denny found us in the emergency waiting room of Rush North Shore Medical Center half an hour later, he looked anxiously at Ben slumped in a chair in the corner and then shot a questioning glance at me. I beckoned my husband into the hallway.

“They're still examining her, have her hooked up to fluids. All they've said so far is that her blood pressure is high, something about preeclampsia.”

“What does that mean? ”

“I don't
know
, Denny.” I saw him wince. I took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. I'm just worried. Ben's a wreck. Doesn't want to talk. Went over there to sit by himself.” I peeked around the corner. Ben hadn't moved.

“OK, we won't talk then.” Denny moved back into the waiting room and eased himself into a chair two seats over from Ben. Didn't say anything. Just sat.

I sat, too, and we waited. I must have nodded off at some point because I jumped when I heard someone say, “Mr. Garfield? ”
Sheesh.
Couldn't I even stay awake one hour to “watch and pray” with Ben and Ruth?

A thirty-something doctor in shirt and tie—no white coat, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened—was talking to Ben. Both Denny and I moved closer. “—elevated blood pressure, some protein in her urine,” the doctor was saying. “That and the headache and pain in her side all point to preeclampsia, which can be a serious complication. Left untreated, it can—”

“Treat it then,” Ben growled. “What's the cure for pre—whatever? ”

The doctor stood relaxed, professional, arms crossed. The brown-haired poster boy of doctors. “There is no ‘cure' for preeclampsia except ending the pregnancy. I would recommend—”

“Ending the pregnancy? !” I blurted. “What do you mean”

“I'm sorry. A poor choice of words. I simply mean that the only cure for preeclampsia is delivery of the baby—or babies in this case.”

Delivery? ! Oh God, no, not yet! Ruth's babies couldn't be more than two pounds at this point—ybe even less since there were two of them. “But she's not due for another two months—Christmas, she said!” My heart was racing. I knew the doctor was talking to Ben, but I couldn't help it.Would Ben stick up for Ruth carrying the babies to term?

“Exactly. Mrs. . . . ? ” The doctor lifted his eyebrows at me.

“Baxter,” Ben filled in. “Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, friends of my—of ours.”

The doctor nodded. “Mrs. Baxter has a point. If the twins were even a month older, I'd recommend taking them now by C-section— and we'd do it anyway if Mrs. Garfield's condition got to a high danger point. But while there's no cure for preeclampsia except delivery, it can be managed in many cases, at least until the babies are more fit to thrive on their own. It's a bit touch and go, given your wife's age and the fact that's she carrying twins.”

Ben suddenly wobbled. Denny caught him and lowered him into a chair. “Jodi! Get Ben some water.” I flew.

When I got back with a paper cup of water, Denny had loosened Ben's shirt collar and had one arm around him in a tight grip. The doctor had disappeared. Ben took the water in a shaky hand and drank, his Adam's apple bobbing slowly like a plastic ball on the end of a fishing line.

Denny blew out a breath. “The doctor said they're going to admit Ruth for observation, told Ben to go home, get some rest. They'd like to do some tests—”

Ben snorted. “But you know what Ruth's gonna say. No tests! Stubborn old . . .” He let it go and sank once more into a bitter, pressed-down silence.

Denny left to get the car. Even in our Caravan on the way home, Ben simply stared out the window, a silent hulk in the darkness. As we pulled up to the Garfields' brick bungalow, Ben muttered, “You guys go on. Don't mind me. I'll be all right.” He struggled with his seat belt.

Denny was out of the car and had the side door open in seconds. “Come on. We're going in.” Ben didn't protest.

I'd forgotten about the Sukkot celebration. Dirty dishes and cold food sat out on the deck, just as we'd left them hours earlier. The white minilights sparkled cheerfully, as if waiting for the party to simply pick up where it had left off. I turned to Ben, who was staring stupidly at the remains of the Feast of Booths. “Ben, go sit down. I'll clean up these dishes. It won't take long.” Again Ben didn't protest, just let Denny take his jacket and cap and sank into an overstuffed chair in the living room. I followed the menfolk, still talking, wanting to encourage, wanting to speak words of faith and hope. “It's going to be all right, Ben. Even if they had to take the twins now, it's amazing the care they can give preemies! Why—”