The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught (9 page)

I nodded. The classifieds section usually disappeared before we even picked up the newspaper from the front porch each morning. But not many work-at-home ads panned out. Some wanted money up front for the “kit” which was “guaranteed” to double or triple your investment in the first month.Others did background checks, and that was the last she heard from
them
.

“Anyway, talked to my parole officer, an' he says I can get a regular job—you know, workin' somewhere away from home. I been on house arrest almost three months with a clean record” —
Yeah,
I thought,
except for the time Stu caught you high on weed that one night
— “so all I gotta do is tell him my work schedule, figure in travel time to an' from, an' be here when I'm s'posed to.” She shrugged.

“That's great, Becky! Really!” I could only imagine how stircrazy she must be, stuck here at the Baxter/Stuart premises on Lunt Avenue. “But, how are you supposed to go out looking for a job? I mean, that usually takes a lot of running around.”

“I dunno. Guess I gotta talk to the PO 'bout that part.” She squinted at me again. “You got any ideas for jobs? ”

Jobs? Huh. If I did, I ought to be checking them out myself.
Almost blurted that I might be joining the ranks of the unemployed, too, but I swallowed the thought. No, no, I wasn't going to go there. “Definitely will keep my eyes and ears open, Becky.” I took her empty glass, then hesitated.
“Don't be anxious about anything, but in everything with thanksgiving present your requests to God . . .”

“Say, Beck. You wanna pray about it? Like now? ”

PRAYING WITH BECKY ABOUT A JOB made me feel hopeful about mine. Maybe I was ready to graduate from prayer kindergarten and move into first grade. Just had to remember to keep giving stuff to God instead of worrying it to death, like Wonka with his nasty old rawhide bone. And it was working. Peace followed me around most of the day—that is, until Chanda called me late that afternoon to ask could I pick her up at six fifteen? The reception started at seven.

“I can't believe I agreed to take Chanda George to one of those time-share promotions!” I fussed to Denny, who got home at five o'clock and was getting ready to go for a run along the lake.

He snickered, pausing to sort through the day's mail. “
I
think it's hilarious. Seems like I remember you telling me you'd pack your bags and go home to Mother if I ever dragged you to one of those things again.”

I swatted him with a potholder. “Yeah, that's because you saw it as a
cheap date
. Not to mention that you got thrown out by those two bouncers because you threatened to enlighten ‘the other suckers'—the phrase you used, I believe—about the so-called free gifts we'd been offered. I was
mortified.”

“Hey. Just doing my civic duty. That car phone they promised for showing up was free all right. Just didn't work unless you bought the installation package for thirty bucks.”

“I know, I know.” I groaned. “But I'm not good at this sort of thing. Maybe
you
should go with Chanda, keep her from making a big mistake.”

“Aw. It'll be all right. A lot of people buy time-shares these days. It's probably legit. And she's got the money. Let her enjoy.” Denny planted a kiss on my forehead. “OK, I'm off. If you're gone before I get back” —he waggled his eyebrows— “have fun.” He made for the back door.

“Wait!” I plucked a sticky note from the refrigerator. “You got a call from the high school. They want you to call back.”

“Oh, brother.Was it the AD? ” Denny and the athletic director at West Rogers High had their, um, differences.

“Nope. A woman. She just said call the high school office.”

Denny digested this. He took the sticky note and studied the number, frowning. Then he shrugged. “Too late to call today. I'll call tomorrow.” And he was out the door for his run.

I watched him disappear into the alley. Why would Denny get worried about a call from the high school office? My own anxiety kicked into gear again. Last summer Denny hadn't known until two weeks before school started whether he had a job or not.
Budget cuts.
But he'd kept his job as assistant coach for boys' soccer, basketball, and baseball. He'd wanted to stay with “my boys,” as he called them, building on what he'd tried to develop the year before.

But now . . . was it all going up for grabs again? Along with
my
job?

CHANDA WAS DECKED OUT in a two-piece, bone-colored pantsuit—the kind with a tailored jacket worn long to midthigh. Chunky bone-and-black earrings and a matching necklace were perfect against her warm, brown skin. Only problem was, I forgot to ask what I should wear. I'd shed my shorts but had just pulled on a denim skirt and a clean white T-shirt. Even forgot my earrings.

Oh, well. This was Chanda's evening. Let her shine. Or not. I really didn't care.

I pulled into a self-pay parking lot around the corner from the address Chanda had given me right at seven o'clock. Six bucks after six. Not too bad. But I handed the ticket to Chanda to avoid any confusion about who was paying.

“Two plane tickets to Hawaii, all expenses paid, mm-hm.” Chanda was floating. “Wish Dia's daddy would straighten up his sorry self.We could get married an' dis be our honeymoon—”

“Chanda! Dia's daddy is
not
going to ‘straighten up' in time to use that ticket to Hawaii! Girl, don't let DeShawn mess with your head. You know better than that. Come on.” I locked the minivan, and we headed out of the lot.

“You right, you right, Sista Jodee.” She giggled. “Smooth as butter, 'bout as spineless.” She sighed. “But dat mon one good dancer. Sure would like to see 'im do dat hula.”

That struck us both funny, and we were still laughing as we followed two couples through the door of the brick building that said GLASS SLIPPER VACATIONS. A man in a dark suit held a clipboard. “Your names, please? ” he asked the two couples, who seemed to be together. He checked their names off his clipboard and turned to us. “Uh . . .” He seemed momentarily flustered. “Name, please? ”

“Ms. Chanda George.” Chanda tilted her nose in the air, as if daring the man to find fault with that.

“George . . . George . . . ah, here we go.” Smiling, he checked her name on his list. He turned to me. “And yours? ”

Now I was the one flustered. He wasn't going to find
my
name on his list. I was about to squeak,
“Jodi Baxter,”
when Chanda took my arm, her nose still in the air. “Ms. Baxter be with me.”

The man didn't move. “I'm sorry, Ms. George. But this reception is by invitation only.”

Oh, good grief.
I was going to spend the entire evening sitting in my car.

“Dat's right,” Chanda sniffed, waving a card in his face. “An' dis invitation say to bring your spouse or partner. So we goin' in.”

I nearly swallowed my tongue.My eyes bugged at Chanda, but she marched past the man, still gripping my arm. I didn't dare look at his face; I was sure he was gaping at us. When we turned a corner, following the couples ahead toward a large room full of small tables covered by white tablecloths, I hissed, “Chanda! Are you crazy? Now he thinks . . . he thinks . . .”

Chanda sniffed again. “Don' care what he tinks. You get to bring somebody. Single woman like me, dey want we to come alone. Use a lot of big fancy words. Not be fair.”

“OK, it's not fair.” I spoke through my teeth. “But if you come as a ‘couple,' they are gonna want
both
partners to sign their legal contract! They're not dumb. What happens when they want
me
to cosign your . . .”

A young man in a suit and tie, latte-skinned but probably African-American, met us at the door of the large room. He barely looked old enough to have a driver's license. “Hello!” He extended a friendly hand, perfect teeth widening in a ready smile. “Ms. George! And you are . . .? ” He shook my hand too. “My name is Michael, and I am your host this evening.” He waved toward a couple of burgundy-skirted tables along the far wall. “Help yourself to the hors d'oeuvres. Drinks are complimentary, of course. I' ll wait for you at table number seven over there.”

Chanda made a beeline for the food, loading up her plate with shrimp kabobs, tiny rolled sandwiches cut in wheels, melon chunks, grapes, and hot croissants. A punch fountain splashed in the middle of another table, along with soft drinks and red and white wines. I grabbed a china plate.Might as well make the most of it. It was going to be a long evening.

8

W
e'd been there an hour already, nibbling hors d'oeuvres, while Michael enthusiastically paged through a fat, glossy notebook of time-shares in Hawaii. He'd started with resort villas to drool over, complete with private beaches, Jacuzzis, “tastefully appointed” bedrooms, balconies overlooking the ocean, floating weeks—and elegant prices to match. Even Chanda had choked. “Forty-nine tousand dollars? For one week? ”

“No, no, ma'am. One week every year for the rest of your life! You
own
that week! It's yours.” Michael beamed. “Each sale I make, I earn points toward a time-share like that. Maybe I will be your neighbor.”

“You do dat.” Chanda started flipping vinyl pages. “You can be mi neighbor in a resort dat don't break de bank.” I stifled a snicker.

“Of course. We have many beautiful resorts in a moderate price range.”

My eyes glazed as he pointed out the features of time-shares that cost thirty-five thousand . . . twenty-eight thousand . . . twenty-two thousand . . .

“Excuse me,” I said. “Michael, we need to use the ladies room, which is . . . ? ”

He looked slightly alarmed. “Of course.” He pointed to the far side of the room opposite the door we'd entered. “Right over there.”

I didn't know whether to laugh or panic. They obviously didn't want us just skipping out. “Chanda!” I whispered as we each chose a separate stall. “Are you sure you want to buy a time-share you're locked into for
your whole life?
Maybe you don't want to go to Hawaii every year. Maybe you should just give up that so-called free weekend in Hawaii and buy a plane ticket. Cost you a whole lot less than those time-shares.”

Chanda flushed the toilet and came out of her stall, banging the door.We met at the sinks. “Dose tickets be mine if I listen to dey sales pitch. Don't
have
to buy.” She washed her hands and bumped the air dryer with her elbow. “Come on, Sista Jodee. Let's see what else dey have. De prices going down.”

When we got back to our table, Michael had disappeared. Instead, a middle-aged white woman with short reddish hair and chunky earrings was waiting for us, a smile plastered on her face. “Michael is taking his break,” she explained. “I'm his supervisor. Have you decided which time-share you are interested in? ”

“No, no,” Chanda murmured. “What be de cheapest time-share you got? ”

The woman looked gravely disappointed. “Oh. Well, of course. I can show you some in the ten-thousand-dollar range. But I took you for a woman of exquisite taste. I don't think you'd be happy with something so basic.”

Oh, brother.
But I noticed Chanda preened a bit when she heard “woman of exquisite taste.”

“Look.” The woman leaned close to Chanda and lowered her voice. “Just between us. I am authorized to offer one person a thousand-dollar discount on any of our time-shares over twenty thousand dollars, tonight only. You are obviously someone looking for value as well as elegance. Why don't we look at some in that—”

Just then lights flashed, bells rang, whistles blew. I jumped, thinking it was a fire alarm. But all over the room, sales people rose and began clapping. A young Latino woman at table eleven stood up, sheepishly beaming.
What in the—?

Chanda's eyes rounded. “What? What? ”

Our sales lady glowed. “That is our first Glass Slipper sale tonight. She not only gets a free weekend vacation in Hawaii, but she gets
four
tickets, not just two.”

Chanda glared at me. “Four! Dat should be me! Mi got t'ree kids. How I know which one to take wit just two tickets? ” She whipped back to the sales lady. “What de
second
sale get? ”

AS I DRAGGED UP THE BACKYARD SIDEWALK sometime after ten o'clock, I heard the creaking of the porch swing in the shadows. “Denny? ”

“Hey, babe. Glad you're home. You forgot to take the cell.”

I could barely see his face in the darkness. “I know. Sorry.” I wearily climbed the steps and sank down onto the creaky swing beside him. “Whew. Am I glad to be home.”

“I'll bet.” His arm, resting on the back of the swing, slipped down around my shoulders and pulled me closer. “Next time, take the cell. In case you have a flat or something.”