The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out (5 page)

Avis laughed. “Mm. Been there. Talk to you later.”

I HUSTLED HOME after school, the rod in my left leg aching with the dipping temperatures. That rod, and needing to take extra vitamins to keep my immune system well padded because of my missing spleen, were the only side effects I still experienced from the car accident I'd had a few years ago. But the ache in my heart for the mother of the teenager I'd killed was still fresh every time I thought about the startling sequence of events that had put his little brother in my classroom the next school year. Hakim had worked his way into my heart—much to his mother's fury—and I often wondered where he was and how he was doing.
By now Hakim would be—
I mentally counted years as I dragged up our front steps and took the mail out of the box—
in sixth grade. Ouch. Almost a teenager.
I sent up an extra prayer. Middle school could be tough even without the trauma he'd faced after losing his older brother.

“Amanda?” I called from the front hall as I let myself in. No answer. The house was empty. A note on the dining room table said:
Went downtown to show Neil around. Josh called. Coming for
supper.

Hey.
That would be nice. Extra nice that Josh thought of it himself without me asking. I pulled out some chicken pieces from the freezer . . . and had crusty, oven-baked chicken in the oven by the time Amanda and Neil came in, red-nosed and hungry. Josh and Denny arrived within minutes of each other and the house was suddenly, gloriously full of everyone talking at once.

I grinned at Denny as we gathered around the dining room table. This was more like it. The kids home, a guest at our table . . . who stuck a fork in a piece of chicken on the platter in front of him and hefted it onto his plate. “Looks good, Mrs. Baxter.”

“Yes it does,” Denny said smoothly, and added, “but let's take a moment to give thanks.” He held out his hands to Josh on one side of him and a puzzled Neil on the other, and we all joined hands and bowed heads as Denny gave a short prayer of thanks. Good thing
he
prayed. I would have been tempted to pray for all the missionaries and trouble spots around the world and keep Mr. Tallahassee waiting.

But the awkwardness passed and Amanda and Neil chatted back and forth about riding the el train (a first for Neil), seeing the city from the top of Sears Tower, and wandering around the artsy shops along Rush Street. “We might take in one of the museums tomorrow—do you know how many years it's been since I've been to the Museum of Natural History? And I
live
in Chicago!” she said, waving her fork. “But Wednesday I'm going to be working with some of the girls at church, choreographing a candle-lighting dance for the first Sunday of Advent. Neil's going to have to entertain himself.”

“Whoa.” Denny's eyebrows went up. “Is it Advent already? We haven't even had Thanksgiving!”

“Da-ad. It's
always
the first Sunday after Thanksgiving. Well, usually. Pastor Clark called me and asked if I'd be willing to re-create the candle dance I did at Uptown a few years ago.”

“So. Josh,” said Neil, his mouth full of mashed potatoes. “What's your major?”

“International Studies.”

“Really? Huh.” Neil digested that for a whole nanosecond. “Who ya think's gonna go to the Rose Bowl this year?”

4

I
wasn't sure I was going to survive a whole week with the football player from Tallahassee. “Take it easy, Jodi,” Denny soothed when I grumbled about his rude-ness I at the table. “Maybe God has a reason for bringing him to our home.”

I glared at him as I pulled on my warm pajamas. “Yeah, well, that reason better not have anything to do with our daughter.”

Denny laughed. “I doubt it. A
week with Super Jock underfoot ought to get on Amanda's nerves too.”

A giggle threatened to undo my crankiness. “Hm. Dunno about that. You've been underfoot for twenty-three years and we still—”

“Hey!” Denny swatted my shoulder. “I can hold up my end of a conversation.”

“Yeah, and you've got cute dimples going for you too.” I pinched his cheek like an obnoxious great-aunt
.

“Ha. So it's a pinching free-for-all, is it?” Denny made a grab for my pajama-clad bottom, but I squealed and leaped across the bed to the far side—only to realize he'd darted around the end of the bed and cornered me.

Squealing like a stuck pig, I scrambled back across the bed just out of his reach, rumpling our wedding-ring quilt into messy lumps. I grabbed a pillow and held it for protection. “I give! I give! No pinching!”

Sudden banging on our bedroom door stopped us both in mid-laughter. “Dad! Mom!What's going on in there?”

We both clamped hands over our mouths. Denny waited a beat, then opened the door a crack. “Playing. None of your business.”

“Well, it's embarrassing,” Amanda hissed through the crack. “Neil and I can hear you clear in the living room!” Her footsteps tromped back down the hall.

I collapsed on the bed, muffling my giggles with a pillow. Denny waggled his eyebrows at me. “Guess we better behave,” he growled in a loud whisper. “Don't want to give our guest any ideas.”

IT SNOWED WEDNESDAY, our first snow of the season. “Yeaaa!” yelled my students, flying out the door when the last bell rang, jackets askew and backpacks bumping. The weatherman had only predicted an inch, but it covered the concrete city prettily,muffling my footsteps as I walked home on the unshoveled walks. Might as well enjoy it now. It would probably be gone tomorrow.

Four wonderful vacation days stretched out before me.
Amanda's
home . . . Thanksgiving dinner will be a cinch, since all I have to do is
make a few pies . . . maybe we'll hear from the Sisulu-Smiths and can
start planning for our Yada Yada reunion . . .

Neil was alone in our living room, watching a game show on TV. He looked up when I came in the front door. “You guys don't get ESPN?”

“Sorry. We don't have cable.”
Be sweet, Jodi.
“Is Amanda here?”

He shook his head, eyes glued to the TV. “Nah. She's over at your church, doing that . . . whatever she's doing.”

“You decided not to go along? There are some funky shops along Howard Street.” I felt double-minded, half irritated that he let her walk by herself all the way to Howard Street, half glad they weren't together every minute.

“Yeah, she asked. But it's a blizzard out there.” He shivered. “No thanks.”

Blizzard
.Mr. Tallahassee had no idea.

I left our guest to the TV and headed for the kitchen. I had pies to make. Tying on an apron, I hauled out the canister of flour, can of shortening, box of salt, and measuring spoons. “So, Wonka, what shall I make first? Pumpkin? Apple?” I stopped myself. The talking-to-Willie-Wonka-while-I-cooked habit was hard to break.

Hm. Maybe it's time to get Amanda a new dog.
I smiled as I mixed four batches of pie dough, cutting the shortening into the flour until it looked like floury peas, then sprinkling ice water over the mixture just until it clung together.
A puppy for Christmas—what
fun!

Just as quickly, I nixed that idea. Amanda would be living in a dorm for the next four years, except for summers. Hardly the time to get her a pet.

Neil wandered into the kitchen. “Whatcha making? Home-made pies? Cool.” He parked himself on the kitchen stool. He weighed at least two hundred pounds, all of it muscle. I wasn't sure our wimpy stool was going to survive.
Might as well make the best of
it.
I handed him a bowl of apples and a peeler. “Mind helping? Just peel the skin off those apples.”

“Oh. Uh, sure.” He applied himself to the task, frowning in concentration, tip of his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. “So what else is on the menu for Thanksgiving dinner? Will Josh and his fiancée be here too? Broncos are playing the Cowboys in Dallas. Oughta be a tight game. Hoo! Hoo!” He waved the peeler and grinned.

I stopped rolling out piecrusts and stared at our guest. Hadn't anyone told him? “Um, Neil, we're not having Thanksgiving dinner here. We're taking these pies to the Manna House women's shelter—Josh and Edesa are volunteers there. So our family signed up to help serve Thanksgiving dinner. But don't worry,” I hastened to add, “it ought to be a big spread, lots of good food.”

He gaped at me as my words slowly registered. “A women's shelter? Like, you mean, bums off the street, except broads?”

Count to ten, Jodi. Slowly . . . one . . . two . . . three . . .

“Actually, right now most of the Manna House
residents
are evacuees from New Orleans, after Hurricane Katrina. They're def-initely homeless.” I felt heat rising in my face. “Could be you, or me, you know, if we lived in New Orleans.”

“Huh! Not me.”Neil tackled another apple. “I would've got out of there before that storm hit. All the smart people did.” Then he frowned and looked up. “Hey. We gonna be back here by three? The game starts at three-fifteen!”

AS FAR AS I was concerned, Neil-from-Tallahassee could just stay home and watch his stupid football game. Denny said he was sure Manna House would have the game on in the TV room. But God and I had a silent scuffle all the way down to the Wrigleyville neighborhood the next day in the minivan.

Jesus, I know You told us to love our enemies, but does that include
extremely annoying people?

Never said it would be easy, Jodi.

Yeah, but we've got four days to go! I'm afraid I'm gonna say some-thing
I regret—or pop him one.

Have you asked Me for My grace, Jodi? And by the way, Denny was
right. I brought Neil to your home for a purpose. Sow the seeds, Jodi.
Sow the seeds.

I let out a long sigh.

Dinner was scheduled for one o'clock, but we pulled into a parking space around the corner from Manna House about noon. With each of us carrying a pie—two apple and two pumpkin—we trundled down the stairwell to the side door on the lower level. The outside door was locked, but after a few moments, Precious answered the shrill doorbell.

“Baxters! Whatchu comin' in the basement door for—oh! Pies. Just take 'em on over there to the dessert table . . .
Amanda!
” A squeal and a hug. “Girl, when did you get home from school? Here—let me take that pie . . .
Sabrina!
Look who's here!” Precious lowered her voice but not her grin. “She been hopin' you'd come.”

Sabrina, looking smart and skinny in layered clingy tops with her midriff showing, waved shyly from the door of the rec room. Amanda scooted in that direction, where a handful of noisy kids were playing Ping-Pong and foosball, leaving Neil with us. But after depositing his pie, he followed. A quick peek into the rec room a few minutes later assured me all was well: Neil was parked in front of the TV in the corner.

“What can we do to help?” I asked Precious. A bevy of assorted women were already in the kitchen, chattering, banging pots and pans, loading up baskets of rolls, and setting out aluminum pans over hot-water warmers on the serving table. “Some of the new residents?”

Precious rolled her eyes. “Yes, ma'am. An' the stories they got to tell! Lord Jesus, have mercy! Picked off rooftops, left in a stadium without enough food an' water, bused here an' there, never knowing where they gonna sleep next, with just the clothes on they backs. Bad as it can be here in Chicago,
I ain't
never
goin' back to live in no hurricane alley . . . Denny! Find Peter Douglass—he's around here somewhere. We gonna need some more tables. Jodi, take these tablecloths and cover what we already got. We got some candle centerpieces to make 'em pretty-like. But don't light them candles! Uh-uh. No way.”

The “tablecloths” were white plastic, but the tables looked festive with the pillar candles sitting in a wreath of fake fall leaves. Food kept arriving, along with familiar faces. By the time one o'clock rolled around, the serving tables were crowded with platters of sliced turkey, bowls of mashed potatoes, gravy, corn bread dressing, sliced ham, Avis's macaroni and cheese, Chanda's big pot of Jamaican rice and peas, and another of sautéed cabbage and car-rots. Stu and Estelle had brought more desserts—cranberry nut bread and apple crisp—and Florida had sent along a couple of sweet potato pies.

The dining room filled up as the tempting aromas drew people downstairs from the main level, both residents and guests. The Katrina evacuees were an assorted bunch, mostly black, a few white, a few Cajun, all women, most with young children. Families with husbands or male teenagers, I'd been told, were being sheltered in other facilities.

But I hadn't yet seen either Josh or Edesa, even though Precious told me they were around . . . strange. I hustled up the stairs to the all-purpose room as the last stragglers were coming down. Edesa was standing near the double doors leading into the foyer talking to Liz Handley, jiggling a baby on her shoulder.