Peter had said he wanted to do something special for their anniversary—and a dinner reservation at the top of the John Hancock Building was definitely a delightful surprise. The maître d’ led them to a table right by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the Hancock’s Signature Room with a panoramic view of Chicago’s skyline. April’s drizzle had spilled over to the first Saturday of May, but as dusk settled over the city, the clouds began to retreat and a scrap of moon peeked through. The lights sparking through the mist from every stately building along Lake Michigan looked like a field of diamonds.
Avis gave up her coat at the coat check but was glad for the blue pashmina that could double as a shawl, as the air in the restaurant was a bit too cool for her taste. Peter had seemed surprised when he got out of the shower and saw the change of outfits, but she’d hurriedly confessed she couldn’t find the ruby earrings, had probably put them in a “safe place”—so safe she couldn’t remember where—and assured him they’d turn up when she had more time to look. He’d given her a puzzled look but said nothing more about it.
She’d wrapped herself in her own thoughts as Peter drove south on the Outer Drive, Lake Michigan on their left, deepening into twilight’s indigo blue. On their right, stately high-rises sailed past, lighted windows winking cheerily, but she barely noticed. Oh Jesus, where are Rochelle and Conny tonight? Are they safe? Warm? Please, Lord, watch over them. She’d fingered the cell phone in her coat pocket, tempted to try Rochelle’s number right then, not wait till tomorrow.
“You okay, honey?” Peter had asked, concern in his voice. “You’re not coming down with another cold from all those peewee germ-carriers at school, are you?”
She’d given him a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. Just tired is all. It was a busy week.” Busy wasn’t the word. More like Crisis City. Three teachers were out because of the flu. The school had gone into a temporary lockdown on Thursday because a fifth grader had brought a realistic-looking water gun to school in his backpack. Then an order for supplies had been delivered by mistake to a school in Georgia, leaving the Bethune school office without a working copy machine all week. Not to mention the school board was once again threatening school closures. The last time CPS closed schools for budget reasons, Bethune Elementary had received an influx of jilted students, cramming every classroom to capacity.
“I know. You work too hard, baby. You could quit, you know. How many years have you put in at that school? They should give you full retirement right now! But even if they didn’t, we’d make it. Recession or not, we’d figure out a way.”
When she hadn’t responded, he’d let it drop.
Help me here, Lord. I know the Word says to praise You in all circumstances, but I’m having a hard time getting my praise on right now. She needed to put aside her worry about Rochelle and focus on her husband tonight. This was their evening.
Now, as their server filled the water glasses, Avis noticed they were the only African-Americans in the restaurant. Not exactly a local hot spot for the general population. Opening the menu, she raised an eyebrow. Delectable entrées—and prices—dripped from the menu. “Are you sure, honey?” she murmured. “It’s a bit, um, pricey.”
Peter’s dark eyes twinkled. “I think my queen is worth a splurge now and then, don’t you? Besides, I’d say we have something to celebrate—six whole years of marriage and we’re still on speaking terms.”
That sparked a laugh and she felt the tension in her shoulders begin to relax.
She chose the South African lobster tail. He ordered the roasted chicken that came with creamy grits and king oyster mushrooms. “Mm-hm. You can take a man out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the man,” she teased. She didn’t remind him of his brief sojourn as a “vegetarian” when they’d been courting, hoping to lose those pounds he’d gained eating out as a bachelor all those years. It hadn’t lasted too long once he tasted her cooking, though he still had to avoid too much sugar and carbs as a borderline diabetic.
Which meant he passed on dessert—though she had to slap his hand when he kept sticking his fork in her dark chocolate mousse cake. They lingered over coffee, making small talk, enjoying the magical view. Peter made a tent with his fingers, gazing out over the city. “Six years . . . God’s been good to us. Real good, Avis. And I’m grateful. We both have good jobs, make a decent living. But sometimes I wonder . . .”
His voice trailed off. Avis waited until he spoke again.
“I mean, do we just keep on doing what we’re doing until we retire? Or do we look ahead, ask ourselves, what would we really like to do before we retire, while we’ve still got our health and a little energy.” He frowned slightly. “Can’t take it for granted, you know.”
“Do? What do you mean?”
He threw out his hands and laughed. “I don’t know! Travel maybe. Or put our experience to use doing something else, something different. It’d be fun to brainstorm. What’s something you’ve always wanted to do, Avis? Maybe a dream you had when you were a little girl, but life just went a different way.”
“I always wanted to be a teacher.” She smiled, remembering playing “school” with every stuffed animal she could round up from the time she was five. “Guess I’m living my dream.”
Peter snorted. “Lucky you. I thought it’d be cool to be an astronaut, ever since John Glenn orbited the earth when I was a teenager, but that obviously didn’t happen—and I don’t think NASA would have me now that I’m pushing sixty.” He leaned forward suddenly and took Avis’s hand. “Okay, you’re living your dream as far as your job goes—but isn’t there somewhere you’ve always wanted to travel to? Hawaii? China? Alaska?”
“Alaska? You’re kidding. Too cold.” She shivered just thinking about it. Then she smiled mischievously. “But, mm, Hawaii would be nice . . . or maybe South Africa. Nony’s always begging the sisters in the Yada Yada Prayer Group to come visit.”
Peter looked thoughtful. “That’s an idea. Speaking of Nony, any news about how Mark is doing? What’d she say in her letter today?”
Letter! Avis felt a twinge of guilt. She’d been so distracted by the missing earrings and worry about Rochelle that she hadn’t even opened the card from the Sisulu-Smiths. Just stuck it in her purse to read later. “Uh, haven’t read it yet, but it’s in here, I think . . .” Avis rummaged in her roomy leather bag and pulled out the square envelope. Using her table knife to slit the top of the envelope, she pulled out the card.
“How sweet. She remembered our anniversary!” The front of the card was a pen-and-ink drawing representing an African man and woman in traditional dress dancing in each other’s arms as a circle of angels surrounded them. The clothes of the man, woman, and angels were overlaid with a bright wash of red, yellow, and green. “Mm, it’s beautiful.”
“Let me see it.” Peter reached for the card. A folded note fell out as he opened the card and read the inside aloud. “ ‘Angels celebrate your everlasting love . . . Happy Anniversary.’ And it’s signed Nonyameko and Mark.”
He handed the folded note to Avis. “It’s probably for you—Oh, look at this.” He turned the card to the back and showed it to her. In tiny script it said, “An original watercolor by the Women’s AIDS Initiative.” “Isn’t the Women’s AIDS Initiative the program that Nony started?”
“Mm-hm. She’s trying to help single and widowed women start small businesses so they don’t have to turn to sex to support themselves. Also to help women with AIDS, since many times the man abandons them, not wanting to take responsibility.” Avis looked at the card again. “These cards must be one of their enterprises.”
Nonyameko . . . A wave of homesickness for her South African friend washed over Avis. Married to Mark Smith, an African-American professor of history at Northwestern University, Nony had been one of her Yada Yada Prayer Group sisters for several years. But the prayer group all knew Nony’s heart burned with a desire to help her South African sisters who were suffering from AIDS in devastating numbers.
Nony was the one who took it personally when Rochelle was diagnosed with HIV, as if she were her own daughter. That, maybe more than anything, had fanned Nony’s passion to do something for women like Rochelle back in her home country. Except . . . Mark had been on track for tenure at the university and balked at moving the family halfway across the world.
Avis shuddered as memories flooded into her mind. The senseless attack on Mark by a white supremacist group he’d routed from the campus . . . months of rehabilitation for the brain injury that took the sight from one eye and left his speech and day-to-day functioning impaired, even though slowly improving . . . the need to take an indefinite sabbatical from teaching—
“More coffee, ma’am?”
Avis’s eyes flew open to see their server poised over her cup with a fresh pot of coffee. She nodded, even as her thoughts tumbled backward. “Only God could take that tragedy and turn it into something good,” she murmured as the server left.
“Tragedy?”
She smiled at her husband’s puzzled look. “Just thinking about Nony and Mark. How Mark’s injury finally opened the door for Nony to follow her dream.” She waved the hand-painted card. “And now look.”
Peter grimaced. “Yeah, well, I hope we don’t have to suffer a tragedy like that to shake us out of our ruts . . . Hey, what’s her letter say? If it’s not private, read it to me.”
Avis unfolded the note. “It’s to both of us. ‘Dear Avis and Peter . . . Many blessings on your anniversary. I wish Mark and I could be with you to celebrate. But maybe we can take a rain check—’ ” Avis glanced up. “Maybe they’re planning to come back for a visit!”
Peter shrugged. “Maybe so. Go on, read.”
She searched for her place. “All right . . . ‘Mark and I would like to talk to the two of you about something. As you can see from the card, we have been able to start a few small businesses with some talented girls—greeting cards, rug and basket weaving—but to be honest, we need advice and practical help from someone more experienced in business than we are. We are wondering if the two of you would consider coming to South Africa for an extended visit. Whatever time you could spend would be a gift—three months? Six months? A year would be even better—’ ”
Avis heard a gasp and looked up. Peter’s eyes had widened, and they seemed to dance in his face. “I can’t believe this!” he said. “That’s it, honey! We were just talking about doing something new, something different. And here’s Nony, out of the blue, dropping an opportunity into our laps.”
“No, you’ve been talking about doing something new and different, not me.”
But his eyes had strayed to the expansive view out the large windows, as if he hadn’t heard, fingers absently drumming on the tablecloth. “I’d love to do something like that—a trip with a purpose. I could help Nony and Mark draw up some basic business plans that could apply to a number of small businesses. Marketing—that’s the key . . .”
Avis felt her head whirling. Peter was jumping on this too fast. Yes, she’d just teased about taking a trip to South Africa—but for three months? Or six? No, no . . . maybe a two-week visit in the summer.
She skimmed the rest of the letter. We could also use your teaching skills, Avis. Many of our girls need help with basic education—math, language, typing, even health and hygiene. We’d love to arrange for some classes but need a teacher. You—
“So what else did she say?” Peter’s attention had turned back to her.
Avis kept her eyes on the sheet of paper, not wanting to look at her husband. She licked her lips and read the last paragraph. “ ‘The boys are growing like weeds and doing well in school. Marcus is trying to decide where to go to university next term. Praise God Michael won’t leave home for a few years yet! Both boys love playing soccer—’ ”
For some reason Avis’s eyes teared up. She didn’t resist when Peter gently took the letter to read the rest for himself. “Hm. See you skipped over the part where you fit into this proposal,” he said. She could feel his eyes on her as she fished in her purse for a tissue and blew her nose. Silence hung between them as she picked up her coffee—now lukewarm—and sipped it.
“Tell me what you’re thinking, honey. To me, this practically feels like a word from the Lord. We were just talking about planning ahead, doing something new—and now this!” Avis could still hear the excitement bubbling in his voice.
She had to slow this train down fast. “Peter, I know. But it’s not that easy to just pick up and go to South Africa for . . . what did she say? An extended visit? It’s . . . it’s not just our jobs, though in this economy you don’t just throw out a good job and think you can get another”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that.”
He said nothing. She played with the cloth napkin in her lap. “It’s . . . it’s also other responsibilities. Family, and . . . and—”
“Family? We’ve got an empty nest, girl!”
Now her eyes did lock on his. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Just because you don’t have any children, Peter Douglass, doesn’t mean we don’t have family responsibilities. I’m . . . worried about Rochelle. And Conny. We haven’t heard from her in over two months. Almost three months! She—”
“Rochelle.” He practically spit out the name. “I knew it. She’s got you just where she wants you, Avis, worried sick. Don’t you get it? She’s just mad because we didn’t bail her out the last time she mismanaged her money, and she’s making us pay. It’s nothing but a tantrum, I guarantee it.”
Avis shook her head. “Maybe. Maybe not. But . . . I can’t just leave the country for months, not knowing if my grandbaby is all right. Or Rochelle either.”
“So.” Peter’s voice was tight. “Just how long are we going to let Rochelle dictate what we do with our lives? Tell me, Avis. How long?”