21

I awoke in the night. Something felt wrong. I sat up. The nightmare again? No. Didn’t even remember dreaming. The red numerals of my digital alarm glowed 2:17. I listened. Nothing. Just the muffled drone of nighttime traffic on Sheridan Road a half-mile away, and Denny’s not-quite-a-snore nasal breathing.

Sheesh, it’s hot. And it’s not even June yet. I got out of bed in my oversized Bulls T-shirt—my “nightgown” of choice—and opened the bedroom window a couple of inches. A gentle breeze blew in off Lake Michigan, freshening the room. Huh. It was high time we put the screens in so we could keep the windows open. Maybe Denny would do it on Saturday—

Saturday. Saturday was the sophomore dance at Benito Juarez High School. Amanda and José were going. Probably should talk to Delores and agree on expecta—

Delores. Delores never returned my phone call. And I’d called her two days ago! Was she avoiding me? Nah. Probably didn’t mean anything. Fact is, I’d left the message with one of her younger kids. Likely she never got it.

Still, I should try calling her again. She didn’t seem herself at the last Yada Yada meeting. Maybe her name came to mind in the middle of the night because God wanted me to pray for her. Well, why not? I was wide-awake now. Pulling on Denny’s robe, I shuffled down the dark hallway toward the living room.

Could probably use the extra prayer time. Hadn’t exactly used up my prayer minutes this week. Even last night—

The back of my neck prickled. Last night. The prayer meeting at the Sisulu-Smiths.

That’s what was bothering me.

I sank down in the recliner near the front windows. A cold nose pushed against my hand, and I stroked Willie Wonka’s soft forehead. Faithful old dog. “Sorry for waking you up, Wonka,” I murmured. Yeah, I felt unsettled about last night’s prayer meeting. But why, exactly? Avis’s words to Mark and Nony? She’d taken them right from Scripture. But still. Kinda creepy. And anointing them with oil. Why did she do that? Made it seem so . . . so serious.

The whole thing was disconcerting. Not to mention having all those White Pride books on display! What was Josh thinking? The anger I’d stuffed down last night in polite company had been simmering all night. I was sorely tempted to march into Josh’s room right now and hold my own free speech rally.

Nope. Shouldn’t go there. I reined in my thoughts and backed up a step. What was Josh thinking? I pondered that one, trying to be honest. Guess I couldn’t really blame him—he thought the books would be helpful to Mark. And Mark did seem to appreciate that he brought them.

OK. Maybe I was just anxious about the rally, which was only—I counted on my fingers—less than fourteen hours from now. It was natural to be concerned. Even Mark had asked for prayer support last night. Only thing was, we’d gotten all those people together and didn’t really pray. Not for long, anyway. Almost like a P.S. But this wasn’t a P.S. kind of situation! The rally was obviously designed to provoke anger and harsh words. To stir up division. And my husband and son were going to be there. And Nony’s husband . . . and Ruth’s husband . . . and maybe Peter and Carl.

And a lot of unpredictable university students.

Anything could happen.

Oh God! I groaned. If fear is the main enemy, then I’m licked already. I wanted last night back so we could do some serious praying. Like what Avis called it when the whole hate group thing came up: spiritual warfare. Wasn’t exactly sure what that meant or how you did it. We prayed last night. Sincere prayers. But looking back on it, it didn’t feel like “warfare” to me. More like, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . .”

Now it was too late. What could we do?

Pray, Jodi. A Voice within overrode my whining. Cover the rally with prayer.

Well, sure. I reached for the old afghan on the back of the recliner and pulled it around me. Of course I was going to pray during the rally. School would be over; I’d be home by then. I’d make it a point—

At the rally. Cover the rally with prayer. Pray for the people you see there.

Whoa. I didn’t like the direction this inner dialogue was going. “I don’t even know what to pray!” I fussed aloud. “And, OK, God, I admit it. I don’t want to be there. Those people are scary. I just want it to be over. I just want them to go away.”

When you don’t know how to pray, pray the Word.

Pray the Word. OK, that was a good idea. Nony was usually good at that. Not last night, though. In fact, I couldn’t remember Nony praying at all. Wished she had. She’d probably know some good Scriptures to—

Pray the Word that’s in your own heart, Jodi.

A pair of headlights came down our one-way street and lit up our living room for one brief sweep. As the car’s red taillights winked between the cars parked bumper to bumper along the curb, the psalm I’d half-memorized filled my thoughts.

“When I am afraid, I will trust in God. I trust in God; why should I be afraid? . . . When I am afraid, I will trust in God . . .”

“JODI? JODI!” A hand shook my shoulder roughly. “What are you doing sleeping out here in the chair?”

I blinked my eyes open. Daylight streamed through our bay windows. Sunlight tipped the tops of the trees outside. Denny stood over me, unshaved, hair on end, wearing only his sleep shorts, looking like a modern caveman.

“When I am afraid, I will trust in God. I trust in God; why should I be afraid?”

I sat up, tossing the afghan aside. “Denny? This afternoon—could you pick me up? I’m going to the rally with you and Josh.”

OF COURSE, this had to be the morning I tipped over my mug of coffee and sloshed it all over the breakfast table, sending a tidal wave onto Denny’s clean slacks. By the time we mopped up the mess, threw the slacks in the washer (after dumping a load of Becky Wallace’s left-behind clothes in a wet heap on top of the dryer), and found Denny a clean pair in the still-unfolded pile from last week, we were all late getting out of the house.

Which meant I arrived at school late. Another teacher had to bring my class in when the bell rang, earning me a look that said loud and clear, If we had to vote on teacher of the year, it wouldn’t be you.

The day was warm for the end of May, the kids hot and restless. Somehow we made it through our final unit entitled “City Bugs and Insects” and picked up litter from the playground as part of the school’s “Leave the World a Better Place” contest. I finished the last activity in our “Understanding Illinois History” unit, broke up three fights, and reminded students who failed to bring back their Thursday take-home folders that Monday was the absolute, final, drop-dead day to bring signed permission slips for our Garfield Park Conservatory field trip next week.

After the end-of-the-week stampede that cleared the room at three o’clock, I collected a pink sweater, a windbreaker, a Mickey Mouse watch, and a torn backpack, threw them all into the Darn Lucky Box—already overflowing with unredeemed lost-and-found items—and staggered out the front doors of Bethune Elementary.

No Denny.

Well, OK. A momentary surge of relief overrode my frustration. Maybe Denny forgot and went to the rally without me. Or maybe it had been cancelled altogether, and I just hadn’t gotten the word yet. I could just walk home as usual . . .

Not likely.

I went inside, hoping to get a word with Avis, maybe even a chance to pray together about the rally, but Ms. Ivy said she hadn’t been in all day. A consortium of Chicago school principals or something.

A knot tightened in my stomach. I don’t know if I can do this, God!

Denny and Josh finally pulled into the parking lot at three forty-five. “Sorry, babe.” Denny got out and loaded me and my school bags into the middle seat of the minivan. “Had a flat tire. But I didn’t have time to go home and change.” A five-inch smear of black grease decorated one of Denny’s pant legs.

Flat tire. Figured.

I was quiet during the fifteen-minute drive north on Sheridan Road to Northwestern University, but Josh kept tossing questions at his father. “Isn’t Northwestern a private university? I mean, like, private property? How can an outside group come on campus without permission and hold a rally?”

“I asked Mark the same thing. He thinks there are a few students on campus who are members of this group. So, technically, they can call this a ‘student-sponsored’ rally. Besides, they’re gathering at the Rock, which traditionally is kind of a free-for-all place. Students paint it, plaster signs on it, whatever.”

“What if there’s trouble? Can the campus police arrest the off-campus people?”

My husband snorted. “Don’t forget, we’re off-campus people too.”

I was beginning to regret my leap of faith in coming along. Even shopping for underwear with Amanda would be better than this.

Denny parked on a side street, and we dodged cars as we crossed Sheridan Road to the main campus entrance. Finding the Rock was easy enough; a group of about fifty people were milling around a small plaza, like a tiny brick lake fed by three or four separate sidewalk streams. Some construction blocked one of the sidewalks. Two imposing buildings faced each other on opposite sides of the plaza; a budding maple tree rose in the middle. A third side boasted a low stone wall, populated by a dozen or more students. Well, presumably students. Twentyish. Assorted Wildcats T-shirts. Mostly African-American; mostly male. They stood on the wall like a Secret Service detail circling the president. Behind the bodies on the wall, I could see a huge boulder about my height, painted a garish red.

Mark Smith noticed us and muscled his way through the small crowd. He looked every inch the casual university professor—goatee neatly trimmed, open-necked burgundy dress shirt, wrinkle-free slacks. I nonchalantly stepped in front of Denny’s grease-stained pant leg, hoping Mark wouldn’t notice. “Hey, Josh, thanks.” He handed Josh the bulging backpack with its broken zipper. “Hope you didn’t need this today.”

Josh slung the backpack over his shoulder. “Nah, it’s my old one.” He looked around. “So what’s goin’ on?”

Mark’s smile was sardonic. “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

“Is Nony here?” I asked, though I suspected I knew the answer.

Mark shook his head. “Home with the boys. It’s best.”

Where I should be. I felt as out of place as a Leave It to Beaver rerun on MTV.

The crowd was starting to swell. My eyes traveled, looking for a bunch of skinheads with tattoos, wearing leather and chains or something, trying to figure out who the White Pride members were. A contingent of about twenty people arrived together, all white, but they seemed an odd assortment. Several wore suits and ties; five or six looked like retired bikers who’d cut their hair and cleaned up their act. Then a few skinhead types and several thirtyish women, all in dresses or skirts. Not anyone you’d notice if you passed them on the street.

One of the men in a tie, maybe thirty-five, attempted to step up onto the low wall surrounding the Rock, but the students on the wall moved together, blocking his way. An uneasy murmur rippled through the crowd, which was getting larger by the minute.

“No room up here,” one of the sentries growled. He was built like a football player, big in the shoulders, coffee-bean skin, wearing shades and dreadlocks.

Bully, I thought. Since when did they let football players have that much hair?

The man in the tie didn’t protest; he simply took his stand on the steps leading into one of the flanking buildings and picked up a bullhorn, as if that had been his intent all along. “Is that the guy who’s going to speak?” I whispered to Mark. The man looked like a clean-cut seminary student—except for the aging biker and skinhead types who flanked him like bodyguards.

“My guess. But see that younger guy in the red tie? And the girl?” Mark nodded toward a neatly dressed young couple clinging to the edges of the group around the man with the bullhorn. She looked to be in her late teens; he was maybe a few years older.

“I recognize those two,” Mark muttered. “They’re the ones who came to my house a couple of weeks ago and left that racist pamphlet.”