27

I didn’t trust myself. “Amanda! José!” Denny shook them both, his voice sharp. Startled awake, José untangled himself from Amanda’s weight on his chest and jumped up, his dress shirt rumpled, his hair mussed. Amanda sat up, still wearing her pale blue quinceañera dress, and looked blearily at both of us in turn. Her mascara was smeared; she’d been crying. “Oh. You’re home.”

A touch of panic shone in José’s eyes. “Señor Baxter! Señora! I’m sorry! We . . . we fell asleep! Amanda was so sad. I was, you know, just trying to comfort her.”

“José. Go home. Josh is waiting for you out in the garage. Amanda?” Denny pulled Amanda off the couch. “Go to bed. We’ll talk in the morning.” He propelled Amanda down the hall without saying good-bye to José. I stared after them as José split one way, Denny and Amanda the other.

Well. Kick the kid out? This was a different Denny.

I locked the back door behind José and watched until the lights of the minivan disappeared down the alley, my emotions tumbling all over themselves. Had anything happened while Amanda and José were here alone? They’d still had their clothes on. Huh! As if that cinched anything. A lot of petting could go on in, on, around, and under clothes. I should know. Denny and I strayed close to the line numerous times while we were courting.

A whine near my knees told me Willie Wonka wanted out, so I unlocked the door again and stepped out onto the back porch while the dog scrambled down the few steps to the yard. The night was balmy and clear, allowing a few bright stars to shine through the haze of city lights. I leaned against a porch post and took a deep breath. And another. God, I don’t need this right now! Mark Smith is hooked up to a zillion machines in the ICU and maybe in a coma. Nony is a wreck, and who can blame her? She’s going to need all the help she can get—care for her kids, people to stay with Mark so she can get some rest, meals, probably even stuff like grocery shopping or taking the kids to school! Somewhere out there are the evil people who did this thing. The last thing I need is a runaway romance under my own roof.

Willie Wonka stood at the bottom of the steps as if hoping for a hand up. “Forget it,” I muttered. “You’re on your own.” He finally labored stiffly to the porch proper, throwing in a few grunts for good measure and giving me a reproachful look as he passed. I let the dog into the house but hesitated before going in myself. Denny was uptight. Amanda was sad—and using it as an excuse to bend the rules. Josh had ended up at Edesa’s apartment tonight—why? He probably needed someone to talk to. He was definitely shaken by the attack on Mark after the rally yesterday.

And me? I was beyond tired. Almost too tired to sleep. I felt like a zombie. I’d been awake for the last forty hours. Too tired to help the rest of my family weather this trauma. But how could we rest? Somewhere out there were the people who did this to Mark. An evil lurking in the shadows . . .

That did it. I bolted through the back door and snapped the lock. Then I pressed my back against the door in the dark kitchen, heart pounding. God, I want to pray! But I don’t really know how to pray against “principalities and powers.” Feels like I’m still in prayer kindergarten! I need You, Lord! My family needs You! Mark and Nony need You! Yada Yada needs You! This is too big for any of us!

A face darted across my consciousness, interrupting my silent cries to God. A pale, frightened face, young, rather plain. The kind of face that could use a good session at Adele’s Hair and Nails. But our eyes had locked on the plaza around the Rock.

And that girl with the White Pride people. She needs You, too God. I don’t know her name, but . . .

But God did. Wow. That was a thought.

HOW WE BAXTERS ALL GOT UP THE NEXT MORNING, got ourselves dressed, fed on cold cereal, and to church on time is beyond me. I didn’t hear Josh come in. Slept right through it. Didn’t set the curfew alarm either. The laundry hampers overflowed, and the refrigerator shelves yawned emptily. Life seemed to be on hold. I needed an extra Saturday just to catch up on chores.

We checked in with Nony by phone before leaving for church and found out that Hoshi was spending the day with the boys so Nony could be up at the hospital—if she could get past the media people camped out on her block. As for Mark, so far no change. They were going to wean him off the sedation this morning.

“Pray, Jodi.” Nony’s voice seemed to ache with weariness. “And ask Uptown Community to pray. Mark needs an outpouring of prayers.”

The communion table sat in front of Uptown’s meeting room with its embroidered cloth covering the “wine” and the bread. June first—the first Sunday of the month. I thought Avis might be leading worship this morning, but she came in, conservatively dressed in a black pantsuit and black-and-white print silk blouse, and sat down next to Stu and Becky. Alone. Peter must be sleeping off his night in the hospital. He’d said he was going to attend New Morning’s service this afternoon.

Pastor Clark announced the call to worship from Isaiah 55: “Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy, and eat! . . . Give ear and come to Me; hear Me, that your soul may live.” The praise team launched into the first song, but my thoughts were still on Avis’s husband. Would Peter find New Morning Christian Church more comfortable than Uptown Community? Here, as a black male, he was definitely a minority. Even when he was courting Avis, he’d been visiting other churches. Maybe he’d start attending New Morning regularly and want to go there when they moved into their new building. What would Avis do then?

I felt a tiny tug of resentment. New Morning using our building was almost like having two services. One mostly white, one mostly black. Would people like the Hickmans and Douglasses end up being drawn away?

Don’t go there, Jodi. Open your heart to Nony’s and Mark’s church—they’re hurting today. This assault on Mark must feel like an assault on all of them . . .

When it was time to celebrate the Lord’s Supper, Pastor Clark mentioned the assault on Mark Smith and said he had not yet regained consciousness. “Dr. Smith spoke recently at our men’s breakfast about the troubling events on Northwestern University’s campus,” Pastor Clark added. “Many of us also met the Sisulu-Smiths at Avis and Peter Douglass’s wedding. Denny Baxter? Can you tell us more than the sound bites we’re hearing on the news?”

I felt sorry for Denny. He hadn’t been expecting this, and I knew he was still struggling to keep his own tumultuous feelings under control. He went to the front and somehow found words to give a brief account of the rally on Friday and Mark’s efforts to speak the truth about White Pride’s racist and violent views. Denny had to stop and clear his throat. “The situation was tense and things got a bit out of control—”

I sucked in my breath and glanced at Josh, half-hidden behind the soundboard at the back of the room, but Denny skipped the details.

“—but thankfully, no one got hurt. Until . . .” Denny tried to clear his throat again. “Until late Friday night, on his way home, when Mark Smith was attacked in the alley behind his home. The police haven’t made any arrests, but there is reason to believe this may be related to the racist rally earlier in the day.” Denny shook his head. He was done. He couldn’t say anymore.

Pastor Clark came alongside Denny and put an arm around his shoulder. “Dr. Smith is not only a respected member of the faculty at Northwestern and a good friend of several in our congregation—”

“Jesus! Help us!” Florida cried out. I could see Stu dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. I could hardly bear to look at Denny’s face at the front; he looked miserable.

“—but also a member of New Morning Christian Church,” Pastor Clark went on, still with a firm grip on Denny’s shoulder, “the congregation that will be leasing space from us here at Uptown until they locate a suitable facility in the Howard Street area. As host to this congregation that has suffered a deeply personal tragedy, we need to keep them lifted up in our prayers.”

Around the room, people began reaching out until we were all holding hands up and down the rows as various ones spoke out in prayer—praying for Dr. Mark Smith, praying for his family, praying for his congregation. And I was sure New Morning, coming together in this very room that afternoon, would be doing the same thing. I squirmed. Something didn’t seem right. One building, two congregations. One body, two separate services. I stared at the communion table, waiting for us to “eat and drink together.” All I could see was broken bread and spilled wine.

AS PEOPLE MILLED ABOUT AFTER THE SERVICE, Avis caught my eye and beckoned me into a corner, snagging Florida, Stu, and Becky on the way. “When is the next Yada Yada meeting . . . next week at Stu’s house?” She shook her head. “We need to get together to pray before then. Today, if possible. I know everyone is praying, but God is pressing on my heart the importance of ‘Where two or three come together in My name . . .’ There’s spiritual power in praying together with the authority of the name of Jesus.”

“Girl, I’m there. Can’t fight no spiritual war with little skirmishes. We gotta call in the troops.” Florida raised her voice. “Carla! Cut out that runnin’!”

Avis frowned. “There’s likely to be a lot of visitors up at the hospital on Sunday afternoon, but it doesn’t matter. We need to do this. We especially need to pray with Nony. Jodi? Can you help me call the sisters, see who can make it this evening?”

I hesitated. My weekend had already been chopped into pieces. When was I going to get my laundry done? Pick up some groceries? Denny would surely want to go see Mark. Shouldn’t we see if Nony needed some practical help? The kids had youth group at five. And we hadn’t talked to Amanda yet about last night . . .

Listen to yourself, Jodi Baxter! Didn’t you tell God last night you wanted to get out of prayer kindergarten? That you needed help knowing how to pray against “principalities and powers”? Warfare doesn’t wait for laundry and groceries! Don’t worry about the details. It’ll all get done. Somehow.

“Well, you know I can’t come.” Becky wagged her ankle with the electronic monitor attached under her jeans. Then she shrugged. “But guess it don’t matter—I don’t know that much about prayin’ . . . or holy war or whatever ya called it, Flo.”

“What? Ain’t we got permission from that parole agent yet for this girl to attend Yada Yada on Sunday nights?” Florida was indignant. “Stu, you can move mountains—”

When she wants to, I thought.

“—so do your thang, girl! An’ hurry up about it.”

Avis gave Becky a sympathetic hug. “Your prayers are important, too, Becky. And even if you can’t come up to the hospital with us tonight . . .” Avis paged through her Bible. “Pray Psalm 27. The Word of God is one of our spiritual weapons. We need to fill our prayers with the promises of God.”

“Uh, I don’t have a Bible.”

I cringed. Wasn’t I the one who’d offered to get Becky a Bible?

“Here. Take mine.” Avis thrust her big Bible with the well-worn pages into Becky’s hand. “Keep it until we get you one of your own.” She looked at the rest of us. “Five o’clock at Evanston Hospital sound good? Jodi? Can you help make the calls?”

I nodded, feeling like a recruit who’d enlisted in the army but hadn’t figured on giving up civilian life.