32

I was hoping Denny and I would get a chance to talk over the weekend, but it didn’t happen. Friday night would have been perfect; Josh took off for the hospital about seven, and Amanda had a babysitting job. But Denny wanted to see a movie. “Let’s go out,” he said, instead of just vegging in front of the TV with a video. He actually looked through the Friday section of the Chicago Tribune himself and found a romantic comedy at the Village North on Sheridan Road. Even splurged on a bucket of popcorn with extra butter and a twenty-eight-ounce root beer with two straws. We laughed and held hands, greasy from the buttery popcorn, and let ourselves feel like two youngsters on a date.

Make that two lovers on a date. As the movie plot became a comedy of tangled errors, Denny put his arm around me in the dark theater and absently caressed my shoulder. Or maybe not so absently. His fingers wound themselves in my hair, traced the outside of my ear, gently massaged the tension from my neck.

If he was leading up to something, it was working.

He’d felt so distant all week that I was putty under his touch, glad for anything that allowed me into his heart, even if it was through our skin. The house was still kid-empty when we got home at ten thirty, and we wasted no time shedding our clothes and tumbling into bed. Denny was tender, gentle, patient, and I was so thirsty for his touch that I didn’t want our lovemaking to end . . . but later, as I lay in Denny’s arms, his soft, slow breathing in my ear, a sorrowful thought crept into my contentment and pushed it aside.

Will Nonyameko ever again lay within Mark’s arms, spent and happy after making love?

“GIRL, HOW YA FEEL?” Florida didn’t wait for a reply after ringing me up at noon the next day. “Where’s that beanpole son of yours? I gotta ask him a question about this Cornerstone jive the Uptown youth cookin’ up for this summer.”

I cradled the phone in my ear and stuffed dirty clothes into the washing machine. “Sleeping. Spent the night up at the hospital last night. But he said something about a bunch of Uptown youth going down to Jesus People later this afternoon—to talk about volunteering at the Cornerstone Festival this summer, I guess. Is Chris going?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’. I want Josh to ask him personal, talk it up a little. So have him call me, OK? Hey, whatchu makin’ for Second Sunday Potluck tomorrow?”

I stifled a groan. Potluck Sunday again so soon? “I don’t know. Haven’t thought about it. Haven’t even done my food shopping yet. I’m waiting for Denny to get back with the car. He had to coach a game this morning. Then Ben Garfield’s picking him up—they’re going up to Mark and Nony’s house to mow the lawn, stuff like that . . . Flo, wait a minute.” I put the phone down long enough to pour detergent into the washer, set the dials, and park myself on the basement stairs. “Flo? Still there?”

“I’m still here. But what’s eatin’ at you, girl? You sound heavy in your mind.”

Was I that obvious? Florida had radar that would pick up a low-flying cruise missile. “Just wondering . . . how’s Carl handling what happened to Mark? I mean, is he talking to you?”

Florida’s laugh was hollow. “Carl? Talk to me? Girl, we doin’ good if he’s not yellin’ at me or the kids. We was doin’ OK in that department past couple of weeks; the job with Peter Douglass been real good for him. But since Mark got beat up, he’s yellin’ again. He’s real angry, but he don’t know what to do ’bout it, so he just walkin’ around mad. But talk? Nah. Why you askin’?”

I shrugged, forgetting Florida couldn’t see me. “Uh, just kinda worried about Denny. I know he’s upset about Mark, but he’s holding it all in, almost like he’s scared of what he’s feeling. We’re like ships passing in the night around here—not really talking.” Except for body talking last night. For that I was grateful.

“Mm-mm. Don’t push it, girl. Be glad he’s not goin’ off half-cocked, acting out ’fore he think about it. That’d be Carl, ’cept his job keepin’ him civilized. Your Denny, now, takes him a while to sort things out—like what happened with him and MaDear. But he came through. I wouldn’t worry about Denny. Uh-uh. Now my boy, Chris—he’s a different story. Lord! Have mercy.”

“What’s wrong? He seemed to loosen up, be having a good time when he came with us and the other kids to Great America on Memorial Day. Even seemed interested in coming back to youth group again. Josh wanted him to do the Cornerstone thing this summer.”

“Jesus, Jesus.” Florida’s voice dropped. “I hoped so. But when he heard about that White Pride rally and then what happened to Mark? Jesus! That boy swore up and down nothin’ was ever goin’ to be different with white and black folk, an’ he was done with it.”

NOTHING WAS EVER GOING TO BE DIFFERENT . . .

I sat out on the back steps between laundry loads, thinking about Florida’s phone call. Chris and Josh. Two very different teenagers—but coming to the same conclusion about race. Oh God, that can’t be the way it ends for our kids! Discouraged that nothing they do will make a difference in the end. Defeated before they even begin. Oh God, please, please.

A cardinal twittered from atop our side fence. I sucked in my breath. The male’s scarlet feathers riveted my eyes, pushing my despondency to the background. Such beauty in the midst of all the ordinary wrens and sparrows that normally populated our alley! I really should put up a bird feeder to attract more birds. That’d be fun; see how many different birds actually lived in the city. The cardinal was Illinois’ state bird after all. There had to be a ton of them around somewhere. Why not here?

Suddenly my thoughts collided. The cardinal on the fence seemed like God’s answer to my desperate prayer. Hope is there if you know where to look, Jodi. It’s that spot of beauty when everything seems dull, hopeless, colorless. It may come when you least expect it; sometimes it’s already there in your own backyard. And if you want hope to stay around, you have to feed it. Invite it. Protect it from the alley cats of discouragement. Fight for it. Don’t let it be taken over by the obnoxious starlings and bully crows . . .

OK, maybe I was stretching the analogy a little. Or was I? Florida and I were as different as any two people could be—and not just chocolate and vanilla. Yet God had made us friends. Maybe God was the only thing we had in common—but when it came right down to it, that was enough. Our faith. Believing that God was bigger than our differences. Believing that God created our differences, something to enrich us and teach us, not drive us apart.

And not just Florida and me. Yada Yada itself was a cardinal of hope. And that hope had spilled over to our men, to our kids. Look at Peter Douglass and Denny, Ben Garfield and Carl Hickman. Mark had invited all of them to support his efforts at the rally. And all four of them—five, if you counted Josh—had banded together to keep vigil beside Mark’s bedside at nights and give Nony a rest. Even Delores’s husband, Ricardo—the inexplicable, unemployed truck driver with the mesmerizing guitar—had brought his mariachi band to Amanda’s quinceañera, had showed up at Denny’s Guys’ Day Out, and had even played a Mexican love song at Avis and Peter’s wedding. Our guys were as different from each other as that box of miscellaneous nails Denny kept on his cluttered work-bench in the basement. Squat roofing nails; long, fine-finish nails; screws of all sizes—each with its own purpose. And you couldn’t do with just one kind. You needed them all.

Suddenly anger rose up from my gut. That White Pride group had come along and nearly destroyed our hope. They’d fanned smoldering embers of fear with their bully talk. If they wanted to plant seeds of hate, bigotry, suspicion, fear, and helplessness—well, they’d nearly succeeded. Look at Ben and Ruth, who thought they’d buried painful family memories from the Holocaust. Look at Josh, giving up his youthful expectation that he could make a difference. Look at Chris Hickman, who only needed an excuse to be an angry street kid. And look at Nony’s family, broken and hurting, all because—

I hit the porch railing with my fist. “Well, God, they’re not going to succeed! We’re going to fight back! Even if it means just taking a stand and not giving up any ground we’ve won already!”

I was so busy telling God I was ready to get tough that I didn’t hear anybody coming down the steps from Stu’s apartment until I heard an awkward cough. I jumped up. Stu stood on the landing twelve steps above my head, wearing a broomstick skirt, clogs, and an oversize top, all in different shades of tan and brown. Her long hair was pulled back haphazardly in a knot at the nape of her neck.

“Oh,” she said. “I heard voices, thought you were talking to somebody.” I almost said, “I was talking to Somebody,” but she obviously had something on her mind. “I was just going to ask—say, if you’ve got a minute, could you come upstairs? Becky and I need to talk and, well, we both agreed it’d be good if a third person could be there. She . . . suggested you.” Stu hesitated on Becky’s suggestion just long enough to sound surprised.

SOMEHOW, I MANAGED TO SPEND AN HOUR that afternoon with Stu and Becky, acting as facilitator while they each drew up lists of “What I Want/Need,” and “How I Can Help Make This Work,” and still got in a blitzkrieg shopping run to the fruit market and grocery store. Even had the bright idea to double the ingredients for taco salad so I’d have enough for supper and Second Sunday Potluck the next day.

I felt energized for the first time since . . . well, since Yada Yada’s anniversary weekend a month ago when Avis got married and Yo-Yo and Becky got baptized. As for getting the laundry folded . . . well, something had to give.

Didn’t quite know how to explain to Denny about the “cardinal of hope” God had sent to our backyard, and he raised his eyebrows when I said I wanted to go to Home Depot and get a bird feeder and some birdseed. “Right now. Like tonight.” I wanted to hang the “bird feeding station” I bought somewhere near the kitchen door, but I had to compromise for a corner of the garage when Denny made a big fuss about “bird poop and sunflower seed hulls” all over the back porch.

At least he hung the thing before church the next morning.

I saved a couple of seats at my table during the potluck after service, wanting a chance to tell Avis and Florida about the “cardinal of hope” that had appeared in my backyard the previous afternoon. But as I craned my neck looking for them, comments at the table behind me distracted my attention.

“Really too bad we have to rush our Second Sunday Potluck, just so we can clear out in time for that other church to use our building. Did we agree on this as a congregation?”

“Felt like a rushed decision to me. We didn’t get a chance to talk about all the inconvenience it would create. Why didn’t they just rent a room from the Y or one of the high schools?”

“That’s right. Two churches in one building doesn’t make sense. And we own the building. Should we be the ones that have to hurry up and clear out? Why can’t they just start later?”

“Well, I heard that last week they ran over their time and were still having a prayer service when the youth group got here. The kids were real upset.”

“Hm. They don’t sound very considerate to me. What do we know about these people anyway?”

I was afraid to turn around, afraid I’d spew my mouthful of half-chewed shepherd’s pie all over the gripers behind me. I recognized a couple of the voices; wasn’t sure about the others. A half-dozen cutting remarks almost made it to the tip of my tongue, none of which would have won me any friends or built any bridges.

I was mad. Too mad to sit there and pretend to eat. Mad at the pettiness. Mad at how little it took to keep “those people” at arm’s length. Mad at how easy it was to weigh everything by what was convenient or best for “us.” Mad because New Morning was Mark and Nony’s church, and it felt like kicking my friends when they were down.

I took the coward’s way out, found Amanda, and told her to tell her dad I was going to walk home.