35

Decided to keep my mouth shut about Josh’s hair, sure that the moment I expressed anything remotely complimentary about this new growth, off it would come. Not that I saw much of him the next few days. It was finals week, and on Monday he stayed at the high school library till suppertime, then holed up in his room studying. As I let Willie Wonka out for one last pee at ten o’clock, Josh emerged from his room holding a couple of pieces of paper covered in scrawl. “Computer free? Gotta type something up.”

“Thought all your final papers were due last week! Is it late?”

“Chill, Mom. I wrote something for the student newspaper. The Warrior’s last issue. An opinion piece.”

“Oh.” My curiosity was piqued. “Can I read it?”

He snorted, waving the marked-up and crossed-out paper out of reach as he booted up the computer in the dining room. “Even I can’t read it in this state. Maybe later.”

Uh-huh. I knew when I’d been given the brush-off.

It might have been the last full week of school for Josh, but Amanda still had two weeks to go, and so did Denny and I. I managed to squeak in a half-hour of Bible reading with Becky Wallace on Tuesday, but a staff meeting after school got me home late on Thursday. What’s with Avis, anyway? I grumbled to myself, trying to look alert and interested in the most recent statistics of the “No Child Left Behind” legislation. Doesn’t she remember Yada Yada agreed to do the prayer walk tonight? But even Avis Johnson Douglass couldn’t change district school schedules around just for our ragtag prayer group.

Once home at four thirty, I racked my brain for something I could eat on the run, while leaving some decent pickings for Denny and the kids. I finally pulled out the leftover chicken from last night, tore the meat off the bones, chopped it, and tossed it together with a head of romaine lettuce, a can of mandarin orange slices, green onions, sliced almonds that had been hiding in the freezer since Christmas, and a can of dry Chinese noodles for a passable oriental chicken salad. I stepped back to admire my handiwork. Hey, girl. Someone might think you actually planned this thing!

Denny wasn’t back with the minivan, so I called Stu at five thirty and begged a ride with her up to Northwestern. Josh loomed over my shoulder as I hung up the phone. “Think Stu would mind if I rode along? Something I gotta do at Northwestern.”

“Do? Like what?”

He shrugged me off. “Someone I gotta see, OK?”

WE WERE SUPPOSED TO MEET the other Yada Yadas at the Rock at six. Stu parked her Celica on a side street, and Josh trotted off, promising to meet us back at the car in one hour.

“What’s he doing?” Stu jerked a thumb in the direction Josh had disappeared.

I rolled my eyes. “I’m just his mother. I’ll be the last to know.”

We were the first to arrive at the Rock. It felt strange standing in the same spot where the White Pride rally had taken place less than two weeks earlier. So serene and quiet now, the Rock painted yet another color, the bridalwreath bushes bursting with dainty flowers and shades of green. A few students sat on the low stone wall surrounding the Rock, noses in their books, drinking coffee or soft drinks from disposable cups. No one paid any attention to us, even when Florida, Avis, and Adele showed up, followed in short order by Edesa, Delores—and Ruth Garfield.

“Ruth!” we screeched. She seemed embarrassed by all the hugs.

“Down, girls. Save the excitement till the Cubs win the pennant.” She shrugged. “So I missed one little meeting.”

“Two!” Stu waved two fingers under Ruth’s nose. “Out of the last three. Did you see your doctor yet?”

“Oh that.” Ruth waved a hand dismissively.

Nony and Hoshi joined us just then. Yo-Yo, Ruth said, had to work at the Bagel Bakery that evening, and no one had heard from Chanda, so we decided to go ahead. We divided into two groups: Florida, Adele, Delores, and Stu agreed to walk over to the Sisulu-Smith neighborhood and walk around the surrounding blocks, praying. “Four is enough,” Nony agreed with a slight smile. “The neighbors might get nervous.” The rest of us would pray at different points on the campus, and we’d meet back at the Rock in an hour.

We held hands in a circle and prayed before the neighborhood group set off, generating a few odd looks from passersby. Which you wouldn’t even know about if you’d keep your eyes shut, Jodi Baxter, I scolded myself. I concentrated on Florida’s prayer.

“—standing on the same bricks where that rally took place a couple of weeks ago. Jesus! We ask Your blood of forgiveness to pour over all the hateful things said an’ done that day. We prayin’ for all the students, all the young people here that day, whatever stripe or color. Sift what was spoken, so that every evil thing will be blocked from their hearts an’ minds, an’ every good and God-fearin’ thing settle right into their spirits.”

I pictured that Friday afternoon in my mind, the restless crowd, the White Pride group—some in suits and ties, others just tough guys who needed to build themselves up by putting others down. And the girl in the sundress, clinging to some false identity offered by this group of white supremacists. Yet I remembered her eyes. Uncertain. Insecure.

I added a P.S. to Florida’s prayer. “Lord God, I especially want to pray for the young woman I saw that day with the White Pride group. I don’t know her name, but You do. Call her out, Jesus! Call her to Yourself. Find her, Lord! Show her a better way.”

We split up then. As the other group disappeared across Sheridan Road to the Smith’s neighborhood, Hoshi spoke up. “Why don’t we start praying right there? It is Dr. Smith’s office.” She pointed to a plain building looming along the south side of the plaza. Sure enough, the sign said Harris Hall, History Department.

To my surprise, Edesa spoke the first prayer as we gathered at the entrance. “Jesucristo, we thank You for Your great love, even as we stand here with hurting hearts. There is an empty office in this building, a professor who is not here for his students, a husband who is not here for his wife, a father who is not here for his children . . .”

It was too much for Nony; she began to weep. Edesa and Hoshi each put an arm around her waist and let her lean on them, but Edesa continued to pray. “But one thing we know, loving Savior! You will never leave us nor forsake us. And that includes our hermano, our brother, Mark Smith. You have not forsaken him or his family. No matter what the circumstances look like, we claim what is true.”

Ruth cleared her throat. “God, it’s me, Ruth. What a prayer walk is, I don’t know. But I figure, it can’t hurt. Evil raised its ugly head on this campus in recent weeks—the same pride and hatred that has caused havoc around the world for centuries. Gentiles hating Jews, whites against blacks. Ugly stuff. The stuff that causes wars and riots, leaving misery in its wake. But we’re asking You to turn it around, God. Right here, at the history department of this great university.”

Ruth jumped when her prayer was met with several “amens” and “That’s it, Jesus!”

Hoshi prayed simply, “Father in heaven, may Your kingdom come and Your will be done on this campus, even as it is in heaven. And, please, inspire others to continue the work Dr. Smith began on this campus, bringing students of all nationalities together to learn from one another, and even—as he did for me—to learn about You.”

The prayers were so powerful that we just strolled in silence for a while along the paths curving between weeping willows and beautifully landscaped lawns. It was tempting to just gawk at the enchanting mix of old and new architecture, but we stopped beside several of the university buildings to pray briefly, naming the department housed there and praying for the administrators, professors, and students.

Pausing under a willow tree near the imposing university library, Nony, her tears subsided, voiced a heartfelt prayer from the Psalms. “I love You, O Lord, my strength! You are my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer; You, my God, are my rock, in whom I take refuge. You are my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold! I call to You, O Lord, who is worthy of praise, and I am saved from my enemies. But I pray not only for myself, God, but for all the young men and women of this campus, those who know You and those who don’t, that You will be their defender from the Evil One.”

Avis, picking up on Nony’s prayer, prayed for the spiritual battle raging for the hearts and minds of students on this campus and on campuses all over the world. “Break down the strongholds of unbelief,” she prayed. “Raise up a Moses, a David, an Esther, a Paul on this campus who are willing to step forward as God’s messengers in this day and in this hour!”

As the minute hand of my watch nudged closer to seven, we found ourselves walking up the path to the Norris University Center, NU’s student center, overlooking a sleepy lagoon. “We can use the restrooms here,” Hoshi suggested. Then she smiled slyly. “Willie’s Too has fruit smoothies.”

Ruth perked up. “Prayer and smoothies—that’s a marriage made in heaven, if you ask me.”

We laughed as we headed down the stairs to the ground level of Norris, feeling energized and almost lighthearted by the prayer walk. But as we started to walk into the student café, I put out an arm to stop our charge. “Wait. Shh. Don’t go in.”

The other Yada sisters stopped, confused. “What is it, Jodi?” Avis asked.

My heart thumped like the bass drum in a Sousa march. I peeked into the large lower room with its wooden tables and padded booths, hanging TVs, the enticing smell of coffee and pizza, and wall of windows overlooking the lagoon, just to be sure my eyes had not been playing tricks on me.

They weren’t. Josh was standing beside one of the tables nearest the door, his back toward us, talking to an African-American student wearing a Northwestern T-shirt, shorts, and sandals. Big guy. Legs solid as tree trunks. Looked like a football player. Wearing dreadlocks. Next to him, Josh looked like a skinny middle-school student.

“So?” The big guy’s voice suddenly carried our way, a mixture of scorn and frustration. “You’re still white! Maybe you’re not part of that White Pride group, but you’re still walkin’ around with all that white privilege in your pocket you people take for granted. Deal with it, man!”

Impulsively, I took a step forward, my thoughts spinning. What on earth is my son doing here? Is that guy threatening him? Josh is going to get the stuffing beat out of him! At almost the same moment, Florida grabbed my arm and pulled me away, practically pushing me back up the stairs and out the nearest exit. “Not a word, Jodi Baxter,” she hissed in my ear. “That boy’s doing a man’s work in there. Facin’ his own moment of truth.”

STU AND I WERE ALREADY WAITING IN THE CAR when Josh ran up out of breath, ten minutes late. I managed to keep my mouth shut until Stu parked the Celica in the garage and disappeared up the back stairs to her apartment. Then I grabbed Josh’s arm before we went into the house.

“Josh! That was the ‘somebody’ you were going to meet? The same guy who pushed us down at the rally? What were you thinking?”

Josh flopped onto the porch swing, resting his arms along the back and sticking out his lanky legs. “What? You were spying on me?”

“No such thing!” I explained that we were heading for the student café when I saw him talking in the eatery. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the guy’s voice carried like he was using a megaphone.” I sank down on the back steps. “He didn’t sound too friendly.”

Josh shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting friendly. Just wanted to clear up his presumption that I was part of the White Pride Coalition. Dr. Smith said his name was Matt Jackson, so I located his dorm. Somebody—roommate, I think—told me he was hanging out at Norris. Kinda surprised me that I actually found him. But I wanted to give it a shot. I prayed that I’d find him. And I did.”

I gaped at my son in amazement. Would I have gone to talk to a big bully like that after he’d pushed me around? Not likely. And not when I was only eighteen, for sure.

“From what I heard, he didn’t sound very open to what you had to say. You’re white, that’s it, end of subject.”

Josh shrugged again. “Yeah. But he let me have my say; then he had his say. That’s a start. Besides, I got in the last punch.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What’d you say?”

“Wasn’t what I said. I told him he had a point, and I was trying to deal with it. Then”—Josh grinned—“I shook his hand.”