3

Becky looked confused. I was too. Who was Stu talking to—Becky or me? But Stu just headed up the back stairs that led to the second-floor apartment. “Hey,” she called over her shoulder. “You guys want to grill something tonight? I have a couple of chicken quarters we could throw on for Becky and me. Got some crusty bread we could grill too.” Stu disappeared into her back door without waiting for a reply.

I looked at Denny. He shrugged. “OK by me. We might have a bag of charcoal left over from last summer . . . somewhere.” He moseyed back out to the garage to begin the hunt.

Becky went back to spading the mulch. I picked up her mug and squinted at the sky. Clouds hung heavy overhead, even though the temperature was in the high fifties; we might be in for more rain. Guess we can always eat in. I let the screen door bang behind me as I went inside to hunt for chicken body parts in our freezer.

Denny found the charcoal, though it was damp and old, and he had to use half a container of lighter fluid to get it to burn. By the time the coals were hot enough, I’d managed to thaw enough chicken pieces in the microwave to feed the Baxter Four and grated some carrots for a carrot-and-raisin salad—my substitute for a tossed salad once I’d seen how limp and pathetic the lettuce looked that’d been hiding in our crisper. I didn’t really mind firing up the grill this early in the month; I’d even wanted to invite Stu and Becky down for supper one of these nights. We’d pretty much left the new housemates alone last week to get settled and sort things out after Becky’s release from prison. But Stu had done it again—preempted my good intentions and caught me off guard, unprepared for company for dinner.

I sighed. Probably just as well. Becky might feel more comfortable with something spontaneous anyway.

Sure enough, by the time Denny yelled that the chicken was done, it was starting to sprinkle, so I shanghaied Amanda to set our dining room table for six. I was filling glasses with water and ice when Stu came in bearing the platter of golden-brown chicken, followed by Becky with a basket of grilled bread. “Better switch the silverware, Amanda,” Stu chided. “The knife and fork shouldn’t be on the same side.”

I snorted. Good for you, Stu. Maybe Amanda will remember if somebody besides me nags her about how to set the table. Then it hit me. Oh great. Stu probably thinks I’m the one who taught her to do it wrong. I bit my tongue, waved everybody into seats at the table, and held out my hands to Becky on one side of me and Denny on the other. Becky’s eyes darted from person to person as we joined hands for our table grace, then she ducked her head and squinted her eyes shut as Denny “blessed the food” in twenty-five words or less. My husband didn’t believe in long prayers while the food was hot.

Becky didn’t say much as we all tackled the chicken, letting the rest of us do the talking. Stu asked about prom and graduation coming up for Josh, and what was he going to do next year, and was the Uptown youth group going to do a mission trip again this summer? That got Josh wound up about taking a year off before going to college and volunteering with Jesus People USA here in the city. I eyed Denny. That wasn’t a decision yet, was it? But every time Josh talked about not going to school next fall, the idea edged another inch toward reality.

“And the youth group is going to volunteer at the Cornerstone Festival this summer,” Amanda added with her mouth full. “Cheaper than going to Mexico or someplace. You wanna come, Stu? It’s so cool. All the hot CCM bands play at Cornerstone.”

“Contemporary Christian Music,” Denny explained, noticing Becky’s bewildered look. “And Cornerstone is the big music festival sponsored by Jesus People every summer here in Illinois.”

“Oh. Never heard of it. For kids like them?” Becky waved her fork at Josh and Amanda.

“No, it’s for everybody! Even you, Becky—oh.” Color crept up on Amanda’s face. “Sorry. Forgot about the . . . the ankle thing.”

Becky shrugged. “It’s OK. Don’ worry ’bout it.”

“The ankle thing” was the electronic monitor Becky Wallace had to wear, restricting her to “house arrest” for at least six months as a condition of her early parole. The fact that she was out at all only eight months after a felony conviction—ten years for robbery and assault—was mind-boggling. A case of God at work, mixing together the overcrowded conditions at the women’s prison, Yada Yada testifying on Becky’s behalf at a special hearing with the parole board, and Stu offering to let Becky stay with her since she needed an address to qualify for “house arrest.” A miracle, really.

Funny thing about miracles, though—they’re uncomfortable; they upset the natural order. One hardly knows what to do with them; they don’t come with instructions. Right now, the only thing I knew to do was hang on to God’s promises and hope He knew what He was doing.

“—supposed to meet this Sunday?” Stu was asking. “Jodi?”

“Uh, Yada Yada? We were supposed to meet at Avis’s before she up and got married.” I grinned. “Yo-Yo said we could meet at her apartment this time. Kinda neat, huh?” My grin turned to a grimace. “Oh, shoot. I was supposed to send an e-mail and let everybody know. Thanks for the reminder.”

Denny frowned. “Sunday is Mother’s Day, though.”

“So? You guys already gave Becky and me our Mother’s Day gift. The flats of flowers.”

My husband pulled a puppy-dog face. “But we still like to hang out with our favorite mom. Right, kids?”

“Right!” they chorused dutifully.

I snorted in jest. “Right. By five o’clock, Mother’s Day or not, you’ll all be off doing your own thing. Yada Yada might as well pray.” I started to clear the table.

“Uh, you guys hang out and do special stuff on Mother’s Day?” Becky’s question halted the table clearing.

Sheesh. Nothing like sticking my foot in my mouth. She said she’d never had a Mother’s Day gift before—maybe never celebrated Mother’s Day, even as a kid. “Well, sure,” I said. “I was just teasing them. Doesn’t have to be a big deal, but it’s kinda nice to do something as a family.”

Becky’s jaw muscles tightened. “Yeah. That’d be nice. That’s what I’d like to do for Mother’s Day, hang out with my kid.” She shrugged. “Someday, anyway.” She pushed back her chair and started piling plates and silverware.

Stu caught my eye over Becky’s head . . . and winked.

WITH “DON’T TELL” HANGING OVER MY HEAD, I’d almost forgotten what Denny had said about Mark Smith applying for a sabbatical until I got an e-mail from Nony in reply to the one I finally sent out about meeting at Yo-Yo’s apartment this Sunday.

To: Jodi Baxter

From: BlessedRU@online.net

Re: Ride on Sunday

Dear Sister Jodi,

I am blessed that Yo-Yo invited Yada Yada to meet at her apartment on Sunday! Mark said he can drop us off—we’ll bring Hoshi—but he needs the car to attend a faculty function at NU that evening. Could you bring us home? If so, we’ll be there!

(Wasn’t Sunday’s baptism a glimpse of glory? We need glimpses like that to help us bear the pain and sorrow all around the world.)

Love, Nony

P.S. Has anyone heard from Avis and Peter?

I was still thinking about Nony’s e-mail as I walked to school on Wednesday. Hm. No mention of Mark taking a sabbatical. He must not have said anything to her yet. But her mention of the “pain and sorrow all around the world” was characteristic of Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith, raised in South Africa, educated at the University of Chicago—where she’d met Mark—but longing to return to her homeland, now that apartheid had ended, to help her people.

“Especially children orphaned by AIDS,” I murmured as I tossed my tote bag on my classroom desk and changed out of my walking shoes and sweat socks. I admired Nony’s heart for suffering people—though it seemed we had plenty of suffering children right here in Chicago who could keep her busy. Right here in my classroom, I thought as the first bell rang, and I headed out to the playground to bring in my class. But still. If Mark could get a sabbatical and give Nony a chance to go where her heart resided, that would be wonderful.

If. What if he didn’t?

No wonder Mark hadn’t told her yet. Wouldn’t want to get her hopes up only to—

I felt a tug on my sleeve as the line of children jostled past me into the third-grade classroom. “Ms. B?”

I looked at the upturned face. Hakim’s deep brown eyes seemed to be searching my own. “Yes, Hakim?”

He hesitated, waiting until the last child had gone through the door. I let it close, leaving us alone in the hall. “This gonna be my last week. Mama found a teacher to help me, one of them special schools. S’posed to start next week. Goin’ to summer school, too, so I can be ready for fourth grade.”

My heart felt like it dropped down into my stomach. “Oh, Hakim.” Anything else I wanted to say came up a big blank. How could his mother do this, so close to the end of school! Couldn’t she wait till next fall, start him in a new school then? But didn’t you tell her you couldn’t help him, Jodi? That he needed professional help to deal with his post-traumatic stress, that you realized you needed to let him go?

I bent down and gave him a hug. “I will miss you very much, Hakim. So much.”

He seemed embarrassed. “Um, sorry I scratched my desk.” He pulled away and looked up at me quizzically. “Why didn’t you ever get it fixed?”

I smiled. The three-inch jagged lightning bolt, scratched with a paper clip, still decorated Hakim’s desk. “Because it reminds me of you.” I playfully boxed his shoulder. “Only kidding. They’re supposed to fix it. Guess the janitor can’t do everything at once.”

Except I wasn’t kidding. I kind of hoped that desk never got fixed, not if Hakim was going to leave. It would remind me of the boy who wore a scar on his heart—a scar I helped create when his big brother ran in front of my car—and loved me anyway.