Yo-Yo frowned and stuck her hands into the bib of her denim overalls. “What was that about?” I had a pretty good idea what it was about—but was he serious? Or just joking?
“Men, schmen.” Ruth waved her hand as though brushing Mark’s words out of the air. “Who knows? Half the time what they say makes no sense. Jodi, did you bring candles?”
Ruth’s question shook me out of my stupor. “Yes . . . oh, rats. They’re in my purse in the other room!” I pulled open one drawer after another along the kitchen counter till I found what I was looking for: a kitchen junk drawer. Aha. There they were—birthday candles. The skinny, sparkly kind. I quickly stuck about eight of them in various places on the cake, and Yo-Yo was right behind me lighting them with her cigarette lighter.
I suppressed a giggle. Smokers had at least one redeeming quality: a ready light.
“Come on, come on,” Ruth hissed, standing ready to open the door to the family room. “The praise time is pooping out.”
This time I did giggle as the three of us pushed through the door with the tall, skinny candles spitting sparks in every direction. “Happy birthday to youuuuu . . .” we began singing, a bit off-key, and stopped in front of Nony, whose large, dark eyes widened as the rest of the Yada Yada sisters chimed in. “Happy birthday, dear Nonyyy . . . May Go-od bless youuu.”
“Oh, my sisters,” she sputtered. “It’s not even my birthday yet—oh!” Her eyes read the cake. “Truth? Justice? What’s this?”
I felt a flush creep up my face, remembering Mark’s reaction. But I plunged ahead. “It’s what Nonyameko means: ‘truth and justice.’ ”
Murmurs of “Oh” and “That figures” and “Amazing” mixed with smiles, hugs, and general laughter as Nony digested this information.
“Blow! Blow!” bossed Ruth, setting a stack of little paper plates, napkins, and plastic forks alongside the cake on the glass coffee tabletop, which rested on a graceful sculpture base. “Just don’t spit on the cake—I want to eat some of that truth and justice.”
Nony blew, which got her nowhere, and she finally had to pinch out the sparklers. “Will I still get my wish?” She smiled, looking amazingly girlish in her simple rose-colored tunic top over black velour pants.
“Me bet she does!” Chanda crowed. “A winnuh-woman.” Her grin widened in her plain brown face. “Lak me, when me lucky numbers win de Lotto dis year.”
I thought I heard Avis heave a big sigh.
Ruth deftly cut the cake. Yo-Yo passed paper plates around as Avis said, “Why don’t we go ahead with some personal sharings or prayer requests while we eat? We have some catching up to do and don’t want to go too late because—”
“—tomorrow’s a workday,” sang out three or four voices. Avis was pretty predictable.
The next half-hour skimmed past like an express commuter train.Nony jumped up and passed out the gifts she’d brought back for each of us—long hand-dyed silk scarves in amazing bright colors, no two alike. For a few minutes, we all tried tying them around our hair, draping them around our necks, or using them like a sash. Yo-Yo sat looking at her yellow and green scarf a long time, then finally tied it around one strap of her overalls and let it hang down. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Not exactly a fashion statement—but Yo-Yo was actually an attractive young woman underneath the spiky hair and shapeless overalls she always wore. It was almost as if she hid herself inside her dreary wardrobe.Was she afraid to be pretty and feminine?
Florida said it was Carla’s ninth birthday next week-end—the first birthday they’d celebrate with her since she was two years old . . . and Florida couldn’t remember if they’d even celebrated it back then. “Lot of stuff I don’t remember from those days.” Her mouth twitched, overtaken with a momentary sadness. Then she flashed a grin. “But this year I’m goin’ to give her the best party I know how to give. Because—oh, thank ya, Jesus!— God has been so good to bring her back home.”
Stu, who had helped find Carla in the foster-care system, leaned over and gave Florida a quick hug.
“Chanda, can you bring Cheree and Dia? Carla likes your girls. Thomas too. My boys will be there . . .”
After Florida got promises from several of us that we’d come to Carla’s party, Avis moved us on. Delores said things were pretty much the same at the Enriquez household, meaning her husband Ricardo was still looking for a job—“Yeah, throw Carl in that pot too,” Florida muttered. Edesa and Hoshi were both back in the thick of university classes.
When it was Ruth’s turn, she said, “Ben got a big kick out of seeing all those youngsters do the Polar Bear Plunge on New Year’s Day—though he’d never admit it, big grouch that he is.” She laughed.
“Youngsters!” Stu protested. “What about me, and Jodi’s husband, and Yo-Yo?”
“Oh, you.” Ruth tapped the side of her head and shook it slowly back and forth as if breaking bad news. Even Stu laughed.
“Hey. That reminds me,” said Yo-Yo. “What was you sayin’ that day, Florida, about being washed in the blood of Jesus? I’ve been wonderin’ about that.”
Florida nodded, suddenly serious. “See, it’s like this. I saw all those young people going in the water, going down, coming up, yelling all excited—and it’s like I had a vision that it was like a baptism, and one day all those teenagers, or some of them, or most, were goin’ to be wading into that water—oh, help me, Jesus—to be washed in the blood.”
“Mm! I stand in agreement with that,” Avis said, and for a few moments, she and several others broke out in some spontaneous hallelujahs.
Yo-Yo was still frowning. “But . . . what’s blood got to do with it?”
The group was suddenly still. When we first met Yo-Yo—brought by Ruth Garfield to the Chicago Women’s Conference—she had declared she wasn’t into “this Jesus thing,” though she was “cool with it” for the rest of us. Then a few months ago, she’d started asking a lot of questions about what it would mean to be a “Jesus fol-lower.” As far as I knew, the Yada Yada Prayer Group was as close as Yo-Yo got to going to church, because she worked at the Bagel Bakery, which closed on Saturday for the Jewish Sabbath but was open all day Sunday.
“That’s an excellent question, Yo-Yo,” said Avis. “Next time we meet—do we know where we’re going to be? Jodi, your house, isn’t it?—let’s talk about that very thing. In the meantime, Yo-Yo, I want to give you some Scripture passages to read.”
Yo-Yo squirmed. “Uh, I don’t really know how to find stuff in the Bible.”
“So? I’ll help you,” said Ruth, and that was that.
“Anyone else before we begin our prayer time?” Avis asked.
Stu tossed her hair back and leaned forward. “Uh-huh. Two things. Have we heard yet from Becky Wallace? I don’t know if the box I ordered from Estée Lauder got to her at the prison.” She looked around. I shrugged and shook my head; other heads wagged no. “Well, anyway, I still need four dollars each from some of you—but if it’s a problem, just let me know. Not a big deal.” She sat back against the couch.
Florida poked her. “You said two things.”
This time Stu grinned. “I’ve got a praise report.” Her smile widened, as though she’d been sitting on good news that couldn’t wait any longer. “I got the job! With the DCFS office in Rogers Park! I—” An outburst of general whooping and handclapping cut her off. I was impressed; after all that talk, she’d finally done it.When the noise and high-fives died down, she said, “I start the first of February. I need to take some classes to renew my social work license, but . . . it’s exactly the job I wanted!” Then she made a face. “Big cut in pay, though, from selling real estate.”
“You go, girl!” said Florida. “If you ask me, DCFS needs a burr under their saddle like Leslie Stuart.”
That got a laugh. Yes, I thought wryly, Stu could definitely be a burr under someone’s saddle.
“But I really don’t want to commute from Oak Park every day, so I’d like to relocate by the end of the month—in Rogers Park would be ideal. That’s only three weeks, so, please, if you know of any apartments for rent, let me know, okay?”
Adele spoke for the first time. “I don’t know, Stu—people don’t usually move this time of year. It’d have to be a sublet or something. Hard to find.”
Sublet . . . Suddenly I squirmed inside. My upstairs neighbors were moving and needed to sublet. But— maybe they’d already found a renter. Probably had. I better not say anything till I know for sure.Wouldn’t want to get Stu’s hopes up, raise false expectations—
Oh, right, Jodi Baxter. Get real. You don’t want Leslie Stuart to move into your house because she’d drive you nuts. Admit it.
I swallowed and looked around the room, wondering if anyone else had heard the words in my head. Yet the sharing had already moved to Nony, who was saying, “—to pray for the families of murder victims, who are having a difficult time with Governor Ryan’s decision to commute the sentences of those on death row.”
“Why?” said Yo-Yo. “Killing the perp won’t bring the murdered person back.What do they want?”
For half a second—like the instant before you know your car is going to crash or a fuse is going to blow—there was a deathly silence. And then the room erupted. Everyone, it seemed, had an opinion—a strong opinion—about what the Illinois governor had done in his last few days in office.
“Why they making criminals’ rights more important these days than victims’ rights?” . . . “So? That’s what democracy’s all about—everyone’s rights.” . . . “Now you know you more likely to die in the ’lectric chair or how-ever they kill ya these days if you black than if you white.” . . . “Look at those guys who spent ten years on death row and they were innocent!” . . . “Well, they got out, didn’t they? The system works!” . . . “Huh. Not always.”
This was going nowhere. I half-expected Avis to interrupt and tell us the best thing we could do is pray about it. Though oddly enough, Avis was staring at the wall as if she wasn’t even listening.
During a brief pause, Delores said quietly, “To me the issue is not only taking a life, but what solving problems by killing does to us.”
Her observation seemed to plug the gushing comments. Something clicked for me. “Oh, Delores! I’ve thought the same thing about abortion—wondering what it does to our collective spirit as women, that so many women are aborting their babies.”
“Oh, good grief!” Stu’s angry outburst shot me down like a heat-seeking missile. “Easy for you to say. Most women who have an abortion aren’t thinking about ‘our collective spirit’—they’re . . . they’re frantic, don’t know what to do.”
I pressed my lips into a thin line. It was the only time I’d opened my mouth during the entire discussion—if you could call it that—and Delores’s comment had made me think.
“Sisters! Sisters!” Nony spoke up. “Please. I did not mean to begin an argument. I only wanted to ask us to pray for the families of murder victims—I did not mean that we should not also pray for the men and women on death row.”
Quiet Hoshi spoke up. “Do you know a family for whom this is true, Nony?”
Nony hesitated, then shook her head. “Not here in the States. But these are troubled times all over the world, and God has laid it on my heart to include the newspaper headlines in my prayers.” She looked at Avis. “Should we begin our prayer time, Avis?”
Avis slowly pulled her gaze away from the wall. “Of course. Go ahead and lead us out, Nony.”
And so Nony began to pray. “Oh, Lord God! You have told us in Your Word that even when we are troubled on every side, we do not have to be distressed. We may be perplexed, but we do not have to despair. Yet it is not for ourselves only that we pray. You have comforted us in our afflictions, so that we might be able to comfort others in their troubles . . . ”
The prayer itself was comforting, promises from Scripture to help us focus beyond our own opinions. “Thank ya, Jesus!” came from Florida’s corner, and “Ven, Dios Santo!” from Delores. I peeked through my eyelids. Most everyone had their eyes closed, a few hands were lifted, and several murmured in agreement as Nony prayed. Stu, however, was busily digging in her purse for a tissue, the muscles in her face tight. And Avis just sat quietly with her head bowed, her forehead resting on her hands, her eyes hidden from view.
This wasn’t like Avis. Not like Avis at all.