4

So once again I found myself standing on the beach on New Year’s Day along with Stu, filling cups of hot chocolate for the shivering teenagers who had just come up out of the water after their mad dash into—and out of—Lake Michigan. The lake, which hugged the long eastern shore of Chicago like a wet, soggy blanket, rolled in unhindered. No ice this year; it’d been too warm. Not that I felt warm, standing on a beach in forty-degree weather, hunched inside my winter jacket, wishing I’d worn a sweatshirt underneath to cut the wind.

Clad in dry sweats over wet bathing suits, the teenagers piled into an assortment of minivans and cars and Uptown’s old fifteen-passenger van, driven by—bless him—a beaming Pastor Clark. I waved good-bye as the cars headed back to our shopping center church, glad that Pastor Cobb, Pastor Clark, and Rick Reilly—Uptown’s youth group leader before the merge—were going to take it from there.

“And that’s that,” Stu said, loading the two big Igloo coolers we’d lugged down to the beach. “Quite a few kids I’d never seen before. Our kids must have invited them . . .” She looked at me sideways. “Or was that the whole idea all along?”

“Maybe.” I climbed into the passenger seat of her silver Celica, blowing on my hands, and waited for her to get in. “All I know is Pastor Cobbs jumped on the idea and saw it as a youth outreach . . . Turn on the heat, will ya?”

“Who’s doing the food back at the church?” Stu steered the car up Sheridan Road until we came to Lunt Avenue, our street.

I shrugged inside my jacket. “Dunno. Rose Cobbs got on it”—I still wasn’t used to calling her First Lady Cobbs, the term of respect New Morning members gave to their pastor’s wife—“and asked somebody to do it. Say, did you get any feedback from your folks about their visit to our nameless church? Sheesh. Hope we do something about that soon. Can’t keep calling it ‘Uptown–New Morning’ forever.”

“Ha.” Stu pulled into the alley behind our two-flat, hit the garage door opener, and drove in. “I think my folks were a little shell-shocked. You’ve gotta admit, we’re not exactly a liturgical church.”

We headed for the house through our tiny backyard, and parted as Stu turned up the back steps to her apartment. “Hey,” she called back, “has anyone heard from Chanda? Are she and the kids back from Jamaica yet?”

I blinked. “Ack! Chanda! . . . No, I haven’t heard if she’s back, but school starts on Monday, so she’s gotta get home this weekend. But it was her birthday yesterday—New Year’s Eve, remember? She was complaining it never got celebrated because of all the holidays. We gotta do something for her at Yada Yada this weekend.”

“Piece of cake—pun intended.” Stu laughed. “I’ll make a cake. I think we should give Becky’s lopsided creations a rest, don’t you think? And you do your meaning-of-the-name thing, Jodi. Think you can dig up a meaning for Chanda?”

I made a face and unlocked our back door. Willie Wonka was whining on the other side. “Huh. It’s not exactly ‘Sue’ or ‘Mary,’ but I’ll give it a go. Oughta be interesting . . . okay, okay, Wonka. Come on out. Go pee. But hurry it up, will ya?”

As if the poor deaf dog could hear a thing I said.

“AH, THE MIRACLE OF THE INTERNET,” I murmured, staring at the computer screen. I’d been trying for an hour to find the meaning of Chanda’s name—putting off the job of taking down the Christmas tree, the major chore on my to-do list the Saturday after New Year’s Day—but kept running into dead ends. It wasn’t listed in any of the usual “Baby Name” sites; searching Jamaican names turned up nothing; ditto African-American. Finally, I’d just Googled “Chanda . . . name . . . meaning” . . . and there it was.

“CHANDA. Hindi, meaning ‘dignified.’ ”

From the Hindi language? Huh. Wonder where her Jamaican parents got that from? I couldn’t help smiling. Dear, funny, fussy Chanda was a lot of things, but “dignified” didn’t come to mind. On the other hand, it was amazing the significance God seemed to squeeze from the meaning of our names—

“Mom?” Josh’s voice behind me interrupted my thoughts. “You got a minute?”

“Sure.” I suppressed a smile. My nineteen-year-old actually wanted to talk to me? I had sixty minutes!

Josh, dressed in a rumpled T-shirt and sweatpants that had seen better days, sprawled into a dining room chair. He ran a hand over his tousled hair. “Well, we didn’t get that many volunteers last Sunday at church . . . three, I think. A girl—well, young woman—named Karen somebody, and Mr. and Mrs. Meeks.”

“Debra and Sherman Meeks? I mean, aren’t they too old? Sherman’s got asthma; he has to use an inhaler.”

“Mom.” Josh dialed up his patient voice. “Young, old—age doesn’t matter. Anybody can volunteer if they’ve got the right heart. Which is why I wanted to talk to you. Edesa’s going to ask again at your Yada Yada meeting tomorrow night, but I thought, if you volunteered, maybe some of the other Yadas would too. You gotta pass a background check, but no sweat.” He must have seen my eyes widen, because he threw up his hands. “Only one weekend a month, I promise! You can bring your own sheets and pillow if you like.”

If I liked? It hadn’t even occurred to me to volunteer. I was blithely assuming others would, single people probably, without family responsibilities, without—

Think of the possibilities, Jodi.

The phone was ringing. “Uh . . . let me think about it, Josh. Okay?”

“Sure!” Josh unwound his body and hopped off the chair like a human Slinky. “Thanks, Mom.” He grabbed the kitchen phone. “Baxters . . . Yeah, she’s here.” He handed me the receiver and headed for the refrigerator.

“Hello, this is—”

“Sista Jodee, is dat you? We back from Jamaica! Mi mama so happy to see de t’ree kids—first time to see de girls! An’ dey got to play wit all dey cousins, an’ swim in de ocean, an’ milk a goat. Yah, a goat for true . . .”

Chanda giggled, giving me an opening. “So glad you had a good trip, Chanda. We’re all jealous, you know! But we missed you. Hey . . . are you coming to Yada Yada tomorrow? It’s Yo-Yo’s turn to host.” If we were going to do this birthday thing, it’d be handy to know if she’d be there.

“Oh, yah mon. Such a good time we had. Got mi a nice tan too.” She giggled again. “Irie, mon! Yah, mi be dere.” And the phone went dead.

I blinked, still holding the receiver. Why in the world did Chanda want a tan? She was already brown! And was it my imagination, or had her Jamaican patois thickened up like chicken gravy?

IT SNOWED SIX INCHES THAT NIGHT, burying the Christmas tree we’d dragged out to the curb the day before. Our first real snow of the winter. But salt trucks and snowplows had cleared most of the major streets by the time Stu and I headed for Yo-Yo’s apartment Sunday evening in her Celica. Stu cautiously navigated the slick side streets, while I balanced the cake carrier. We’d be lucky to get her three-layer red velvet cake there still layered.

“Sorry.” Stu grimaced. “If I’d known it was going to snow, I’d have made brownies or something.”

But somehow the two of us and the cake made it in one piece, and so did most everyone else. Everyone except Ruth.

“Aw,” Chanda pouted, shrugging off her winter coat and boots and twirling to show off a bright turquoise-print Jamaican dress, which she filled out. “Mi wanted to see dem babies. What are dey—six weeks? Dey must be so big now!”

“Shoulda met at your house, then,” Yo-Yo muttered. “Mine’s probably not clean enough.”

She was kidding, right? I tried to read her face with no luck. But Adele Skuggs, who styled funky cuts on everybody else at Adele’s Hair and Nails, shook her short, no frills, black-and-silver afro. “Don’t think we’ll see Ruth for a while—an’ clean ain’t got nothin’ to do with it, Yo-Yo Spencer. MaDear always said, ‘Got one, you on the run; got two, you make do; got three, there you be.’ An’ if you ask me, two at the same time probably feels like three.”

“She should just leave ’em with Ben,” Stu said. “He’s the daddy. He can take a turn.”

Adele snorted. “Yeah, right.”

We all laughed. Yeah, it was a bit of a stretch imagining white-haired Ben Garfield juggling both babies by himself all evening.

By that time, we’d all found something resembling a place to sit—on Yo-Yo’s salvaged-from-the-alley couch, a few mismatched table chairs, and the floor. But our first meeting of the New Year felt more like a party than a prayer meeting. Even Avis and Nony and Florida, all struggling with huge family challenges, just seemed glad to be there, their burdens a bit lighter in the company of sisters who knew and still cared. And, well, it was a party. We surprised Chanda with the red velvet cake, Adele had picked up a mixed bouquet of cut flowers, and I presented Chanda with the birthday card we’d all been secretly signing as people dribbled in.

Chanda beamed—until we cut the cake. “Dat cake! Why she so red?” Her eyes rounded, as if suspecting someone had bled into it. But Stu cut a huge bite from the slice on Chanda’s paper plate and teased her into opening her mouth. And then . . . “Mmm.” Chanda’s eyes rolled back in blissful delight at the velvety chocolate taste.

Four enormous bites later, she handed her plate to Stu for a second slice and opened the card. I’d used a sheet of pale gold vellum and a pretty script font, trying to find something that expressed “dignified.” But as she read silently, tiny frown lines pinched between her brows. She looked up. “Dis no joke? Me name mean ‘dignified’?”

I nodded. “I looked for a name spelled C-H-A-N-D-A. It’s Hindi.”

“Hindi! What’s dat?”

“India’s official language—or one of them.”

The frown deepened. “Oh.” A pause. “Guess dat explains it.”

Now I was surprised. I’d expected her to protest that she wasn’t from India, that there had to be a mistake. But now we all looked at her, curious. “Explains what?” I blurted.

Chanda shrugged. “De mon from India, dey like Jamaica. One mon come, soon all de brothers and cousins come too. Yah, mon. All de family. Own all de jewelry stores, all de shops for tourists in town. Some peoples tink dey take all de jobs. But me mama, she ’ave a good friend . . .” Another shrug. “We kids called her Missus Siddhu. But mi tink Mama maybe name mi after she friend.”

“Read the inside,” I urged. I’d found a perfect quotation about dignity in Bartlett’s Quotations and was feeling smug.

No race can prosper till it learns

That there is as much dignity

In tilling a field

As in writing a poem.

—Booker T. Washington

I thought Chanda would be pleased, but her lip quivered. “You just making fun of mi. Mi know what you tink—Chanda some kind of fool, get rich quick, just a cleaning woman dressed in fancy clothes.”

I started to protest, but Avis got up quickly, moved behind Chanda, resting both hands on her round shoulders, and began to pray. “Lord, Your Word says that You created us in Your image. That means Chanda has the stamp of God on her life, giving her a dignity that no one can take away from her. Help her to see herself as You see her, Lord—beautiful, dignified, worthy, noble, Your highest creation!”

Nony carried the prayer. “Yes, yes! And this is a special birthday, Father, because the breast cancer was found early and You have given our dear sister another year of life!—to praise You, serve You, and be a blessing to all of us, her sisters and her friends. Help her to hold her head up high, with dignity, for she is Your daughter, Your child, Your precious creation.”

This was followed by a chorus of “Amen!” “Hallelujah!” and “Thank ya, Jesus!”

Chanda said nothing. But her eyes glistened as she fished in her bag for a tissue and blew her nose.

Resuming her seat, Avis said, “As long as we’re praying, do we have other prayer requests? What about your boy, Florida? Has he had a hearing yet?”

Florida’s forehead puckered. “Some good news. Peter Douglass—Carl works for Avis’s husband, ya know—found a good defense lawyer who’s gonna represent Chris pro bono. Says he believes Chris’s story, that he just caught a ride with those gangbangers, didn’t know nothin’ about the robbery that was gonna go down. Smucker’s the name.” She rolled her eyes. “At least I ain’t gonna forget his name.”

The rest of us snickered. We weren’t going to forget it either.

“But what’s next?” Yo-Yo asked. “Chris had a prelim yet?”

Florida shook her head. “That’s comin’ up. But what worries me is, the perp that robbed that 7-Eleven was eighteen, is bein’ charged as an adult. The state’s attorney is hot to charge all those boys as adults, rather than juveniles.” Tears collected, threatening to spill. “Chris only fourteen! If they find him guilty under that accountability law an’ he goes to prison . . . oh, Jesus!” She buried her face in her hands.

“Uh . . .” Becky Wallace, our other ex-con, cleared her throat. “I’m not so good at prayin’ out loud, but I’d like to pray for Chris.” And she did, stumbling here and there, but asking God plain and simple to keep Florida’s boy in the juvie system.

I thought we were going to close our prayer time, but Edesa waved her hand. “Sisters, Manna House needs our prayers. Not only prayers, it needs warm bodies—several more volunteers willing to give a day or two every month.” She lowered her dark lashes a moment and leaned forward, clasping her hands. “I—I don’t want to put pressure on anyone, but I’d like to ask if any of you would be willing to volunteer.”

Ack. There it was again. I could hear Josh’s voice in my ear. “Mom, if you volunteered, maybe some of the other Yadas would too.” I looked around the room. I don’t need to go first—maybe several others will volunteer and that will be enough. My eyes alighted on Avis. Like Avis. Good grief, why not? She’s got a daughter at the shelter, for heaven’s sake!

As if my thoughts had appeared on my forehead in an LED readout, Avis spoke up. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, since my own daughter and grandson are at Manna House. But to tell you the truth, I think that’s why I shouldn’t volunteer. It puts both Rochelle and me in an awkward position—and things are awkward enough. Maybe there is some other way I can help.”

Becky Wallace waved her hand. “I’d like to volunteer. Could do it Saturday—Bagel Bakery’s closed for Shabbat. But not Sunday. That’s the day I get Little Andy.”

“I dunno, Becky,” Yo-Yo said. “You’re still on parole. Might not go over so good with your PO. Better check it out.”

The room was quiet. I knew Delores worked weekend shifts at the county hospital . . . Chanda had little kids at home . . . Nony’s husband still needed nursing care . . . Saturday was the busiest day at Adele’s Hair and Nails . . . even Stu had DCFS visits to make on the weekends . . .

That pretty much left me.

Think of the possibilities, Jodi.

The Voice within my spirit was surprisingly gentle. Beckoning. As if this wasn’t something I ought to do, but a privilege, an adventure. The next step in the God-journey I was on—though I had to admit it felt more like a roller coaster than a mere step.

But I raised my hand. “Um, Edesa? I’d like to volunteer . . . I think.”