8

My watch said 3:10 by the time Josh pulled our minivan into the garage after the marathon worship, potluck, and business meeting. I groaned, shedding my coat as I dragged myself from the back door to the coat tree in the front hall. “I am so glad we changed Yada Yada off second Sundays. I just wanna chill tonight and go to bed early.”

“Oh.” Denny, following me to the front of the house, sounded disappointed. “I thought maybe we could go out or something, take advantage of a free Sunday night.”

I locked eyes with him. “Why not Friday? Why not Saturday? Why wait till Sunday? We’ve both got to go to work tomorrow morning.”

He tossed his London Fog with the flannel zip-in liner over the top of the coat tree, making it look like a football pileup. “Okay. Except we didn’t go out Friday or Saturday this weekend, and now it’s Sunday. Besides, you know Fridays are bad. A night game or something usually keeps me at school late.”

“You’re not coaching now, remember? You don’t have to be at every game.” I headed back to the kitchen. I needed a cup of hot tea.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what’s that about?” Denny was right behind me. “I said I’d like to go out with my wife tonight, and now we’re talking about my job? C’mon, Jodi.”

Josh was standing at the refrigerator, pulling out bread, mayo, cheese, and lunchmeat, in spite of the fact we’d had a megapotluck only two hours ago. Irritated that I was sandwiched between my son and my husband, when what I really wanted was a cup of tea and a good book, I flipped on the gas under the teakettle. “Fine.”

Denny stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Yeah. I know what ‘fine’ means. It means I haven’t heard the last of this yet.”

Josh stared at us, hands full of sandwich makings. “You two need a time-out?”

“Mind your own business, buster.” I turned off the stove, marched out of the kitchen, and headed for the bedroom.

“So much for yachad!” Denny yelled after me.

I slammed the bedroom door behind me. Hot tears stung my eyes. What did he mean by that? That he wasn’t going to vote for the name I suggested for the church, just because I didn’t want to go out tonight? How mean was that!

Shedding my nylons, skirt, and sweater, I crawled under our wedding quilt in my slip and punched the pillow into submission. How did Denny and I end up fighting five minutes after coming home from church? Yeah, I’d been kind of nervous to nominate a name for the church . . . but nobody got upset at me. The pastors suggested we have a preliminary paper vote between all the names in two weeks, then a discussion and final vote of the top two at our next business meeting. That was cool. So why did I get all hot and bothered the minute we got home from church?

I had no idea. Still, it had already been a long day. Maybe I just needed a nap.

But as I lay in the bed, willing my churned up emotions to calm down, I heard Denny’s comment again in my head: “So much for yachad!” . . . and I boiled up all over again, mad tears wetting the pillow. Maybe I had been short with Denny, but that was downright mean.

Jodi, My child. Are you sure? Denny may be a lot of things—but mean?

I listened. Was the Holy Spirit talking to me? I mean, it was like a thought in my head, and yet . . . more than a thought. Something deeper down, nudging my spirit.

It was true. Whatever faults Denny had—huh! Clueless came to mind—“mean” wasn’t one of them. So what was he implying?

Now I was wide awake. I got out of bed, pulled on a robe, and quietly opened the door. Competing music came from behind Amanda’s and Josh’s closed bedroom doors. Down the hall, I could hear the TV . . .

I snuck into the dining room, found my Sunday tote bag I used to carry my Bible and other stuff, and pulled out one of the sheets I’d photocopied. “Yachad . . . together in unity . . . in one accord.”

My eyes teared up again. That’s what Denny meant. So much for ‘together in unity’ . . . so much for being ‘in one accord.’ ” Touché. Yeah, it hurt—but he was right.

Darn it. I sighed. Why was I the one who always had to say I’m sorry? On the other hand, wasn’t I learning that “I’m sorry” and “Please forgive me” were steps toward healing and freedom? The sooner the better, before we made mountains out of molehills.

I sucked up my pride and headed for the living room.

DENNY NOT ONLY FORGAVE ME (as I knew he would), but said we could have a night “in,” make something yummy like quesadillas after Amanda went to youth group, and just watch TV together. But as it turned out, every single station—we didn’t have cable—was running specials on the “Presidential Primaries 2004” kicking off in high gear. Channel 2 . . . 5 . . . 7 . . . 11 . . . all blabbing opinions about the chances of the president’s reelection. Followed by cozy magazine formats on the various candidates’ backgrounds and dissecting their political careers (or lack thereof). Commentators nodded soberly at their monitors showing reporters in the field, following presidential wannabes like rock-star groupies. We even tried channels 32, 38, and 50, but only got a rerun of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, some big-haired TV evangelist I’d never heard of striding around a platform, and a motivational speaker talking about turning your money into millions. Yeah, right.

Denny finally jumped in the car and rented a video. We both fell asleep on the couch and had no idea how the movie ended, waking only when Amanda came in after being dropped off after youth group. Well, at least Denny and I had zoned out “in one accord.”

If the kickoff of the presidential primaries had taken over our Sunday evening, it consumed the teachers’ lounge at Mary MacLeod Bethune Elementary that week. No yachad here, though. A couple of the staff bellyached loudly about the current administration, complained about the war in Iraq dragging on when we’d been promised the US would be “in and out,” and enumerated a long list of election promises from 2000, which still eluded fulfillment. A few defended the president. Most of us kept our mouths shut. In fact, I did my brave Jodi Baxter thing—I began avoiding the teachers’ lounge altogether. Maybe I could return when the election was over next November.

Florida called me Tuesday evening while I was recording math homework scores in my grade book. “Jodi? Girl, I got a big favor to ask ya.”

My mind was still calculating scores. Lamar is falling too far behind . . . I need to get him some extra help . . . “Uh, sure, Flo. What’s up?”

“Chris got a hearing tomorrow down at the JDC, know what I mean? Smuckers, the new lawyer Peter Douglass lined up for us, he gonna try and get the charges thrown out. Says Chris don’t have no priors, was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. All the other perps are two, three years older; the perp who pulled the job is gonna get tried as an adult. Smuckers says it’s a long shot, but he wants to keep Chris out of adult court at all costs. This would be a prelim hearing; if it don’t work out, then they schedule a hearing to decide whether he gets tried as a juvie or an adult.”

She had my attention now. “Oh, Flo. Want me to get the Yada Yadas praying? I could send out an e-mail, make some calls—”

“Well, yeah. That too. But what I wanna ask is, can Carla come home from school with you tomorrow? The hearing’s at two—but regardless of what happens, Smuckers says he wants to meet with Carl and me afterward. We both takin’ the afternoon off work. Don’t know when we get done. I’d feel better if I knew Carla had someplace ta go.”

I hesitated. Teachers weren’t supposed to take kids home—for obvious reasons. But given my personal relationship with Florida, this wasn’t exactly a normal situation. How could I not be there for my friend? “Uh, sure! Not a problem.”

Should I let the office know what was going on? Like, do it officially? I decided no. I’d write Avis a note and leave it in her box to cover my butt.

WHICH IS HOW Carla Hickman ended up at my house Wednesday after school, cooing over Willie Wonka while I made hot chocolate. Wonka, stretched out on the floor by the window radiator in the dining room, patiently put up with the child kissing his nose, stroking his silky ears, and yelling into the kitchen, “Isn’t Willie Wonka a boy dog? How come he got those nipple things on his belly?”

I took two mugs of instant hot chocolate out of the microwave and brought them into the dining room. Carla hopped onto a chair and took a sip. “Eww. It’s too hot!”

“Sorry ’bout that. I’ll put some cold milk in it.”

Carla seemed satisfied with the cooled-down chocolate but eyed me over the rim of her mug, her three wiry ponytails peeking out top and sides. “Got any cookies? My other mama always had cookies to go with hot chocolate.”

I winced. How many times did Florida have to put up with “My other mama always . . .”? The Department of Child and Family Services had taken the Hickman kids into state custody and put them in foster care for five years. That was before Florida got “saved an’ sober.” Now the Hickmans were trying to put their family back together again. And they’d come a long way, praise Jesus! They’d found the missing Carla, whose files had somehow been “misplaced” in the DCFS system. Peter Douglass had offered Flo’s husband a decent job at Software Symphony. They’d just moved out of a crowded apartment in the Edgewater district into a rented house here in Rogers Park. And Florida had been clean for six years now. Things had really been looking up . . .

Until Chris got arrested, hopping a ride after school with some gangbanger who “just happened” to rob a 7-Eleven at gunpoint while Chris waited outside in the car.

Carla was still waiting for an answer about the cookies. “Sorry, kiddo. Don’t have any cookies—but tell you what. Why don’t we make some? What kind do you like?”

Carla’s eyes rounded. “Really? Can we make a whole bunch of cookies?” She hopped off her chair. “Oatmeal raisin chocolate chip! That’s what I wanna make.”

I did a mental run-through of the cupboards. Oatmeal—check. Raisins—check. Chocolate chips—maybe. I scrapped the idea of parking Carla in front of some kid video while I graded homework papers. “Let’s do it.” I headed for the kitchen, expecting Carla to follow me, but turned back to see her still standing by the dining room table. I paused at the doorway. “You okay?”

“It’s my birthday Saturday,” she blurted. “I’m gonna be ten.”

“Why, that’s right. Amanda and I came to your birthday party last year.” A party Florida would rather forget. I wondered if there would be a party this year.

“Since we gonna make cookies, can we make enough to take to school on Friday? Ya know, like some of the other mamas do when they kids have birthdays?”

How easy to say, “Sure. No problem.” But was it a problem? How would Florida feel if I stepped in and did her mama thing? Except, I reasoned, given everything going on at the Hickman household, I doubted cookies for Carla’s third-grade classroom was on the priority list. Second problem. If my class found out the teacher made cookies for Carla, was I setting myself up to make cookies for all the kids’ birthdays? If not, would I be accused of playing favorites?

But I grinned at Carla. Life was slippery; didn’t fit neatly into all the pigeonholes. We had to take risks—if the risk was about love. “Tell you what. Sure, we’ll make cookies you can take to class on Friday. On one condition.” I leaned close to her ear. “You can’t tell anybody at school that you made them at my house. Deal?”

WE FOUND HALF A BAG of chocolate chips—some lowlife chocolate fiend had snacked away the other half, and it wasn’t Willie Wonka!—giving us enough goodies to make four dozen oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip cookies. Carla counted and recounted the cookies, making sure we saved enough so every kid in the class could have two, then insisted we leave those at my house. “Otherwise, they be gone by Friday,” she said darkly. “Cedric eat ’em all his own self.”

I wasn’t sure they’d be any safer at my house, but I promised I’d guard them with my life—having to “cross my heart and hope to die” again.

Denny took the call saying Hickmans were home and could we bring Carla? “What happened at the hearing?” I asked him. Denny just shrugged and shook his head.

Men! Denny in particular was missing the curiosity gene. Which is why I took Carla home. I mean, did the case get dropped or not? Probably not. Wouldn’t whoever called have been praising God and yelling with joy if Chris’s case had been thrown out?

Florida confirmed my fears, after sending Carla inside and closing the front door behind her, leaving us standing out on their front porch in thirty-degree weather. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the frosty air, eyes smoldering. “Judge turned down the petition. Said Smuckers could argue ‘not guilty’ at Chris’s trial. So that’s the next thing we facin’—another hearing to decide if he gets tried in juvie or in adult court. ’Cept they don’ call it a trial in juvie—a disposition or somethin’. No jury either. Just the judge, decidin’ my baby’s whole life.” She frowned at the cigarette. “Huh. Tryin’ ta give up these things, but it ain’t easy, not with all this crap goin’ on.”

I felt tongue-tied. Sheesh! What could I say? I blew on my hands to warm them, then thrust them back into my jacket pockets. “How can I pray, Flo?”

She sucked on the cigarette again and shook her head. “Don’ really know, Jodi. Sometimes it feel like my prayers just bouncin’ off the ceiling, know what I’m sayin’?” She flipped the cigarette stub into the darkness and sighed. “Maybe pray that Carl an’ me, we can just keep hangin’ on ta God’s hand.” She reached for the door handle. “Guess I’ll see ya Sunday. Thanks for keepin’ Carla.”

I opened my mouth to ask if they were planning anything for Carla’s birthday on Saturday, but the door closed abruptly behind her.

THE TV NEWS that night flashed the attractive face of a Palestinian woman who blew herself up along with four Israelis. Watching the news felt like a punch to the stomach. Oh God, not a woman! I didn’t understand the hatred that drove suicide bombers to throw their lives away to kill “the enemy.” But a woman? Women were life-givers! Weren’t we? Didn’t women keep the world sane when all hell was breaking loose?

I felt so sick about it, I almost forgot to bring Carla’s cookies to school on Friday—I’d “hidden” them upstairs in Stu’s apartment to thwart the Baxter cookie monsters—but thankfully she remembered and dropped them off at the back door on her way to work. “Count ’em. They’re all there.” She grinned at me under her red felt beret and headed for the garage.

Monday would be a school holiday—Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday—so we had a nice all-school program that Friday morning commemorating the civil rights leader. Back in our classroom, I mentioned that Carla Hickman almost shared a birthday with the famous African-American and had brought everyone a treat. Carla, true to her word, kept mum about the cookie origins, beamed happily as we sang “Happy Birthday” to her and to Dr. King, and only threatened to punch Lamar one time, when he started to help himself to the last four cookies, left over because two students were absent.

“Those cookies are for . . . for Miz Douglass, ain’t that right, Miz Baxter?” Carla thrust the plastic container with the four orphan cookies at me. “You give ’em to her, okay?”

Which gave me a lovely excuse to drop into Avis’s office at lunchtime, avoiding both the noisy cafeteria and the teachers’ lounge with its nonstop droning TV. But the moment I saw the tightness in her face, the missing smile, I remembered. Rochelle was supposed to get results back yesterday from the HIV retest.

I shut the door to her office and sank into a chair. “Bad news?” I whispered.

Avis nodded. Sudden tears glistened in her eyes and she grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk. “No question. Rochelle tested positive for the HIV virus.” The tears spilled and she blew her nose.

“Oh, Avis.” I could barely grasp the reality of it. What did it mean? What was going to happen to Rochelle? Was there anything that could be done? How—

Avis stood up abruptly and paced behind her desk, then turned back to me, her voice low and intense. “I am so angry, Jodi! So angry I could spit. Do you know why? Rochelle says Dexter is the only man she’s ever slept with, that she’s been faithful to him from day one.” The side of her mouth twisted slightly. “Well, she didn’t say whether day one was before or after their wedding day . . . but I believe her. Which means . . .” Avis gulped for air, as if she couldn’t breathe.

I watched pain and anger twist Avis’s beautiful face into something almost terrifying.

“Which means,” she finally breathed, “that Dexter is the one who infected her. That pretty-boy Don Juan has not only been abusing my daughter, but he’s going to kill her too.”