20

When Willie Wonka woke me up the next morning, I stretched and yawned. Now that was a good night’s sleep. Hadn’t even heard Amanda and Josh come in! But Josh must have brought his sister home before curfew, because the alarm clock I’d set and left out in the hall had been shut off before midnight.

Might as well plan my day since I was the first one up. A school holiday in the middle of February was usually good for one thing: staying home and catching up on . . . whatever. Laundry. Email. Mending. Lesson plans.

Yeah, right. Today I was going to do minimal “ought-to” stuff and curl up in the living room with a cup of gourmet coffee and the gorgeously illustrated book my parents had given me for Christmas about gardening in flower boxes. After all, if students could sleep in until noon, why couldn’t we teachers take a day off too? Even Josh had a day off from Software Symphony, though I had no idea why Peter Douglass closed his shop for President’s Day . . . unless it was to coordinate with Avis’s school holidays.

Then Denny announced he was going to school for a couple of hours to catch up on some work, but he’d be back in time to catch a few college games on TV. I refused to feel guilty. I’d play while he worked, then work while he played.

The book on flower boxes had me salivating. Perfect escapism for a snowy day in February. Besides, if I wanted flowers this spring, I was going to have to plant them myself. Now that Becky Wallace was no longer living with Stu on house arrest, we’d lost our resident gardener.

I ignored the kids when they got up, other than to yell into the kitchen that they had to clean up after themselves and to answer a plea where to find the electric griddle. I knew what that meant. Pancakes. Maybe French toast.

Back to my fantasy flower boxes . . .

But a few minutes later, I realized my coffee was cold. I wandered to the kitchen to get a refill and to see if Willie Wonka had touched his “special diet.” So far, it had been iffy with the canned dog food, sometimes nibbling, other times giving it a sniff and wandering away with a sigh. Maybe I should call the vet again . . .

Amanda and Josh were still making their breakfast, stepping back and forth over Willie Wonka, who lay inert in the middle of the kitchen floor. “He said I was getting too possessive,” Amanda was saying, spitfire in her voice. “Just ’cause I got upset when he skated with some other girl. Well, why shouldn’t I? He didn’t even know her!”

I stopped, uncertain whether to intrude.

“Sure you didn’t overreact? Guys get squirmy when girls get demanding.”

“Oh, thanks, big brother. Not you too.”

“Hey. Hold on a minute. I just mean, do you two have an understanding that you’re an official item? Can’t date anyone else?”

“Well . . . not exactly. We’re just friends. Special friends, though. At least I thought we were.”

“Uh-huh.” For a few moments, all I heard were dishes clattering.

“You really think I overreacted?” Amanda’s voice was more contrite. “But I’d been planning to ask him to skate when it was Ladies Choice, then that . . . that hussy grabbed him first. And he was enjoying himself! Made me so mad.” Her voice rose again. “And then he calls me and says maybe we should break things off, not call each other so much! The jerk! Who dissed who at the rink, huh? Tell me that!”

Now the dish banging got louder. Then a sigh. “But maybe I should call him, tell him I’m sorry for jumpin’ on him. See if he wants to do anything this afternoon.”

“Uh, know what, Mandy? I’d give him some space right now. Don’t call. Don’t beg. Don’t chase him.” Josh’s tone was surprisingly empathetic. “Trust me on this one.”

I looked at my empty coffee cup. Guessed a refill could wait. I turned to go back to the living room but heard sniffles from the kitchen, then Josh murmuring, “Aw, c’mere, bed head.” The sniffles became muffled sobs. I peeked. Josh had pulled Amanda against his chest, letting her cry into his sweatshirt. “Know how you feel, kiddo. Loving somebody ain’t as easy as it looks . . .”

I FELT SAD FOR AMANDA. A broken heart at sixteen. Wouldn’t help to tell her that most adults looked back at their high school crushes and wondered, what was the big deal? But I wondered how Amanda would manage seeing José at school. After all, he’d transferred from Benito Juarez High School mostly because she was at Lane Tech. Well, because it was a college prep school too. But she didn’t say anything all week. Spent most of her time at home doing homework or listening to music.

The phone stayed in its perch on the kitchen wall.

Denny came home Thursday night all excited, saying he wanted to talk to me. After supper, I loaded the dishwasher while he talked and waved a dishtowel around. He and Peter Douglass had been knocking heads about how best to support the Hickman family, and Pastor Cobb told them about a ministry called Captives Free Jail and Prison Ministry that needed volunteers to lead Bible studies at the JDC. “The girls’ units are all staffed, but only about half the boys’ units”—the dishtowel waved with enthusiasm—“meaning they need men to volunteer, the sooner the better.”

“How does that support the Hickman family? I mean, can you request getting assigned to Chris’s unit?”

He considered. “Hm. Probably not. But still, if we could get several Uptown . . . uh, I mean SouledOut brothers to volunteer, I think we could add another two or three Bible studies down there at the JDC. Whatever unit Chris is in, it’d be great if there was a Bible study going on, someone from outside to give kids like Chris friendship and prayer support.” He shrugged. “We’re going to try to get somebody from Captives Free to come talk about the jail and prison ministry at our men’s breakfast this Saturday. Carl is pumped! Thinks it’s a great idea.”

“Can he volunteer? I mean, with a kid inside?”

Denny shrugged. “Doubt it. Still, I think it means a lot that we’re talking about volunteering at the JDC . . . because of Chris, really.”

I handed him a bowl that wouldn’t fit inside the dishwasher. “So when are these Bible studies?”

“Thursday nights at seven—which means I’d probably go right from school.” He held the dripping bowl in one hand, the towel in another. “Wouldn’t get home till nine or ten. I know having dinner as a family is important, but now that the kids are older . . .”

I nodded, remembering something. “Isn’t that how Ruth met Yo-Yo?—leading a Bible study for women at the Cook County Jail?” Yo-Yo and Ruth . . . My mind rewound to the last Yada Yada meeting. What’s going on between those two? Did Ruth ever apologize for forgetting to pick her up last Sunday? Stu was going to—

“That’s right!” Denny said. “Man, I forgot all about that. Want me to double-check if Captives Free needs female volunteers? Might be something the Yada Yadas could do down the road, now that Manna House is kaput.”

“Hey!” I took the still-wet bowl and still-dry towel away from him. “Don’t go volunteering me for anything just yet! Now git, Denny Boy. You’re useless in here.” A series of sharp raps at the back door saved him from getting snapped with the towel. “And by the way,” I called after him, “don’t forget to call Ricardo and ask him to come to the men’s breakfast! Delores asked you, remember?”

I opened the back door. “Estelle! Come in, girl. It’s cold out there.” I pulled her in and shut the door. “Just getting back from Adele’s?”

She nodded, hands jammed in the pockets of her long, secondhand coat, head wrapped in one of her knitted creations. “Can’t stay. Just want to ask y’all to be prayin’ for MaDear. She . . .” Estelle shook her head. “She’s not doing well. My Lord. She’s coughin’ an’ chokin’ all the time. Adele was goin’ to cancel her appointments tomorrow an’ get her to the doc, but I told her I could take MaDear. We can go by taxi and let Adele know if she’s needed. But main thing, we got to be prayin’.”

“Sure. I’ll let the other sisters know. Thanks, Estelle.” I shut the door behind her, then leaned against it, my spirit sinking. Pneumonia again? Couldn’t be good.

But maybe this was a good excuse to call Yo-Yo myself. I’d held off, giving Ruth or Stu a chance to connect, but I hadn’t heard from anybody if they’d gotten hold of her. I dialed her number, let it ring . . . but then her voice-mail message kicked in: “Yo, dude or dudette! Yo-Yo isn’t home and neither are the Rug Rats. You know what to do at the beep.”

I smiled as the beep sounded. “Dudette yourself, Yo-Yo. This is Jodi. Missed you Sunday night.” I almost apologized for Ruth forgetting her, then decided not to go there. “I wanted to let you know that MaDear isn’t doing so good. Might be pneumonia again. Estelle’s been taking care of her, is asking all the sisters to pray. Give me a call when you can, okay?”

I CALLED ADELE’S HAIR AND NAILS when I got home from school on Friday, but Takeisha, the other hairstylist, said Adele was at the hospital.

“They admitted MaDear?” I asked.

“Guess so. All I know is Ms. Adele got a call an’ she flew out of here like her hair was on fire.”

I called upstairs to see if Estelle was home. No answer. I didn’t even know what hospital. St. Francis in south Evanston? That would be the closest. I started to hunt for the number, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember MaDear’s real name. Everybody just called her MaDear. Started with an S . . . Sue? Sharon? Didn’t sound right.

But Denny remembered. “Her name’s Sally. Sally Skuggs.” His run-in with MaDear a year and a half ago, when her demented mind mistook him for the man who’d lynched her big brother back in the forties, had affected him deeply. Denny asking her forgiveness for that terrible act had bonded the two of them in a deep, mysterious way.

We called St. Francis. Yes, a Sally Skuggs had been admitted to the ICU. No, they weren’t allowing visitors. We hopped in our car anyway.

At St. Francis Hospital, we found our way through a maze of elevators and hallways to the ICU family waiting room. A few people gazed absently at the droning TV hanging high in the corner; others flipped through magazines or just sat. At first, I didn’t recognize anyone; then I saw Estelle’s knitted hat covering the face of a bulky woman dozing in a corner.

“Estelle?” I shook her shoulder. The hat fell off and her eyes popped open.

“Hey, there.” She struggled to sit up. “You the second one to come by . . . that Georgia woman been here, maybe a half hour ago.”

Georgia? “You mean Florida?”

“Guess that’s it.

I grinned. Well, good. Word was getting around. “How’s MaDear?”

Estelle shook her head. “Nobody’s telling me anything.” She lumbered to her feet, rubbing her cramped neck. “But I’ll go to the desk, have them tell Adele you’re here. Adele’s sister in there too.”

Sissy was here? “That’s good.” I think. Sometimes Adele talked as if having Sissy around was enough to drive her crazy.

A few minutes later, Adele came into the waiting room, still wearing her bright green T-shirt that proudly announced “Adele’s Hair and Nails” in white script, a hospital face mask dangling by its strings around her neck. “Hey.” She gave us each a tired hug. “Thanks for coming by. Florida was here a while ago. But they don’t want any visitors right now ’cept family.”

“That’s okay,” Denny said. We found seats together. Part of me desperately wanted to see MaDear, to kiss her leathery cheek with its childish freckles, wanted to ask if Adele could smuggle us in. But I bit it back. “What are the doctors saying?”

“Pneumonia. Again. Lungs all filled up. Mostly they’re trying to keep her comfortable.” She snorted. “You know what they say. Pneumonia is the old person’s ‘friend.’ Meaning it’s better to die of that than some long, drawn-out disease.” Adele’s face tightened and she clenched her fist. “But I want her to fight back! Beat this thing! That old woman in there, she’s one ornery woman, drives me to distraction. But . . .” Her shoulders sagged, fighting back tears. “. . . don’t know what I’d do without her.”

We sat in silence for several minutes. Then I asked, “What can we do, Adele? Are you hungry? Do you need anything from home?”

Adele jerked a thumb in Estelle’s direction. “You can take Ms. Angel of Mercy over there home. I haven’t been able to get rid of her.”

Estelle jammed the knit hat down over her head. “All right, all right. I’m goin’. But I’ll be back tomorrow mornin’. Meantime, you better come up with another ‘sistah’ named Estelle right quick on that list of visitors. ’Cause I can sit with MaDear, but I can’t cut no hair at your shop. If I did, you’d be out of business in twenty-four hours!”