24

I tried to concentrate on the rest of the funeral service. One of the visiting ministers was reading a handful of “resolutions” from various congregations in Chicago and Tupelo, paying tribute to the life of Sally Rutherford Skuggs. They got a little long and repetitious, but my ears pricked up when Rev. Miles took the pulpit to preach the eulogy, using 1 Thessalonians 4:13–18 as his text.

“Brothers and sisters,” he thundered, “even though we have to say farewell to our elder sister for a time, we are not full of sorrow like people who have no hope. No! Because we know something the world doesn’t know—or chooses to ignore. And that is”—he paused dramatically—“the reality, the fact, brothers and sisters, of the resurrection from the dead.”

Half the congregation was on its feet, shouting back to the preacher. “Yes!” “Tell the truth, Pastor!” “Praise Jesus!”

“If God the Father raised Jesus from the dead, then we who call on His name will also be raised from the dead, and we will be reunited with all the dead in Christ who have gone before us. Sister Adele, you will see your mother again, and she’ll have a new body, one that sickness has not ravaged, and her mind will be clear and sharp—”

Now Adele was on her feet, practically dancing on the front row, hand in the air, tears running down her face. “Thank You, Jesus! Thank You! Thank You!”

Watching Adele, it suddenly occurred to me that I would see my grandmother again too. Not the decrepit creature I remembered—shuffling around the house, mumbling to herself—but a strong woman with a vigorous body and a quick mind. I stifled a giggle, thinking about Gram and MaDear matching wits in heaven. Maybe MaDear would tell Gram that I’d grown up a little, and I’d be coming too, one of these days, to tell her I was sorry and could we spend part of eternity getting to know each other again?

“—Then we who are still alive and remain on the earth will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air and remain with Him forever. So comfort and encourage each other with these words.”

The rest of the church was on its feet now as the organ punctuated the pastor’s closing words. In the midst of the praise all around me, I whispered my own praise. “Thank You for MaDear, Jesus, for giving me a second chance to love a ‘grandma’ these last two years.” The tears ran again and I used up half my travel packet of tissues mopping my face, probably smearing my mascara.

But my once-heavy spirit had reached zero gravity.

“MOM!” Amanda tugged on my arm as the pastor invited the congregation to go downstairs to the fellowship hall for the repast. “Don’t we drive out to the cemetery or something? I mean, don’t they have to bury her?”

“—Please allow the family to leave and be served first,” the pastor was saying.

“I think the body is going to be cremated and the ashes taken to Tupelo for burial,” I whispered back.

Amanda’s eyes widened. “You mean, burn her bod—!”

“Shh!” I hissed. “Later, okay?”

The closed casket remained at the front of the church as the family of Sally Rutherford Skuggs processed up the aisle and disappeared down the stairs to the fellowship hall. The ushers, crisp and unflappable, allowed each row to follow, starting near the front, and working toward the back.

When we finally nudged our way into the fellowship hall, we headed for the long row of tables at the other end loaded down with hot casseroles, salads, chicken, and cake. When Denny and I finally got our paper plates filled, we made our way through the noisy crowd to a table populated mostly by Yada Yada folks. Denny put his plate down on the end of the table where Peter Douglass and Carl Hickman were digging in.

“Anybody see Yo-Yo?” Becky said between munches on a piece of crispy fried chicken. “She told me yesterday at work that she was gonna try to come.” She licked her fingers as the rest of us shook our heads.

“Guess we all used to Ruth and Ben takin’ that girl wherever she needs ta go,” Florida said, a forkful of beans and cornbread halfway to her mouth. “But I don’t see Garfields, neither.”

Becky shrugged. “Maybe one of the twins is sick or somethin’. If I had a car, I could pick up Yo-Yo. Could pick up Little Andy on Sundays too—sure would be a lot easier. But . . . guess that ain’t gonna happen for a while.”

“Huh. You and me both, girl.” Florida jabbed the plastic fork at Becky. “But we got us a two-car garage out back of our house, so I’m thinkin’ God gonna fill it one o’ these days. For both of us.”

Becky sighed. “Yeah, but it ain’t gonna happen on my part-time salary from the Bagel Bakery. Man! I need me a new job!”

As the chatter resumed around us, Florida leaned closer to me, her voice lowered. “What’s with that boy of yours, Jodi, sittin’ over there all by hisself? He look as miserable as a wet cat in a bubble bath.”

I followed her glance and saw Josh parked in a metal folding chair against the wall, his tie and collar loosened, picking at his plate of food. He did look miserable. In fact, if I thought about it, Josh hadn’t been himself since the night of the fire at Manna House. I said as much to Florida.

“He still blaming hisself for that? Ain’t nobody else blamin’ him that I know of. Girl, if we let our screwups dog our footsteps, we all be headin’ down a dead-end street.”

I snorted. “Tell me about it.” Seemed like I had enough “screwups” the past couple of years to sink any “good Christian girl” on her way to sainthood. Maybe Denny and I should talk to Josh, find out what was going on . . .

Just then, I saw Estelle, large, round, and comforting, make her way to the chairs along the wall and sink down beside Josh. He gave her a polite nod, but in a few moments, she had him half-grinning in spite of himself and shaking his head as if trying not to laugh. Did that woman know how to work wonders, or what?

By this time, Nony, Hoshi, and Chanda joined the rest of us as we scooted chairs to make room, and Chanda waved at Edesa and Delores, who had just waded through the line for the first time. “Now, this what mi tinkin’,” Chanda said, casting her eyes this way and that, as if making sure she wouldn’t be overheard—though it was hard enough to hear ourselves talking face to face. She leaned in. “Now, we sistas know Adele be stubborn as old Billy Goat Gruff when it come to letting us know she need som’ting. So we gotta check on her wit’out letting her know we doing it. What you tink of dat idea?”

We all looked at her. “Think about what idea?” Stu said.

Chanda rolled her eyes. “Hair! Hair!” She grabbed her own braided extensions and shook them. “We all make appointments at Adele’s Hair and Nails in de next two, t’ree weeks. Give us excuse to see how she doing!”

I FELT DRAINED by the time we got home around six, but I checked the kitchen calendar. Next Saturday would work for me. I could use a cut . . . maybe even a color. That’d be fun. Besides, Denny had wickedly pointed out a few gray hairs not two days ago, the jerk. Huh. I’d show him. Go blonde or something—maybe a redhead. Or get my hair cut short. Spiky, like Yo-Yo’s. That’d freak him out.

Yeah, right, Jodi. You’re as likely to go redhead or spiky-haired as get your navel pierced.

I wrote “Haircut?” on the first weekend in March, then flipped back to February. It’d been two weeks since Yada Yada met upstairs at Stu’s apartment. Where were we meeting tomorrow? . . . “Wait a minute,” I mumbled aloud. “Tomorrow is the fifth Sunday in February. How did the shortest month of the year get a fifth Sunday?”

“Leap year, babe.” Denny was raiding the refrigerator. “We’ve got an extra day to use up. Wanna do something?” I’d announced no supper tonight since we’d just eaten the equivalent of four Thanksgiving dinners at the repast. How could the man eat again?

I turned the calendar back to March. “Huh. Monday is General Pulaski Day. No school. Sheesh! Didn’t we just have Presidents’ Day off two weeks ago? How are kids going to learn anything if they keep shortening the school calendar!”

“Don’t knock it, kiddo. Chicago’s tip of the old chapka to its Polish son.” Denny raised the can of Pepsi he’d found, as if making a toast. “One of the perks of working for the Chicago school system. A family holiday!”

“Used to be a family holiday,” Josh grumbled, coming in the back door just then with a wheezing Willie Wonka. “I gotta work on Monday.” He opened the refrigerator, not even bothering to shed his winter jacket. “We got anything in here to eat?”

Men. Didn’t they ever outgrow the hollow-leg syndrome?

DENNY WAS GOING TO ASK AMANDA if she’d like to go out to a movie Sunday afternoon for some daddy-daughter time, but we scrapped that idea when Pastor Clark announced a leap year party for the youth that night at the church. “Your ticket to the party is to bring a friend who doesn’t attend our church already,” he said. A month ago, that would have been a no-brainer for Amanda. José, who else? But when we got home after church, she started wailing, “Who can I invite? I don’t know anybody!”

Which might be another good reason the relationship with José had dialed down, I thought. Amanda needed a broader circle of friends.

“I just won’t go!” she pouted. But with some prodding, Amanda finally called a couple of girls in her Spanish club at school who lived in Rogers Park—and to her surprise, both said they’d like to come. “Josh, can you drive me and pick them up? Puh-leeease?”

I didn’t see that one coming. With Amanda out for the evening, I’d been hoping Denny and I could talk to Josh. Most days we passed each other like the proverbial ships in the night. On the other hand, might be a good thing for him to hang out with the youth at SouledOut tonight. For a while, he’d seemed ready to jump on board with Pastor Cobb’s vision for youth; then Manna House had taken up all his free time. But now, he was bobbing around like a rubber ducky in a Jacuzzi . . .

“Do you know what’s going on with Josh?” I asked Denny over hot cider and an appetizer called Avacado con Salsa y Queso at the Heartland Café later that evening.

He shook his head, dipping corn chips into the baked avocado. “Figured he just needed some time to sort things out after the fire.”

“But that was five weeks ago! He seems so . . . deflated lately.”

Denny pursed his lips. “Yeah. Know what you mean. He was so fired up about his volunteer work at Manna House. Of course, part of that was working with Edesa, but who knows where that relationship is going. Maybe he’d be ready to talk about going to school next year . . . what? Are you okay?”

A couple of corn chips had suddenly created a traffic jam in my throat. I took a swig of hot cider to wash them down. “Ohmigosh, Denny,” I choked. “School? I’m sure the deadline has passed for renewing his application to the University of Illinois! Wasn’t it January first or something like that when he was sending out applications last year?” I pushed my mug and plate away. Sheesh! Why didn’t we get on his case a couple of months ago! The thought of Josh hanging around the Baxter domicile another whole year, not doing much, made me lose my appetite.

I pressed my fingers against my temples. Okay, okay. Old Jodi response or New Jodi? I could freak out, or . . . I could pray, ask God for wisdom, talk to Josh, cool my jets, pray some more . . .

But for that, I needed time. I ordered another hot cider and changed the subject. “Denny, remember all that crappy music at the roller-skating rink? Still sticks in my craw, thinking of all those kids listening to that sleazy music every weekend. The DJ I talked to that night just blew me off.”

He snorted. “Yeah. I remember.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about writing a letter to the manager, maybe sending a petition from those of us who were there that night, asking the rink to offer at least one skate time every weekend that’s truly ‘family friendly’ . . . what do you think?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “What do I think?”

“Yeah.” I could feel my face coloring. “I don’t want to ride off on one of my ‘good ideas’ again without getting your input this time.”

To his credit, Denny laughed. “Ah. The ol’ lemonade stand syndrome.” He cleaned out the bottom of the avocado dip with the last few chips. “A letter sounds good. Petition sounds good. But don’t get your hopes up too high, Jodi. It would probably take a major boycott of the place to sway management to—”

He must have seen the light go on in my eyes because he suddenly threw up his hands. “Now, wait a minute. I was not suggesting a major boycott! I just meant . . .” He blew out a huge breath. “You know good and well what I meant.”