28

I had just come out of the church kitchen the next morning, after popping my “No Fail Chicken-and-Rice Casserole” into the oven to slow-bake for the Second Sunday Potluck (“no fail” when I remembered to turn on the oven, as Stu likes to remind me), when I saw Chanda George parking her Lexus. The next moment, Rochelle and Conny climbed out of her car along with Chanda’s three kids. I zipped over to the glass doors to greet them as they all came in, but Chanda held up her hand as she breezed past. “Mi know whatchu tinking, Sista Jodee: not enough seatbelts. But de girl only move in yesterday! Goin’ to take mi at least a week to get a bigger car.”

I closed my mouth and grinned. That wasn’t what I was thinking, but it was a good point. I slipped over to Avis, who was getting a big hug from Conny. “I sleeped in a big-boy bunk bed, Grammy! On the top! An’ I didn’t fall out, ’cause it gots rails.”

“Oh you did, did you?” Avis let him go and watched wistfully as the little boy skipped away.

“So. Rochelle accepted Chanda’s invitation?”

She nodded. “Yesterday. Rochelle had a long talk with Chanda, looked at the house, realized Conny would have playmates, and she’d have her own bedroom . . . didn’t take her long to say yes.” Avis sighed. “I don’t know how long we can keep it a secret from Dexter. Too many people know. Or they will.” She tipped her chin toward Conny, who was excitedly telling Carla Hickman about sleeping in a big-boy bed.

“Well, we should at least tell the Yada Yada sisters not to be talking out of school—to anyone. But speaking of Dexter, does he know yet about . . .?” I deliberately didn’t finish my sentence.

She shook her head. “No. A health professional has been trying to contact him and set up a meeting, but so far he hasn’t returned any of her calls. But it needs to happen soon. Like yesterday. No telling how many other . . .” Her voice dropped off.

How many other women he’s infected, I mentally finished. I doubted Dexter was going to quit fooling around, though, even if he did find out he had HIV and had infected his own wife.

The beckoning chords of the song “Here I Am to Worship” announced the beginning of the morning service. Avis squeezed my elbow and whispered, “Just pray, Jodi,” before slipping into the empty chair beside Peter.

FLORIDA GRABBED MY HAND and cornered Chanda right after the service as the tables were being set up for our Second Sunday Potluck. “Okay, out with it. Did you order me up some wicker porch furniture this week?”

“Why you ’ave to know? So what if mi did—dat not sound like ‘tank you’ to mi.”

Florida rolled her eyes. “Chanda! Of course I’m gonna say thank you—but you gotta stop raining down expensive gifts on your friends. It’s . . . awkward. You know we can’t do nothin’ like that for you.”

“Humph. Don’t de Bible say it more blessed to give dan receive? Just wanted to bless you, Florida Hickman. Send dem back if you don’t want dem.” Chanda pushed past us and headed for Oscar Frost, who was putting away his saxophone.

Florida scowled as she watched her go. “Humph. Messed that up, didn’t I? Now she thinks I’m an ungrateful jerk.”

I was distracted by Chanda talking to the saxophonist, her smile big, waving her hands, then pointing out her kids scattered around the room. What was she doing? Oscar Frost had to be ten years her junior—at least! But the twenty-something musician was talking pleasantly with her, his face relaxed and smiling. Not flirting, just friendly. Guess the kid could handle himself. Except . . . he wasn’t the one I was worried about. I didn’t want Chanda to get hurt. Again.

I turned back to Florida. “So what are you going to do? Send the stuff back?”

“What?” She shook her head, setting her ’do of little twists bouncing. “I might be a jerk, but I’m not stupid.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “Next Sunday, Jodi Baxter, is the first day of spring. Week from today, you can find me sittin’ on my porch in that new furniture—rain or shine!”

OR SNOW.

A sloppy mix of rain and snow started right in the middle of our church business meeting, while we still sat around the lunch tables. I watched shoppers outside dashing for their cars in the parking lot. Chanda and Rochelle, neither of whom were members of SouledOut, had already left right after the potluck with their kids.

“. . . to kick off our youth outreach this spring,” Pastor Cobbs was saying. “And I don’t just mean the youth of families in this church.” He swung an arm wide, indicating the streets all around the church. “We’ve got a mission field right here on our doorstep, half a mile in every direction. Gangs, drugs, dropouts, pregnant teens, STDs . . . you name it, kids out there are swimming in it. Brother Rick, you want to say something?”

Rick Reilly, who’d been the youth group leader at Uptown, stood up. “Oscar Frost . . . Oscar, stand up. That’s right, this young man hides behind his saxophone, but he’s coming out with his hands up!” Everyone laughed as Oscar stood, grinning sheepishly. “Anyway,” Rick went on, “Oscar recently volunteered with Captives Free Jail and Prison Ministry, along with some of our other men—Denny Baxter, Peter Douglass, several others. That experience opened his eyes to the importance of getting to these kids before they end up at the JDC. But we need more volunteers and we need new ideas.”

He picked up a clipboard and handed it to the nearest table. “We’re devoting our March men’s breakfast—next Saturday, brothers—to praying for God’s wisdom and direction for our youth ministry. Right after the breakfast, at ten o’clock, we’re having a youth ministry brainstorming meeting here at the church. If you’re interested—sisters, this includes you—put your name and phone number on the sheet that’s coming around. And if you don’t put your name on the sheet but change your mind next Friday”—more laughter—“come anyway.” Rick sat down.

I watched the clipboard as it made its way around the room. Josh had been so gung-ho about the potential for youth outreach when our churches merged. But Rick Reilly hadn’t mentioned his name today, and frankly, Josh hadn’t said anything about youth ministry since he and Edesa got up in church and asked for volunteers for the Manna House shelter in January. Well, that was understandable if he couldn’t do both.

But now that Manna House is defunct . . .

Two tables over, I saw Josh take the clipboard and hold it in both hands for what seemed like a long time. Then he handed it on.

My insides mushed. What in the world was going on with our son?

As usual, the Hickman/Wallace household needed rides after the meeting, so we took Becky Wallace and Little Andy, though Andy begged to go home with us so he could play with “the nice brown doggie.”

Becky sighed. “Not today, Andy. We only got a couple more hours till you hafta go back to your”—she practically gagged—“other house.”

“Another time for sure, Andy,” I said. “Willie Wonka doesn’t play much anymore, but I know he’d love to see you.”

As we dropped Becky and Little Andy off in front of the Hickman’s, I noticed the large boxes were still on the porch. “What’s that?” Amanda piped up from the third seat. “The Hickmans aren’t moving again, are they?”

“Nope. Porch furniture, actually.”

“Oh. Cool. Why don’t we get a porch swing, Mom?”

I left that one unanswered, wondering whether to say something to Josh, sitting in the front passenger seat next to Denny. As Denny navigated the one-way streets between the Hickmans’ and our house, I spoke my thoughts. “Josh, I noticed you didn’t sign the sheet about youth outreach. I thought that possibility interested you most when our two churches merged.” At the wheel, Denny glanced at me in the rearview mirror, but I couldn’t read what it meant. Too late now.

Josh turned his head away and looked out the side window. Finally, he said, “Dunno, Mom. Need some time to think about it, I guess.”

Another glance from the rearview mirror. Okay. I got it. ‘Don’t push it.’

STU CLATTERED DOWN THE BACK STAIRS, heading for work early Monday morning in semidarkness, just as I was trying to coax Willie Wonka out into the backyard. “Hey! Happy birthday!” I grabbed her on the porch and gave her a big hug. Good thing I’d already looked at the calendar this morning. “What is this? The big thirty-six?”

She made a face. “Sheesh, Jodi. Can’t I get older without you announcing it to the whole world? Say, you want help getting Wonka down the stairs?”

“Sure.” With me tugging gently on Wonka’s collar and Stu half-pushing, half-lifting from his tail end, we managed to get the old dog down the four steps from our porch to the backyard.

“I get home at five-thirty if you want help getting him back up the steps,” she deadpanned over her shoulder as she headed for the garage.

“Ha! They’re predicting snow tonight. Make that an hour later.” I watched her go. Even at thirty-six, Stu cut a youthful figure with her long, ash-blonde hair flying from beneath her red beret, belted jacket, and pants tucked inside lace-up boots.

I was still waiting on Willie Wonka, shivering inside my jacket under a heavy cloud cover, when I heard, “Psst. Jodi. Is she gone?”

I looked up. Estelle was leaning over the second-floor porch railing, dressed only in a large loose caftan. Another Estelle sewing project. “Yes, ma’am.” I grinned.

“I’m fixin’ a birthday dinner for Stu when she gets home. Can you Baxters come up at six o’clock? That would make it a party.”

“We’d love to.” Just knowing I wouldn’t have to cook dinner tonight was a gift to me. “But get back inside, Estelle! Just looking at you blowing in the wind up there makes me feel like an ice cube.”

She laughed and disappeared inside.

The day remained gloomy, with gusts up to fifteen miles per hour. Sheesh. What a dreary day for a birthday, I thought, glancing from time to time out my classroom windows. But if Estelle could cook as well as she could sew, we were in for a treat. Maybe that’s what we all needed—some friend time together, candles, good food, laughter . . .

I picked up the mail on my way into the house after school and rifled through it as I headed for the kitchen. Oh, great. A letter addressed to Josh from the University of Illinois. Humph. Probably a form letter saying his acceptance a year ago is now out of date and it’s too late to apply for this year, so too bad, forget it. Disgusted, I tossed the letter on the dining room table—and that’s when I saw it.

Doggy diarrhea all over the kitchen floor. I groaned.

But where was Willie Wonka? I called his name, even though I knew that didn’t do any good, deaf as he was. But I found him soon enough, crouched under the dining room table, head on his paws, his worried eyes looking up at me as though I’d caught him red-handed with his paw in the cookie jar.

“Oh, Wonka. Poor baby. Come here, boy . . . come on. It’s all right. You couldn’t help it.” The dog inched his way out from under the table on his belly, still cowering. “What’s the matter, baby?” I stroked his head reassuringly. “You don’t feel good?”

Then the smell hit me, and I realized that not only the floor needed cleaning up, but the dog too.

By the time Denny and Amanda came in the back door stomping off slushy snow from their shoes, holding a hot-pink hibiscus plant for Stu, I’d given Wonka a bucket bath, the kitchen and dining room floors smelled of disinfectant, and our old child safety-gate now barricaded the doorway between kitchen and dining room. “What happened?” they chorused, looking from the gate to the dog penned into the kitchen.

I made a face. “I’ll spare you the gory details. But we better keep him in the kitchen until he feels better—and take him out more often.”

Josh still wasn’t home from work by six o’clock, so I left a note for him on the dining room table to come upstairs when he got home, and the three of us braved the half-hearted snow flurry to hustle up the outside back stairs to Stu and Estelle’s apartment. Estelle had outdone herself: tablecloth, candles, Stu’s china, and a savory meal of chicken and dumplings, Cajun red beans and rice, green beans swimming in butter, and steaming hot cornbread.

Stu shook her head at the spread, embarrassed and pleased at the same time. “You cooked. You found my china. My parents sent me a card and a package—first one in years. Somebody brought me flowers. It doesn’t get better than this!”

“Well, put that overgrown bush in the middle of the table and let’s get started,” Estelle fussed. “Food’s gettin’ cold.”

We were halfway through the meal when Josh came in the back door. “Sorry. Got a ride, but traffic was awful. Uh, happy birthday, Stu.” He slid into the empty chair, tattooed arm peeking out of his cut-off sleeveless sweatshirt, hair pulled back into a ponytail. “Don’t let me stop the conversation.”

Stu waved her fork. “Uh . . . thanks. I was just about to give Estelle some good news. Found out that organizations providing in-home elder care often use Certified Nurse Assistants. And several colleges in the Chicago area have CNA programs.”

Estelle frowned. “College? How many years do I hafta go to school?”

“Not years. Months. Maybe two or three.”

Estelle brightened. “Really? I could do that.”

“And experience doing elder care is a real plus, so your work with MaDear should be a good reference.”

“Lord, Lord.” Estelle rolled her eyes. “The Lord knows I got experience. Took care of my mother, God rest her soul, and my great-aunt . . . humph. MaDear was a kitten compared to my great-aunt. Mm-mm. Sure glad I don’t believe in reincarnation.”

We laughed and helped clear the table—except for Josh’s plate—while Estelle brought in hot peach cobbler and set it in front of Stu. “Had to use canned peaches,” she grumbled. “Just ain’t the same, ain’t the same a’tall.”

Couldn’t prove it by us. We cleaned up the peach cobbler and sat back with overstuffed sighs. “This was fun,” Amanda said. “We oughta do this more often. I mean, we don’t have to wait for a birthday, do we?”

“That’s a great idea,” I said. “In fact, I was thinking we should invite Precious and Sabrina to come for supper some weekend soon.” Was it my imagination, or did Josh wince? He busied himself finishing up his peach cobbler and said nothing. I ignored His Sullenness. “Estelle, do you know if they’re still at the Salvation Army shelter? You and Stu can come, and it’ll be a party.”

“Good idea,” Stu said. “Except let Estelle and me help with the cooking. That’ll be fun.”

We said goodnight and drifted downstairs behind the kids. “Estelle seems to be a good housemate for Stu,” I murmured to Denny as we came in the back door. The floor was still clean, thank God. “And looks like Wonka is holding his own.”

We stepped over the safety gate into the dining room. I noticed that the envelope from the University of Illinois had been opened and the letter stuffed halfway back inside. I pulled it out, expecting a generic form letter. But my heart suddenly tripped a light fantastic.

“Dear Joshua Baxter,” it said. “Congratulations! You have been accepted into the undergraduate program for the 2004–2005 school year . . .”