32

Whew. So much had happened over the weekend, I felt like an amateur juggler, trying to keep all the prayers in the air but dropping half of them in the hurry-scurry of a muddy school week. I was a tad jealous of Hoshi’s week off from classes between her winter and spring quarters. What I wouldn’t give for even one day off, just to catch up with myself!—not to mention the weekend laundry that still needed folding. But Chicago schools still had three weeks to go before our spring break.

On the other hand, I told myself that Thursday, while navigating a chain of sidewalk puddles and trying to keep dry under our old black umbrella, it’d been raining most of the week, even though the temperatures had finally climbed into the sixties. Maybe having spring break after Easter would give us some warm, sunny days to enjoy, time to plant some flower boxes for the back porch . . .

Unfortunately, another puddle in the kitchen greeted me when I got home from school. My initial frustration evaporated when I saw poor Willie Wonka, curled up in a corner, looking at me miserably. “Aw, it’s all right, Wonka,” I murmured, getting out the bucket and disinfectant. I mopped up the mess with a rag and dried the floor, then lowered myself beside Wonka and pulled his head into my lap. The tip of his tail patted quietly as I stroked his head and scratched behind his ears. “Guess it’s time for another trip to the vet, eh, old boy? Don’t worry,” I crooned. “The vet’s our friend, remember? Maybe she can help us with this problem.”

A thunderclap rattled the windows. I decided against trying to take the dog out, and just sat on the floor with my back against the wall, petting his once silky brown fur that had grown dull and thin, showing his ribs—until the phone rang. I scrambled to my feet and caught it on the third ring. “Mom?” Amanda sounded desperate. “Can you call Dad and ask him to pick me up at school on his way home?”

I looked at the clock. “You’re still at school? I was expecting you any minute.”

A loud crack of thunder drowned out her next few words. “—language lab, but I can’t go outside now to wait for the bus. It’s raining buckets!”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Sorry, honey. Tonight’s the night Dad goes to the JDC. He’s probably on his way downtown already.”

“But Mo-om! I’ll get soaked standing at the bus stop!”

“Oh . . . ask the school office for a phone book and call a cab.”

“Really?” She sounded interested. “A cab?”

Well, why not? What could it be—five dollars? Ten?

“FIFTEEN DOLLARS!”

Amanda, casting anxious looks out the front door at the blinking hazard lights of the Yellow Cab, rolled her eyes. “Mo-om. You told me to call a cab. The meter said eleven-something—almost twelve. And you’re supposed to give a tip, you know.”

Somehow, I scrounged up the money, thinking ruefully that fifteen dollars was half a night out for Denny and me—maybe a whole night out if we went to CrossRhodes Café where we could split a large Greek salad with gyros slices and a large order of lemony Greek fries and still have enough left over to rent a video. On the other hand, I thought, as Amanda grabbed an umbrella and ran out to pay the cab driver, she’s home safe and dry. That’s worth a lot, thank You, Jesus.

Josh called to say he was working late to get a big software shipment out before the weekend, and not to wait supper for him. So I served up two plates of Pad Thai from a box, saving a plate for Denny, while Amanda tried to coax Willie Wonka into the dining room for a half-hour reprieve from his kitchen jail cell. But the dog just wagged the tip of his tail, sighed, and laid his head down on his paws.

“Mo-om! What’s the matter? He won’t come!” The next moment, she took her plate and flopped on the floor beside the brown Lab. “I’m gonna eat in the kitchen with Wonka.”

I shrugged. “Huh. Guess it’s either eat by myself in the dining room or join the sit-in.” I sank to the floor beside my daughter and the dog with my plate, making Amanda laugh. “Say, got any ideas for Dad’s birthday next week?” April first, his birthday, was a week from today. “Oh, wait. That’s a Thursday! He won’t even be here for supper.”

Amanda dug into her Pad Thai noodles. “Don’t sweat it, Mom. Just celebrate on Friday. Dad won’t care. He probably gets tired of April Fool’s jokes on his birthday anyway.”

DENNY WAS PUMPED when he got home from the JDC, as usual. He leaned against the counter, eating his plate of Pad Thai standing up, while he related the latest saga of the Bible study in Unit 3B. “Two of our regulars weren’t there tonight. Found out one was found guilty of first-degree murder at his hearing and has been shipped out to the Joliet Youth Center. Makes me sick, Jodi. I don’t think he was the shooter, but because he was present at the time of the shooting, they got him on the accountability law. He cooperated, told what he knew, but they used it against him. The shooter, on the other hand, had enough street smarts to keep quiet—and he was acquitted for lack of evidence.” He shook his head and fell silent, eating his microwave-warm noodles.

Oh God! Is that what will happen to Chris Hickman? No, Lord, please . . . I swallowed. “How do you know this? I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to the kids about their cases.”

“Oscar Frost, mostly. He’s been trying to follow the cases as they’re reported in the newspaper, buried somewhere in the Metro pages, and online.”

“What about Chris? Was he there tonight?”

Denny nodded. “Yeah. He looks good. Has lost that sullen look he’d been affecting, and from all I can tell, doing good in his schoolwork too . . . though, man!” He waved his fork. “The kids can’t take any textbooks out of the school area. They’re not even supposed to have pencils in their cells—anything that could double as a weapon. So much for homework and studying. But . . .” Denny chewed thoughtfully. “Don’t think school is uppermost in his mind. His disposition is coming up at the end of the month. He asked me to pray.”

Definitely. I really needed to check in with Florida and find out how she was doing. Funny how easy it was to forget that her mother-heart must be weeping every day Chris was in jail. She seemed so strong; “life goes on” and all that.

“Hey. Almost forgot.” Denny pulled a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “Don’t know if you’d be interested, but the school at the JDC is looking for a volunteer English teacher to help the boys produce a play for their parents. Their regular teacher got mono and won’t be back for several weeks. I thought of you.”

“Me?” Was my husband crazy? “I have a full-time job, Denny. And I teach third graders. What do I know about teenagers?”

He chuckled. “You’ve got two of your own. And half your friends have teenagers—Florida, Yo-Yo, Delores. These boys aren’t that different. Well, yeah, true, they’ve come from some tough situations, made some bad choices. But under the skin, they’re just kids. Just kids . . .” He squatted down and scratched Willie Wonka behind the ears. “Hey, old buddy. I hear you’re going to see the vet this weekend.” He ran his hand thoughtfully over the dog’s thin body. “Anyway, think about it, Jodi. You’re a teacher—a good teacher. This would be something different, a way to reach out. It could be a lot of fun. You might have to do it during spring break, though.”

Give up my spring break?

Think of the possibilities, Jodi . . .

“Man, I don’t know, Denny.” I held out my hand for the sheet of paper. “Is that some information about what they want?”

He grinned up at me. “Uh, not exactly. It’s a form from the Sheriff ’s Department for a background check.”

THE RAIN WOKE ME up just minutes before the alarm. “Ohh,” I groaned. More rain! Four days in a row! And it wasn’t even April yet. That would make taking Willie Wonka outside miserable for me and the poor dog. But—I swung my legs out of bed—it had to be done, or we’d have another puddle in the kitchen before school.

I pulled Denny’s bathrobe around me and stuck my feet into my slippers, shuffling toward the kitchen. I missed my “Wonka alarm clock,” snuffling his nose into my face, letting me know he had to go out. But since he’d started to have bladder and bowel problems, we couldn’t let him sleep in our bedroom anymore.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” I said, swinging one leg over the safety gate in the kitchen doorway, then the other, and turning on the light. I sleepily filled the coffeepot with cold water, scooped coffee into the basket, and punched the On button. The coffee might as well be dripping while Wonka and I had our big adventure into the wet-and-wild outdoors.

The dog hadn’t moved, curled up on his doggy cushion near the door. “Hey, c’mon, Wonka,” I said, shaking him gently. “Let’s get this over with.”

He still didn’t move.

Suddenly, fear grabbed my throat. My heart started racing. “Wonka!” I yelled, this time shaking him roughly. No response. “Oh God, Oh God, oh nooooo . . . ” I fell backward, as if I’d been shocked with an electric current. “Denny!” I screamed, scrambling to my feet. “Come here! Quick!”

Footsteps thudded from the bedroom. Doors opened, more footsteps. Within seconds, Denny, in sleep shorts and T-shirt, had yanked the safety gate from the doorway and was at my side. Josh and Amanda, their hair tousled, their eyes wide, were right behind him.

“Wonka . . .” My voice barely came out in a whisper. Denny immediately squatted down on one knee and held his fingers to the dog’s neck.

“Oh, Mommy! . . . Oh no! He’s not . . . he’s not . . . is he?” Amanda started to cry. Josh reached out and put his arm around his sister, pulling her close.

Denny, still down on one knee, turned and looked up at us . . . and nodded slowly.

I burst into tears. Amanda threw herself down and covered Willie Wonka’s body with her own. “Wonka! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!” Her whole body shook with sobs. “You’re my only friend, Wonka! Please, please, don’t go . . .”

And then our arms reached out for each other, all four of us surrounding our beloved dog, our friend, whose love was unconditional . . . and we cried.