43

I got teary myself the next few days, every time I remembered how Florida and Carl had walked slowly along the backdrop after the performance, whispering together, as if seeing Chris’s talent for the first time. I don’t know what she said to him, but I saw her hug her boy a long time, and he had to brush the back of his arm across his eyes.

But the next day at church, she planted herself in front of me. “Hate to admit it, Jodi Baxter, but you was right about Chris. I didn’t see no use for all that scrawlin’ he was doin’, but after seein’ what he did for that play? Now I know God got His hand on my son, an’ He gonna raise him up to be somebody. I’m thinkin’ it’s time I quit tellin’ God what He’s s’posed ta do, and just start askin’ God to work out His own purpose for my boy, no matter what happens next Wednesday!”

Had to laugh, though, at the message she left on our answering machine on Monday. “I meant what I said yesterday, Jodi, ’bout trustin’ God for Chris no matter what happens at the hearing Wednesday. But that don’t mean you ain’t s’posed to keep prayin’ that the judge do right by my boy an’ send him home!”

I did pray—as I walked to school, every time I saw Carla, every time I saw Chris’s name on the sticky note I’d stuck to the bathroom mirror. But I was also having withdrawal pangs after spending two weeks with “the boys” at the JDC, and now suddenly . . . nothing. It seemed like a dream. God? What was it all about? Will I ever see those boys again? What’s going to happen to T.J. and Ramón and David . . . and Chris?

As Wednesday’s hearing approached, my anxiety level heightened, as if Chris were my own son. What if he was sent away to Joliet, like Jeremy? Oh God! . . .

I tried to be a reassuring presence for Carla, offering once more to take her home with me after school if Florida and Carl were delayed for some reason. When the dismissal bell rang on Wednesday, she hung around my desk after the other kids piled out of the room while I packed up my things. “Can I erase the board, Miz Baxter?”

“Sure, honey. Just leave today’s homework assignments.”

“Hey, Carla,” a male voice growled. “Ready to go home?”

Both of us jumped. I hadn’t heard the door open. Nor did I expect to hear that voice in my classroom—

“Chris!!!” Carla screamed, scattering papers, books, and stumbling over chairs as she threw herself into her brother’s arms. I was so astonished, I just watched in a daze as he swung her around and around, laughing so hard I thought both of them were going to fall over.

When Chris finally did put her down, Carla kept hopping up and down and hanging on him, so that finally he dragged her along like a ball-and-chain to where I stood, my mouth hanging like it’d been propped open with a toothpick. “Hey, Mrs. B.” He laughed. “You glad to see me?”

“Glad?!” Now I laughed, grabbing him in a hug. All that fear and worry and prayer and hoping came blubbering out of me all at once. Then I held him at arm’s length. “But . . . you’re out? Home? Free? Just like that? No sentence?”

“Nope. Judge believed me, that I didn’t know nothin’ ’bout that robbery till after it happened. Dropped the armed robbery charges. But she tol’ me I was headin’ for big trouble if I hung out with them gangbangers anymore. Said if I got picked up again, she’d put me in the slammer so fast, my ears would be ringin’.” He made a face. “Man, felt as if she’d blistered my behind by the time she got through.”

Carla tugged on his arm. “C’mon, Chris! Let’s go home!”

“Yeah. My folks are waitin’ outside for us. Come on out, Mrs. B, say hi.”

I walked down the hall with Chris and Carla and out the school’s double doors, once again wondering why I was so surprised when God answered our prayers. I’d told Florida, “Have faith, sister” . . . but when it came to my own—

“Hey, Jodi!” Florida waved out the passenger-side window of a navy blue Toyota Corolla. “Ya like it? Tol’ ya God was goin’ ta put a car in that garage of ours. One of Carl’s coworkers sold it ta him. Only ninety thousand miles—pretty good for a ’97.”

“Is it ours, Mama? Really, truly?” Carla pulled open the backseat door and hopped in. Chris slid in after her.

Carl waved at me from behind the wheel and the car started to move. Florida just laughed. “God is good, Jodi!” she yelled back at me. “All the time, God is good!”

THE WEATHER FORGOT TO LOOK at the calendar that weekend. May Day—the first of May—fell on Saturday, but the warm temperatures of April had fallen once more into the forties, along with a chilly rain.

Who cared! We were going to La Fiesta Restaurant that evening with the rest of Yada Yada and our families to party our socks off.

“Where’s Josh? Isn’t he coming?” Stu asked as she and Estelle piled into our Caravan with Denny, me, and Amanda.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I think so. He disappeared around noon today, said he’d meet us there.”

“I hope they don’t put us off in some party room an’ make us listen to Mr. Enriquez’s band piped in or somethin’,” Amanda grumped.

“That’s why we didn’t say we were coming as a group. Ricardo told us to come early and just fill up the place!” I glanced at Denny. Sure hoped that worked. The whole point was to listen to Ricardo’s mariachi band, dance, eat, laugh. Celebrate!

Because we sure had a lot to celebrate that night—not the least of which was that the whole Hickman family would be there. All five of them.

Most of us arrived around five-thirty, give or take fifteen minutes. By the time Ricardo arrived with his band at six o’clock—an hour earlier than usual, his “gift” to the restaurant, but really to us—we had filled up half the main room of the restaurant with its festive magenta walls, orange stucco ceiling, and terra cotta tiled floor. The wait staff, attired in white shirts, black pants or skirts, and black string ties, rushed about getting menus, water glasses, and silverware for everyone. When a young server spilled water all over Delores’s lap, Delores patted the air in a calming gesture. “Ninguna prisa. Estamos muy bien.”

“What’d she say?” I murmured to Amanda.

Amanda shrugged. “ ‘No hurry. We are fine’ . . . something like that.”

By the time most of us had our food—plates heaped with flautas, enchiladas, burritos, quesadillas, and more, along with the necessary rice and beans, tortilla chips, and salsa—the band was well into their first set, a string of mariachi favorites such as “Tú Sólo Tú” and “Volver, Volver.” José was playing a mandolin in the band tonight, and brought the house down with a mandolin solo on “Dos Arbolitos”—“Two Little Trees.” Amanda clapped so hard I thought she was going to break her chair.

Chanda and her kids arrived late, as usual—though parking her monster SUV couldn’t be the excuse tonight, since the restaurant had a good-size parking lot in back. I was happy to see that Rochelle and Conny came too. I craned my neck and skimmed the tables nearby. Was everyone else here? The five Hickmans and Becky filled one table, with Little Andy climbing all over Chris . . . Delores and her four dark-eyed niños sat with Avis and Peter . . . Ruth and Ben noshed with Yo-Yo and her brothers, who each held a twin . . .

My eyes lingered on the Sisulu-Smith table, where Mark and Nonyameko and their boys laughed and talked with Hoshi and Adele. Would we ever gather like this again, all the Yada Yadas with our families, to celebrate what God had done for us? What would the next year look like for Yada Yada? Becky and Estelle had been added this last year—one saved from prison, the other from the fire. Sheesh, Lord. If You have new sisters for Yada Yada, couldn’t you send them in less dramatic fashion next time?

I tackled my quesadillas. Well, at least we were all here right now. I should just be thankful for the moment—wait a minute! My head jerked up. Everyone was not here.

Josh and Edesa were missing.

I was so flummoxed that I almost missed Ricardo Enriquez at the mic, wearing the elegant charro suit of the mariachi band, introducing the next song. “. . . for my wife, Delores, who had a birthday this month.” He stepped off the small stage and stopped at Delores’s table with his large guitarrón, making her blush and sending the Enriquez children into giggles.

Stu poked me. “Good grief! Yada Yada forgot Delores’s birthday!” Huh. Did she mean Yada Yada—or me? Whatever. We’d make it up to her.

Ricardo’s serenade was beautiful. “What is he singing?” I whispered to Amanda.

“It’s ‘Las Mañanitas’,” she whispered back. “Something about ‘the lovely psalms sung by King David . . . today we sing them to a loved one who happy will be.’ ”

Delores was beaming when Ricardo rejoined his band on the stage. But once again, Ricardo leaned into the mic. “We have another special occasion to celebrate tonight. A young couple who have an announcement to make, but I don’t see them—oh, there they are. Ladies and gentlemen . . .” The entire band began strumming their guitars and violins like a stringed drum roll. “. . . may I present Joshua Baxter and Edesa Reyes.”

I clutched Denny’s arm. Young couple? Announcement? My heart nearly stopped as Josh and Edesa walked into the room hand in hand, as if they’d been waiting in the wings of a stage. Edesa, wearing a lovely white eyelet dress and fringed black-and-rose shawl, smiled radiantly beneath a halo of tiny black ringlets framing her mahogany skin. An audible gasp traveled around the tables. Amanda squealed.

Josh, looking manly and grown up in spite of the sandy hair curling down over the collar of his open-necked shirt, quickly took the mic and grinned our way. “Hey, pipe down, sis. Don’t steal my show.” They stood together in the spotlight, my tall Caucasian son and the beautiful young black woman from Honduras. Josh put his arm around Edesa. “I asked her to marry me—”

Edesa laughed and took the mic away from him. “And I said yes. In a year or two.” She held up her left hand. A simple diamond on her third finger flashed in the light.

The entire room erupted in a volcano of cheers, clapping, squeals, and laughter. I was so stunned I could hardly breathe; Denny’s tight grip around my waist didn’t help.

The band began to play. Ricardo took the mic. “Josh and Edesa have requested ‘Amar Es Para Siempre’—‘To Love Is Forever.’ For you gringos, the song says: ‘You’re my reason, my peace, my faith, my light . . . your smile is the sun of every dawn.’ ”

The band began to play. Josh took Edesa in his arms and, grinning at each other, they danced. It looked like a combination of a waltz and a salsa, but what do I know? But in the midst of the sweet violins and the floating figures in the spotlight, I heard that still, small Voice in my spirit . . .

Trust Me, Jodi. Trust My Spirit within these young people. Time for you to let go. And—think of the possibilities!