As the phone rang, I chastised myself. This was dumb, calling the shop. Adele was certain to be busy, and a message from me would just make her wary. I was about to do a quick hang-up when someone answered the phone. “Adele’s Hair and Nails.”
Adele’s voice.
“Oh. Hi, Adele. It’s Jodi. Sorry to bother you at work. If this isn’t—”
“It’s all right. What’s up?”
What’s up?! Like we haven’t left a zillion messages in the last four weeks. “I wanted to let you know about your stolen ring.” That’ll keep her on the line.
“What about it?”
“Well, Sergeant Curry, the officer who took our statements that night—”
“I know who Sergeant Curry is.”
Easy, Jodi, that’s just Adele’s way. Don’t get jelly-knees over it. “Well, Sergeant Curry told us that . . . that . . .” Becky Wallace? Bandana Woman? “. . . uh, the woman who robbed us pled guilty, and she’s already been sentenced to ten years at Lincoln Correctional Center.”
“What about my ring?”
“That’s just it. Since there isn’t going to be a trial, they’re releasing our stolen jewelry. No evidence needed. You can pick it up at the Twenty-Fourth District Police Station on Clark—not too far from your shop.”
“So I gotta go pick it up?”
“That’s what they said.”
“All right. Thanks, Jodi—”
“Wait. Adele, do you have another minute? I really need to talk to you about what happened the day you gave me the makeover for my anniversary.”
For a moment only silence answered me from the other end.
“Adele?”
I heard a sigh. I could well imagine Adele’s large chest heaving in exasperation, and I was glad we weren’t actually face to face. “Just a minute” was all she said, then her voice moved away from the phone yelling, “Corey! Can you keep an eye on the desk? An’ answer the phone if it rings—line two. My four-thirty’s late. If she comes in, tell her to wait.”
I couldn’t hear what Corey said in reply, but it must have been in the affirmative, because I could hear Adele walking—a soft shush, shush, shush—then a door closed.
“All right. You wanna talk.”
Ohmigosh. My mind was suddenly blank. Where should I start? “Yes. Uh . . . first of all, how is MaDear?”
Another big Adele sigh. “She’s hangin’. Has some good days an’ some bad days. Nights are worst. Nightmares, screaming . . .”
“Oh, Adele.” My heart sank. “I’m so sorry.” I paused, but Adele didn’t offer any more. “Avis told us why MaDear screamed at Denny that day—I mean, who she thought he was . . . and what happened when she was a girl.”
Silence.
“Adele, Denny and I had no idea she had suffered such a terrible tragedy. I wish there was a way we could communicate to her how sorry we are.”
“Wouldn’t help. Would just set her off. Just . . . leave it be.”
I tried to gather my courage. “That’s hard,Adele. It really hurts Denny to think your mother thinks he’s the guy who . . . who murdered her brother. That’s like . . . like a false accusation!”
“Look.” I heard Adele suck in her breath, and her tone got hard. “Don’t go telling me MaDear’s making a ‘false accusation.’ She’s got dementia or Alzheimer’s—whatever. Don’t take it personal, but as long as she thinks that way, do me a favor and just stay out of her life, okay?”
I winced. Adele’s words were hard, unsympathetic. But I pushed on. “Okay, but why are you staying out of our life?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“You know. Not returning our phone calls, staying away from Yada Yada. I feel like you’re blaming us for something we didn’t do.” There. It was out. I held my breath.
The silence was long and heavy on the other end. Finally Adele spoke, her words measured and tight. “Look. Right now, I can’t really be worried about how you and Denny are feeling. What happened that day . . . get over it. It’s not a big deal for you; just a misunderstanding by a senile old lady. But it is a big deal for me. It is a big deal for my mother, who wakes up at night terrified, and it’s two, sometimes three hours before I can get her back to sleep.”
I heard the front door slam. Usually Amanda called out, “I’m home!” but all I heard was something being dumped on the floor— backpack, probably—and footsteps stalking down the hall. I caught a glimpse of my daughter as she stomped past the dining room doorway and into the bathroom. Another slammed door.
I stifled a groan. It was going to be a long two weeks.
“And to be honest?” Adele continued in my ear. “It’s brought up a lot of old feelings I thought I’d dealt with. My uncle was murdered— murdered, Jodi—by a bunch of white racists for who-knows-what stupid offense. Acting like a human being, no doubt. That was before my time, and my sister and me, we always rolled our eyes at the old stories. We pretended everything was different now, even when we got chased out of stores just for lookin’ and when Daddy got stopped by the cops just for ‘drivin’ black.’ But seeing how that lynchin’ still terrifies my mother . . . yeah. I got some feelings. And I’m sorry if that’s steppin’ on your toes.”
I had no idea what to say, so I didn’t say anything, just sat slumped over the table with the phone at my ear. I half-expected Adele to slam down the phone, but Adele was on a roll. “As for what happened at your house a couple of weeks ago?
That was just the last straw. I talked myself into coming to Yada Yada that night. Big mistake. I know, it was traumatic for everybody. Wasn’t your fault—wasn’t nobody’s fault. But with MaDear half off her rocker ’cause of what white folks did when she was a kid—not to mention everything my family has put up with from ignorant bigots all the years I was comin’ up—the last thing I needed was some doped-up white floozy messin’ with me. Tie me up? Steal my grandmother’s ring? If I think on it too long, I’ll get crazy myself, probably do something I regret.” She blew out a breath. “So. You asked. That’s my answer. I’m takin’ a break from Yada Yada, and from white folks in general if I can help it. And don’t come crying to me about how bad you feel. What you feel ain’t nothin’ compared to what I’m dealing with right now, and I don’t have time to worry about your hurt feelings. Get over it, Jodi—that’s all I can say.”
A dozen backlashes sprang to my tongue, but I knew I wouldn’t say them. I wanted to yell, I wanted to cry—but mostly I wanted to get off the phone before I did either. “All right, Adele.” My voice came out in a croak. “You made yourself plain. I’m sorry. That’s all I know to say.” And I hung up.
I was so mad and so hurt, I wanted to throw pots and pans or break a window or something—anything. Instead I just clenched my fists and sputtered, “Arrrrrggghhhh!” at the top of my lungs. I paced back and forth between the kitchen and dining room, holding a hundred angry dialogues with Adele in my head, telling her she’s the one who needs to “get over it” instead of taking it out on friends who never did anything to her—not just me and Denny, but all the Yada Yada sisters.
I got out a pot, dumped it into the sink, and filled it with water for chicken noodle soup. I banged it onto the stove, slopping some of the water and putting out the gas flame. By the time Denny and Josh walked in the door, the soup was almost done, the kitchen was a mess, Amanda was holed up in her room, and I was in no mood to be social. “Dish up some soup when you get hungry,” I grumbled. “I’m taking Willie Wonka for a walk.”
WILLIE WONKA lasted about twenty minutes—long enough for us to make it to Touhy Park, which normally took five minutes— but I hadn’t figured on Willie stopping to sniff every tree, leaving his “mark” to let the next dog know who’d passed by. By the time we got to the park, he was huffing. I found a bench and sat down so Willie could rest up for the walk home.
The conversation with Adele kept replaying in my mind. “Don’t come crying to me about how bad you feel . . . ain’t nothin’ compared to what I’m dealing with . . . get over it, Jodi . . . don’t have time to worry about your hurt feelings . . . I’m taking a break from Yada Yada and white folks in general . . .”
But rehashing it only fed my festering anger. I sighed. Okay, God. What am I supposed to do now? You tell me—’cause I don’t have a clue.
It was starting to get dark by the time I dragged Willie into the front door forty-five minutes later. Denny and Josh were in the living room flipping channels and watching sports news, empty soup bowls cluttering up the coffee table. Amanda, no doubt, was still sulking in her room.
Denny glanced up. “Good. You’re back.” His tone was reproachful, like, “Okay, you’re mad, but don’t make me worry about you.” I stood in the doorway a minute, wishing he’d jump up and say, “You upset about something, honey? Wanna talk?” But I knew it wouldn’t happen. When Denny’s feelers pick up that I’m working on a mad, he usually backs off and leaves me alone till I cool off.
Grow up, Jodi. He probably thinks you’re mad at him for who-knows-what. I unsnapped Willie Wonka’s leash and straightened. “Yeah. Sorry I went off like that. I had an upsetting phone call with Adele. Had to blow off steam before I was ready to talk about it.”
That got Denny’s attention. He even got up off the couch and followed me to the kitchen, leaning against the doorway while I dished up a bowl of chicken noodle soup. “Wanna tell me about it?”
I nodded, and we sat at the dining-room table while I recounted the conversation as best I could between spoonfuls of soup.The hot, salty liquid felt good going down, like a hot water bottle soothing my ruffled feelings. Denny was hearing the conversation for the first time, and by the end he was pacing around the room, rubbing the back of his head.
Finally he threw up his hands. “Well, that’s it. I don’t know what else to do. Maybe Adele’s right. Just get over it.” He practically threw himself down on a chair.
“Yeah. Except . . . it’s hard to ‘just get over it’ when she’s dropping out of Yada Yada too. All the sisters are gonna feel hurt.”
I pushed away my empty soup bowl, and we both sat silently at the table, hugging our own thoughts. It suddenly occurred to me I was still thinking mostly about me. In the quiet of the dining room, with only the TV providing distant background noise, I rehearsed our conversation once more, but this time paying more attention to what Adele was feeling . . .
“It is a big deal for me . . . my uncle was murdered, Jodi—by a bunch of white racists . . . my mother wakes up at night terrified, and it’s two, sometimes three hours before I can get her back to sleep again . . . my sister and me got chased out of stores just for lookin’ . . . Daddy got stopped by the cops for ‘drivin’ black’ . . . everything my family has put up with from ignorant bigots . . .”
I looked up at Denny, who was still slumped in one of the dining-room chairs. “I know what we can do.”
“What?”
“Pray for Adele and MaDear.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me. “O-kaaay. Sounds, uh, virtuous.”
I giggled. “I know. But I’m serious. How many times do I actually pray for my so-called enemies—or even someone who makes me upset? I stew . . . I fret . . . I try to work it out. But Adele’s right about one thing—I wanted to talk to her to make me feel better.”
Denny sighed. “Yeah. Me too. Okay, let’s pray for Adele and MaDear. But there’s something else I gotta do.”
“What?”
He got up and grabbed the checkbook we kept in the computer desk. “Pay Adele something for your anniversary makeover. Don’t want that to come back to bite me.”