29

Denny and I finally talked. Not exactly sure we came out at the same place, but at least we talked. I woke up early enough on Memorial Day to get some quiet time in the living room with my coffee, Willie Wonka, and Jesus. That was a good start. For a while I just soaked up the pleasure of not having to rush out of the house on a Monday morning and let myself fantasize about the day school would be out. Frankly, I could hardly wait. My first year teaching in a Chicago public school was hardly the high point of my teaching career—even with a good principal like Avis. Part of me longed for the third grade class I’d taught in Downers Grove, where everybody spoke standard English, and I only had to deal with thirty different personalities, not thirty different cultures.

I wasn’t sure I was ever going to “get it.” Frankly, I dreaded starting over again next fall with an entirely new class. A lot of the kids were sweet, but it only took one eight-year-old thug-in-the-making to ruin it for everyone, including me.

But I prayed. Prayed for Chanda and the fear she was dealing with, and that she’d suck up the courage to get to a doctor. Prayed for Ruth, for the loss of the little girl she’d hoped to adopt but instead lost forever. Prayed for Florida, that she could be reunited with Carla as soon as possible. Prayed for Carla, who hadn’t seen her mommy in five years. (Five years . . . I couldn’t even imagine not seeing Amanda for five years.) I even prayed for the foster family who would have to give her up.

And I prayed for Denny and me, that we could get over this little hump. I mean, Jesus, we’ve been married almost twenty years—twenty good years—and we have learned to work out a lot of differences. How come we’re suddenly tripping over this?

I spent several hours at school, along with quite a few other teachers taking advantage of the holiday to decorate our classrooms, and felt pretty ready for the Parents Day coming up on Friday . . . providing Kevin kept his pencil to himself and didn’t vandalize anybody’s work, or we didn’t have a bomb threat or something.

Denny and Josh were over at Touhy Park shooting baskets when I got home, and by the time they got home and showered, it was time to pack up the bratwurst, buns, charcoal, lighter fluid, and the hot beans I’d left baking in the oven and head for Lighthouse Beach.

So it was almost eight o’clock that evening before Denny and I had a chance to take a walk, leaving Amanda and Josh, over their protests about “homework,” to clean up the picnic stuff. We walked hand in hand down Lunt Avenue toward Sheridan Road and ended up at Panini Panini sidewalk café, where we ordered iced coffee—decaf.

I told Denny everything Stu had told us about tracking down a foster child they thought was Carla. “That’s gotta be tough,” he said, twisting his iced coffee around and around on the round glass tabletop. “Tough for the family who’s been taking care of her for five years, tough for Carla, tough for Florida who’s been working so hard to put her life together again.”

I pulled out the flyer Yo-Yo’s brother had given to Josh and Amanda. “What do you think of this?” I asked, not wanting to wave all my red flags yet, since I didn’t really have much ground to stick them in.

He gave it a good once over. “Hmm. I don’t think so—not till we know a lot more about what goes on at these teen raves. So for this coming Saturday, anyway, it’s out.”

I gaped at him in happy relief. How did Denny do that? Yes or no—bam, that’s it. Well, I’d let him tell Josh and Amanda.

We were silent for a while, slurping our iced coffees till we were sucking air at the bottom. After getting Denny’s agreement on the teen rave thing, I hated bringing up a sore point. Maybe, like he said, I was making too big a deal over the whole thing. And I could take responsibility for jumping all over him.

I set down my plastic cup. “Denny? About yesterday . . . I really do see that you felt caught in the middle between Ben Garfield and me about the beer. And I’m sorry that I made it such a big issue . . .”

He tore his eyes away from the assorted species of humanity walking by the sidewalk café in everything from sloppy sandals to combat boots. “Okay, thanks. I appreciate your saying that.”

“But I’m still confused about why you bought all that beer in the first place.”

A finger tapped impatiently. “I thought we went over that.”

“I know, but . . . “ I’d thought of another point in my favor. “I mean, after your dad’s heart attack last year, doesn’t it make sense not to drink at all? I mean, that stuff tends to run in families.”

He shrugged slightly. “Actually, there are a lot of studies that say a moderate amount of alcohol is good for your heart.”

“But . . .” Frustration began to lick at the edges of our conversation. “It’s not just that. We’ve got teenagers who are very impressionable. And what if we offend some of our new friends who got saved out of all sorts of addictions?”

He seemed to be studying my face. “That’s really it, isn’t it? It would embarrass you if your new friends saw a bottle of wine or some beer at our house.”

“No! I . . .” I stopped. Be honest, Jodi. “Okay, yeah. I . . . I just don’t want anybody to be offended, or think—”

“—or think your husband’s a lush.” Denny looked at me hard. Then, to my surprise, he leaned forward and took my hands. “Jodi. We’ve been married almost twenty years. Have I ever gotten drunk? Or abused alcohol in any way?”

I looked down at our entwined hands. “No, but . . .” Why couldn’t he just not do it because I didn’t want him to?

We sat in silence for a few moments as twilight settled over the city and the streetlights came on. The evening was warm and, if anything, the cars and foot traffic going up and down Sheridan Road grew thicker, like the ants that had found our picnic that afternoon.

Denny sighed. “Look, Jodi. It really bugs me the way you’ve been jumping all over me. Like you don’t trust me. And I don’t think I’ve given you any reason to do that. But let’s call a truce. I won’t stuff the refrigerator with beer, and I promise to be very circumspect when it comes to your friends. And you promise to give me the benefit of the doubt, okay? Romans fourteen, remember?”

I nodded grudgingly. Pastor Clark had given a good teaching last month from the fourteenth chapter of Romans on “Christian freedom” in what we eat and drink, while also being careful not to be a stumbling block for others or cause them to sin. But surely that wasn’t the only Scripture passage that might apply here.

“Okay, come on.” Denny pulled me to my feet. “That waiter is giving us the evil eye. ‘Vacate that table, you miserable penny pinchers, or order some actual food!’ ”

I laughed as he pulled me toward the intersection to cross with the light. “Oh, gosh, Denny, I forgot to tell you the most amazing thing. Remember that time I picked up a panhandler—eons ago—and you got mad at me for being so naive?”

THE NEXT TWO WEEKS seemed to pile up on each other, like a rug runner that kept bunching up instead of lying flat. Parents Day was a success, more or less, though for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why a third of my parents didn’t even show. But now that June was here, the school day consisted mostly of corralling thirty young prisoners who had suddenly smelled freedom. “Get back in your seat!” “No, you went to the bathroom ten minutes ago.” “Because I said so, that’s why.” “No punching!” The worst part was enduring the sullen looks of my young charges who acted like I had denied them parole.

If I had my way, it’d be against the law to have school after Memorial Day. But so far the Chicago School Board hadn’t asked my opinion.

Josh and Amanda got several calls from church members for the Saturday teen workdays—washing windows, childcare, painting a stairwell—so they actually had an excuse when Pete called to ask if they were coming to the teen rave. I wondered if Yo-Yo had given permission for him to go. On the other hand, she worked at the deli Saturday nights. Maybe she didn’t know.

Stu came to church on Sunday, but she said the earliest appointment Florida could get with DCFS was next week. Personally, I’d hate to be the social worker who told Florida she had to wait. Probably was walking around with a blistered ear.

I checked up on Yada Yada e-mail when I could. Lots more chatting since we’d met face to face at Florida’s party. Even Ruth sent an e-mail telling Chanda to get her behind to the doctor right now or she’d come over and take her herself. I hit “reply” and reminded Ruth that Chanda didn’t have e-mail, and she’d have to use the phone to threaten her.

Had to laugh, though. If we weren’t careful, Ruth would smother-mother the lot of us. But I was so glad God had steered Yada Yada through that minefield.

Hoshi was still anxious about her parents’ visit . . . Ricardo Enriquez still hadn’t found a job—or Florida’s husband, either, for that matter . . . Nony wanted Yada Yada to visit her church in Evanston—the Worship Center, or something like that—but said we could decide on a date when we got together at Adele’s . . .

By the time the second Sunday of June rolled around, I was eager to see everybody in Yada Yada again—not to mention I could use some prayer-and-praise encouragement to make it through the last week of school. How did Avis keep her poise through all the ruckus? Teachers were harried, parents were complaining about grades, a fifth grader even had to go to the hospital because a classmate shot her in the eye with a rubber band and a paper clip!

Adele’s apartment was practically close enough to walk to—only about ten blocks from our house—but Denny said, no, he wanted me to take the car and not be walking alone on the streets, especially coming home. Things were good with Denny and me since our talk—at least the “beer discussion” seemed to have dissipated.

I called up Avis and asked if she’d like a ride—one less parking place to have to find. As I packed my Bible and notebook into my tote bag, I noticed I still had the old flyer about the teen rave stuck in there. I was about to throw it out, then left it on the off chance I’d get a minute to ask Yo-Yo what she knew about these raves, since I could almost bet the subject would come up again.

It wasn’t easy finding a parking place near Adele’s apartment building on a Sunday afternoon. In fact, Avis and I circled the block at least two times hoping someone would pull out and leave us a space. Finally pulled into a lot that said, “For customers only! All others will be towed!” and crossed our fingers. Only had to walk two blocks to get to Adele’s building.

We arrived at 5:10, afraid we were late. But Avis and I were actually the first ones. I sipped the glass of lemonade Adele pushed into my hand, and Avis admired Adele’s collection of “All God’s Children” figurines, while the others straggled in over the next thirty minutes. Couldn’t really blame them—most had farther to come, and some, like Florida, didn’t even have a car.

Adele’s first-floor apartment seemed dark, and I realized all the blinds were pulled, even though it was still daylight. I had the urge to run from room to room, pulling up all the blinds and opening the windows, but I drowned the urge with more lemonade and joined Avis by the glass cabinet that held the cute collection of African-American figures. But finally everyone arrived who was coming, even Hoshi this time, who got a ride with Nony. Delores was on duty at the hospital, but Stu had picked up Edesa since she had to drive in on the Eisenhower Expressway from Oak Park anyway. I certainly hoped Stu’s fancy silver Celica wouldn’t be missing its hubcaps when we got done here today.

In my eagerness to give Florida a big hug, I knocked over the glass of lemonade I’d set on the floor, and it spilled all over my tote bag. “Better that than Adele’s rug,” Florida snickered under her breath, fishing out my Bible, notebook, keys, and wallet from the wet bag while I ran to find some paper towels in Adele’s kitchen. When I came back to the living room, she was pulling out the now-soggy flyer.

“Hate to tell ya, Baxter,” she teased, waving it around, “but you’re over seventeen. If you’re into Ecstasy, you’ll have to get it at a forty-something rave.”

I stopped, the wad of paper towels still in my hand. “What do you mean, Ecstasy?” Florida rolled her eyes. “Oh, girl, it’s there right under your nose. Look.” She shoved the flyer in front of my face. “See all those yellow butterflies? Yellow Butterfly—that’s the street name for one kind of the Ecstasy drug. Red Camel . . . Boogie Nights . . . Cloud 9 . . . some others, too.” She took the paper towels out of my hand and started to mop up the spilled lemonade. “You savin’ that flyer for some reason?”