“And Natasha?”
“She's in grad school at the University of Michigan. Comes home once in a blue moon.”
I looked at the photo of Avis and Conrad on the cruise ship a long time, then finally set it down. “I wish I'd known him.” I turned to her. “Why haven't you ever mentioned him before? He seems like a wonderful man.”
Avis sat down on the love seat along the front windows, her gaze on the big elms lining the street. “Because . . . I miss him. It's not easy to talk about him. It's easier . . .” She hesitated. “. . . easier to just praise God for the good years we had, for giving him to me long enough to raise our girls.” She turned away from the window. “But if you want to know the truth, Jodi, it's not easy to be around married couples. That's one reason I turned down your invitation to dinner, because I knew when I got home, I'd probably tear my hair out, I'd feel so lonely. I didn't mean to be rude, but . . .” She shrugged.
Avis . . . lonely? Tearing her hair out? I was trying to absorb this new picture of the calm, self-assured Avis Johnson, principal of Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary School, the praise and worship leader at Uptown Community Church, whose joy spilled over to the rest of us, helping us white folks worship, helping us be thankful.
“I'm so sorry, Avis. I didn't know.” It was getting darker outside, and I really needed to get going. “How do you do itâkeep going, I mean. You always seem so happy.”
“I
am
happy. Really. As long as I keep my focus in the right placeâright on Jesus and all the good things God has done for me. Or Satan rushes right in and makes me start feeling sorry for myself.” She gave me a hug. “Thanks, Jodi . . . thanks for wanting to âmeet' Conrad. I think he'd like you, too.”
THE DIGITAL CLOCK ON THE DASH glowed 8:13 as I turned on the ignition. Ohmigosh, I was supposed to pick up Josh and Amanda from youth group on my way home, and I totally forgot! I was sure they'd be home by now anyway, but just in case I drove down Morse Avenue past Uptown's storefront exterior . . . no lights.
Okay, so I blew it. We'd have to work out the Sunday night car thing on the nights Yada Yada wanted to meet. But I couldn't feel bad; the whole evening had been incredible. I reached over and turned up the volume on the CD playerâand smiled. Avis had forgotten her CD.
I was halfway to the house from the garage before I noticed Denny sitting by himself on the back steps. “Hi! I'm home.”
“Uh-huh. Heard you before I saw you.”
“Heard me?âno, you didn't! The music wasn't that loud . . . was it?”
“Uh-huh. That loud.” But he reached up and pulled me down on the step beside him. Twilight had settled over the neighborhood, smudging the row of garages along the alley into a gray base that sprouted a silhouette of treetops and power lines against the cobalt blue of the sky. Only then did I notice that he was balancing a bottle with one hand on his knee.
Well, what of it. We'd talked about it and called a truce. He'd asked me to trust him, and so I would.
“Um, sorry I'm late. Did the kids get home okay?”
“Yeah, they got a ride. But your name is mud.”
“Oh dear.” I sighed. “I better go apologize.” I started to get up, but he pulled me back.
“Don't go. Not yet.”
I waited, but he said nothing more. We sat in a circle of silence, hearing only the hum of traffic over on Sheridan Road and the muted squeal of an el train. I began to feel anxious; how long had Denny been sitting out here like this? I'd expected to find him in front of the TV watching baseball.
“Denny? Is something wrong?”
He took a big breath and let it out slowly. “The school board hasn't renewed my contract yet for next year.”
“Hasn't . . . what does that mean?”
“Nothing yet. But they're talking budget cuts. And you know how it is: Last to come, first to go.”
“Oh, Denny.” I put my arm around his broad back and laid my head on his shoulder. “Oh, Denny . . . I'm so sorry.” But for one brief second it tickled my fancy like good news. Maybe we'd move back to Downers Grove, pick up our life where'd we'd left off a year ago. Our old neighborhood, our old jobs, our old church . . .
But I knew that's not what Denny wanted. He'd had tenure at his job in Downers Grove, and he had taken the risk of moving into the city because he felt that's what God wanted him to do.
And Yada Yada . . . I suddenly realized I didn't want my old life. Not if it didn't include Yada Yada. Whatever my “destiny” wasâ as Evangelist Olivia Mitchell had put itâit had something to do with Yada Yada. We'd only been a prayer group for barely two months, and already it had been a roller coaster ride that left me breathless. Shaken up. Energized.
Wanting more.
B
ut the idea of moving back to Downers Grove kept niggling at the edges of my thoughts, especially when I told Denny about the “yellow butterflies” on the flyer being a code for Ecstasy drugs at these teen raves. “I don't know, Denny,” I said a couple of hours later as I turned back the handmade quilt covering our bed and crawled in. “This stuff scares me. Maybe we should have waited till the kids are out of high school and
then
moved to Rogers Park.” My finger traced the circles of the “wedding ring” quilt my mother had made for us when we got married. Quilting . . . did anybody do that anymore? It seemed so quaint, so honorable, the stitches of a simpler life. Unfortunately, Amanda wouldn't get such a gift from my hands. Maybe I should give her this one . . .
Denny cut the bedside light and crawled in beside me, pulling me close, my head on his chest and our legs entwined. “Maybe. But we're fooling ourselves if we think our kids wouldn't face similar challenges out in the 'burbs. Drugs, sex, guns . . . they're everywhere. Remember Columbine? Safe town, safe schoolâor so everyone thought.”
I shivered against the warmth of Denny's bare chest. I didn't want to think about Columbine. “What are we going to do, Denny?” I whispered into the dark. “About your job, I mean.”
“Nothing yet. Pray, I guess. Heyâget Yada Yada praying. That ought to shake up the heavenlies.”
FRANKLY, WE DIDN'T HAVE MUCH TIME to think
or
pray all that week, except on the run. Since it was the last week of school for all four of us, the kids had exams, Denny had to turn in phys ed grades and attend end-of-year award ceremonies for the different sports programs, and I had to give the bad news to three parents that their offspring would have to repeat third grade or get special tutoring this summer to bring their reading and math skills up to fourth-grade level. One parent did not take this well and accused me of everything from being a racist to committing “gross emotional abuse” for “letting” her child fail.
I wanted to go nose to nose with this outraged mother and tell her I would be more than happy to pass her child on to fourth grade because
I didn't want to have to suffer her kid in my class one
more minute, much less another whole year!
But I didn't. She would, I said calmly, have to take up her complaints with Ms. Johnson.
On the last day of school, I used the money I'd collected from the Darn Lucky Box to buy Ho-Hos for my class, and gave back everybody's “lost” items who hadn't botheredâor been ableâto redeem them with the requisite quarter.
When I got home, Amanda waved her report card under my nose. She'd passed Spanish! We celebrated by taking the kids out for pizza at Gullivers on Howard StreetâChicago pizza at its best, in our opinion. We might get an argument from friends who swore by Gino's or Giordano's or Carmen's . . . but let any visitor mention California pizza, or even New York pizza, and we united with one voice:
Any
Chicago pizzeria beat out the competition by a long shot.
Gullivers not only had great pizza, but it was practically a museum of Victorian chandeliers, antique wall mirrors, old paintings in ornamental frames, brass lamps in every shape and size, even marble busts and nymph-like maidens. The weather was nice enough that, we could have eaten in the inner courtyard, but we elected to sit in a booth, its thick wooden table polished dark and smooth by many arms and elbows. Denny slid in beside Amanda, and Josh beside me.
We had finished sharing the hot breadsticks and large Italian saladâ“Ewww!” Amanda cried, throwing all the anchovies on Denny's plateâand had just started in on the large sausage pizza with mushrooms and black olives, when Denny brought up the yellow butterflies. “Did either of you know drugs would be available at that teen rave?”
Amanda's mouth fell open. “No! That's stupid! Why would they advertise it as âalcohol free' and then sell drugs?”
“Good question,” I muttered.
“Josh?”
Josh shook his head with a nonchalant shrug. “No . . . but I'm not really surprised.”
“But you were actually thinking about going!” I protested.
“Hellooo. Mom, I see guys dealin' drugs all the time. If you want a guarantee that no drugs would show up
anywhere
I go, I'd have to join a monastery or somethin'.”
I raised my eyebrows at Denny.
Say something!
“Point taken,” Denny said patiently. “But if kids get caught dealing drugs at school, they get busted. It's illegal. It's against the rules. The school works hard to keep drugs out. Even if it âhappens,' that
is
different from an event that blatantly sells drugs to teenagers. So, just to be clear: The answer is already âno' to any party, social activity, or event that isn't supervised by responsible adults committed to a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to alcohol and drugs for underage kids.”
“That wouldn't keep me from getting drugs if I wanted to.” Josh tilted his chin defiantly.
I nearly choked on my pizza.
“Chill,
Mom. I'm not going to pop some stupid Ecstasy pill or start doin' drugs. That's just my point. You guys sound like you don't trust us. It's my own
decision
that keeps me from messin' with drugsânot your rules.”
I just stared at Josh, then at Denny, then at the pizza crust on my plate. I did trust my kids . . . didn't I? But I didn't trust the world “out there.” They were still
kids,
after all!
“We do trust you, Josh.” Denny's tone was gentle. “Amanda, too. We're proud of you both. But we're your parents, and we have a responsibility to put guidelines on what we feel is appropriate or not appropriate. At the same time, you're absolutely right. We can't protect you from everythingâespecially at your age, Josh. You're almost an adult, and bottom line? It is the decisions
you
make, the ones that come from within, that determine the way you will go.”
Well, okay. That's a good speech from someone who was Mr. Party
Animal in college.
“Sometimes people make the wrong decisions.” I kept my eyes on my plate, moving a piece of sausage around with my fork. “And some decisions have terrible consequences.”
From the corner of my eye, I could tell Denny had leveled his gaze across the table at me. “Yes, people do make mistakes, Jodi. But sometimes that's part of the learning process.”
Amanda sucked out the last of her soda. “Dad, can we get another pitcher of root beer? And about the party stuff . . . does that mean you don't want us to be friends with Pete and Jerry?”
“Yes, root beer . . . and yes, friends. But how about on your terms? Like inviting them to some of the youth activities at Uptown. Or a day at Great America or something.”
Had to hand it to Denny. Frankly, I'd been thinking,
Friends?
You gotta be kidding!
But that was a good idea, a Jesus idea, inviting Yo-Yo's brothers to stuff . . . maybe Chris Hickman, too, Florida's oldest. I didn't get the impression that Florida had found a regular church yet.
I just hoped my kids wouldn't get rebuffed like I had when I gave Nony that camp brochure.
JOSH AND AMANDA had another full day Saturday doing work projects to raise money for the mission trip. Hmm. We might have to pay our own kids to get the Baxter windows washed this year. But while they were gone, I decided to give Yo-Yo a call and just be straight up about the reen rave flyerâparent to parent. Besides, I'd been meaning to tell her she could borrow one of my modern English Biblesâor I'd give it to her, for that matter.
Yo-Yo picked up on the second ring. “Yeah?”
“Yo-Yo? It's me, Jodi.”
“Oh, hey, Jodi. Whassup?”
I told her I had a “plain English” Bible she could have. “Okay. That's cool. Thanks, Jodi.”
“Um . . . Yo-Yo?” Why was I such a big chicken about this? “Have you seen those flyers about teen ravesâjust for teenagers seventeen and under?”
“Yeah. I've seen 'em around.”
“Did you know Pete gave one to Josh and Amanda and invited them to come?”
“Pete
did?” The string of swear words that followed took me aback.
“I'm sure he was just trying to be friendly,” I hastened to say. “But Florida clued us in on the yellow butterfliesâ”
“Jesus!”
I hesitated. I was pretty sure she wasn't calling on Jesus.
“Look,Yo-Yo, I'm not trying to get Pete in trouble or anything. We didn't let our kids go. Maybe Pete didn't go, either; I don't really know. Just wondered if you knew about it, and since both our kidsâwell, our kids and your brotherâwere talking about it, just wanted to compare notes, see what you think.”
“He's busted; that's what I think.” She expelled a long sigh. “But I gotta work evenings . . . it's hard keepin' an eye on what he's doin', 'specially Saturday night.”
“Yeah, I know. We all gotta pray for our kids.”
Yo-Yo laughed. “Guess I gotta get on the main line now, huh? Like all the rest o' you. Hey . . . you gonna visit Nony's church next week? Ruth and me was thinkin' of comin'âif I can get off Sunday. I'm tryin' to change my day off, but they ain't too happy about it.”