2-in-1 Yada Yada (42 page)

T
his time Denny did duck, and the hand mirror shattered against the front door. The blood had drained out of his face, and his mouth hung open.

The rest of us stood glued to the floor, stunned. Adele finally got her big arms around her mother in a body lock, but MaDear was putting up a good fight. “Git 'im out! Git 'im out!” she continued to screech, flailing her bony arms—and then she started to cry. “No-o-o . . . noooooooo. Not agin . . .”

Thoughts skittered like water bugs through my brain.
What's
she talking about? What set her off? Why Denny? Who's Larry?

“Everybody just leave,” Adele ordered gruffly, wrestling the tiny woman toward the back room. “Go on.
Go.
'Cept Avis. Avis, come on back and help me.”

“But . . .” Denny reached for his wallet, his face stricken. “I haven't paid for . . . for—”

Florida stepped toward Denny and stopped him. “Don't worry 'bout that now, Denny. Come on, do what Adele says. Come on Jodi . . . Stu.” Florida pulled open the door of the beauty salon and practically pushed Denny outside. Stu and I grabbed our purses and followed on their heels.

The four of us stood on the sidewalk, just out of sight of the salon's front window, and looked stupidly at one another. Denny gingerly touched the red mark on his forehead where the brush had clipped him. “What happened in there?”

Stu shook her head, mouth twisting in disgust. “It's just MaDear. She's nuts.”

“Maybe.” Florida's eyes narrowed. “But I think somethin' else was going on.”

“Like what?” My initial shock was starting to thaw, and anger was bubbling up in its place.
Thanks, thanks a lot, MaDear, for ruining
Denny's makeover surprise.
And,
That woman's dangerous! Adele
should put her in an institution—under lock and key.

Florida shook her head, setting her new crown of little ringlets dancing. “I dunno. She's confused, sure 'nough, but there's some-thin' . . . somethin' real behind what just happened. Know what I'm sayin'?”

No, I didn't know what she was saying. MaDear's little tantrum had popped my bubble, and I was having a hard time getting back my enthusiasm for the day. Our day. Denny's and mine . . .

I looked at Denny. His shoulders were hunched, his hands shoved in the pockets of his Dockers, looking for all the world like one of Peter Pan's lost boys, in spite of the gray flecks in his dark hair. My anger softened. “You okay, Denny?”

He pinched his lips together and nodded, but he didn't look okay. He looked . . . distressed. Troubled.

“So, Denny.” Stu shifted gears. “What do you think of our girl?” She took hold of my shoulders and turned me around. I almost shrugged off her hands, but it worked. Denny's face relaxed a bit into a smile.

“I like it. You . . .” The smile got bigger. “You look great, Jodi. Really great.”

“All right!” Florida gave Stu a high-five. “Didn't I say you gotta trust your hairdresser? And your friends.”

“Yeah,” I admitted. Denny's sweet words soothed my ruffled spirit. “Yeah, thanks a lot, you guys.”

“No problem, no problem.” Florida laid it on thick. “Anything to help a friend. And you sure did need help, girl.”

“Enough already, Florida! Stop while you're ahead!” I pulled a face, making her laugh.

“All right, all right.” She grabbed Stu and started off down the sidewalk. “You two lovebirds have a good time tonight, ya hear?”

I watched them go, realizing that Stu had to go all the way back to Oak Park, west of the city, and Florida must have come straight after getting off her shift at the post office. They'd really put themselves out for me today. Avis too.

Denny checked his watch. “Hey, it's already past five. I got dinner reservations for seven. We better get home so I can make myself presentable. Don't want people thinking, ‘What's that chick see in that old man?' ”

I giggled like a teenager, flattered by the silly compliment— and suddenly realized how patient Denny had been with my banged-up self the last few months. “So where are we going, Mr. Tambourine Man? You're full of surprises today.”

The color had returned to his face—the dimples, too, creasing the sides of his face when he smiled. “Oh, thought we might go to the Bagel Bakery where Yo-Yo works, try out their kugel—ouch! I'm kidding!”

He deserved the punch on the shoulder. “I mean, where are we going
really?”

Denny took my elbow and propelled me across the street, prompting another horn-blowing serenade. “Wouldn't you like to know? Guess you'll have to come with me to find out.”

I WAS WORRIED that Denny might think he had to spend a hundred dollars on a five-star restaurant to make it a special date— especially since he didn't know yet that I'd already charged the Starved Rock Lodge on our credit card. The last time we'd tried out one of those super-fancy restaurants downtown (our tenth anniversary?—probably), we tried not to stare open-mouthed when the tuxedoed waiter put a huge plate in front of each of us with three long green beans artistically arranged on one side, a two-inch-thick “steak medallion” the size of a cookie cutter (“But wrapped in bacon!” Denny had pointed out), and half of a twice-baked potato, whipped up like a Dairy Queen. The food—what there was of it—had been melt-in-your-mouth tasty, but we decided the chef must be a former magazine editor who liked lots of “white space.” Only the check came with generous portions.

So I was relieved when Denny ushered me into the Ethiopian Diamond Restaurant on Broadway Avenue. I should have guessed. Some of our friends had been recommending it for months. (“The food is to die for! And the portions are huge!” “So authentic! Lots of atmosphere.”) The waiters were all Ethiopian, flashing bright-white smiles, and eager to explain the menu, which offered appetizers like
sambusas
(dough shells stuffed with vegetables or meat) and entrees like
gomen watt
(collard greens simmered in garlic and ginger sauce) and
kitfo
(seasoned steak tartare). There were no utensils on the white tablecloths, and I soon realized why by watching other diners, who were tearing off pieces of a pancakelike bread (“injera,” our waiter informed us) and dipping it into the various bowls of stews and vegetables.

Denny and I held hands across the small table in the corner of the main room, where we had a good view of the five large paintings around the walls depicting scenes from different parts of Ethiopia. “This is great.” I grinned. “Good choice.”
Except for the eating-with-our-
fingers part,
I thought, wondering if my newly painted fingernails would survive the meal. Denny looked delicious—open-necked black knit shirt, tan pants, and a wheat-colored sport coat setting off the even tan he got running around blowing whistles at peewee soccer players all summer. I wore the black slinky dress I'd borrowed for the Chicago Women's Conference last May but never got to wear. At least this time I got dressed up for my man, not for five hundred women I didn't even know. Even Josh had whistled at my new look. But Amanda said, “Mo-om! Didn't you borrow that dress from Sheila Fitzhugh? You better give it back
soon,
or she's gonna dock it from my babysitting money!”

I felt guilty for about one second. Yes, I would return it— tomorrow. Tonight I was going to enjoy feeling like a “babe.”

Our waiter, whose name sounded like “Belay Wuhib,” set down the steaming bowls of spicy lamb, strips of marinated steak, hummus, and vegetables we'd ordered, along with the ever-present injera flat bread and small dishes of cucumber and lentil salad in spicy vinegar, and we fell to. Between dripping bites, I prattled on about our wedding weekend twenty years ago when Denny's sophisticated Episcopalian parents from New York met my very conservative mom and dad in Des Moines, Iowa, for the first time, somewhat akin to a summit of East meets West.
Now
it was funny, but back then, it was hard to tell who was more shocked: the New York Baxters, trying without success to envision a wedding reception in the basement fellowship hall of the plain, nondenominational church my family attended, or the Midwestern Jennings, stuttering in dismay when Denny's folks offered to purchase the wine and beer for the reception “dinner.” “Oh, uh, that won't be necessary,”my mother had spluttered. “We're, um, well, there's not really a dinner, just simple refreshments with Red Zinger Tea punch—it's really good.” I almost choked on a piece of injera bread, remembering how Denny and I had howled later.

Denny didn't smile, just nodded absently and said, “Uh-huh.” In fact, I realized that for the past ten minutes I had been doing all the talking.

I picked up the cloth napkin and wiped my mouth. “Earth to Denny.” At least that got his attention. “Are you okay?”

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Sorry, babe. It's just . . .”

I waited, but he'd already retreated behind his eyes.

“Denny, talk to me.” I reached across the table and took one of his hands. “Is it what happened this afternoon at Adele's shop?”

He sighed. “I just can't get it out of my mind. She was so angry at me, and I don't have a clue about why.”

“Well, it's obvious—I mean, she's got you mixed up with somebody else. It's not
you
she's mad at, Denny. I know it's upsetting— we were all upset—but you can't take it personally.”
Or
I'll
get upset
that a little old woman suffering from dementia is messing with our
anniversary.

“I know that—in my head, anyway. But
who
is she so angry at—and why? And why does she think whoever-it-is is me?”

I didn't want to think about MaDear and her problems—probably part of her “hard life” Adele referred to this afternoon. Whatever it was, it was past, nothing to be done about it—at least, nothing
we
could do about it.

I patted his hand, feeling more like Mother Hen reassuring Chicken Little than Denny's lover-friend-wife of twenty years.

“Look, we'll call Adele tomorrow and ask if she's figured out what's going on with her mother, okay? Maybe that'll help you put it aside.”

Denny nodded, though he didn't seem at all sure. I decided it was time to spring my surprise. Hopefully that would take his mind off MaDear's tantrum this afternoon.

I reached into my shoulder bag, pulled out an envelope, and slid it across the table. Denny looked at the envelope then looked up at me. “What's this?”

“Open it.” I smiled, feeling impish and smug that I'd managed to pull off a surprise, too, in spite of crutches and being stuck in the house most of the summer. God bless Web sites that let you make reservations online.

Denny pulled out the paper and unfolded it. A good fifteen seconds went by as he read. I sucked in my breath. Maybe he didn't like the idea after all, like my Yada Yada “advisers” today had predicted. Then Denny looked up . . . and grinned.

“You rascal. When did you plan this?”

I let out my breath. “Several weeks ago—soon after the trial. I wanted to do something special to thank you for . . . for standing by me through, you know, everything.”

His eyes registered pain. “Oh, Jodi, don't. Don't thank
me
for anything.” He leaned forward and took both my hands, looking in my eyes so intensely I could almost feel their heat. “I've been to hell and back because of that stupid fight we had that day. But God has seen us through,
is
seeing us through, and you've forgiven me and . . .”

“Oh, Denny. You're not still blaming yourself, are you? It was
me
. . .”

We both just looked at each other, overwhelmed at the memories and feelings that were still healing. A stupid fight . . . me, late for a Yada Yada meeting, driving angry . . . a drenching thunderstorm . . . and now, a boy was dead. Charges had been filed against me: manslaughter with gross negligence. If the Yada Yada Prayer Group hadn't held both of us and showed us how much God loves us, even when—
especially
when—we don't deserve it, we might not have made it even this far.

“If you want to thank somebody, Jodi, thank God.” Denny's voice was husky. “Where would we be without grace?”

I swallowed. The waiter cleared our dishes while we sat holding hands without speaking. “Coffee?” he asked. “Dessert?”

“Just coffee.” Somehow the simple words dislodged the lump in my throat. We had to go forward, and forward at this moment meant Starved Rock this coming weekend—just Denny and me, no kids, no dog, no laundry, no cars gunning their engines at two in the morning, no apartment buildings crowding out the sun.

“Okay, my thanks go to God,” I agreed, “but it's
you
I'm taking to Starved Rock Lodge. Deal?”

This time he laughed. “Deal.”

4

D
enny was up early and back to work on Thursday, leaving me with a second cup of coffee and a quiet house— momentarily at least, till the kids got up. I sat on the back porch steps, enjoying the relative coolness of early morning in the wake of a nighttime thunderstorm, mentally reviewing what I needed to do in the next two days in order to be gone for the weekend. I'd made the reservation for Friday and Saturday nights, but the earliest Denny could get off would be five o'clock on Friday. Day camps started early and ran late as zillions of Chicagoans parked their kids in summer programs—sports camps, arts camps, drama camps, sailing camps, a little-bit-of-everything camps— filling every moment of every day with activity.

Whatever happened to lazy summer days watching ants on the sidewalk, sucking “Popsicles” your mom made in little plastic freezer molds, or playing question-answer games with your best friend while swinging on the deserted school playground swings?