2-in-1 Yada Yada (59 page)

I sucked in my breath. “Well, I've got an update. Denny called Sergeant Curry yesterday to ask if a trial date had been set”—I left out the part about me bugging him to death—“and guess what? The woman pled guilty at her arraignment on Friday and
bam!
She's already down at Lincoln serving a ten-year sentence.”

Everybody looked at me like I was making it up. “Honest. That's what he said.”

“Humph. Don't blame her,” Yo-Yo muttered.

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

Yo-Yo hugged one denim knee to her chest. “Prison ain't no picnic, but it's a heck of a lot better than bein' stuck for months at Cook County Jail. What's-her-name—Becky, right?—probably got put right off in the wing with other violent offenders. If I was her, caught in the act and knew I was goin' down for sure? I'd plead guilty, too, just to get outta Cook County, 'stead of waitin' months for a trial date.”

Now everybody stared at Yo-Yo.

“How do you know her name?” Hoshi said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Yo-Yo looked up at me. “Didn't you tell me her name was Becky Something?”

Was Yo-Yo really the only person I told? And she hadn't even been
there that night.
I nodded, feeling guilty that I'd sat on it. “Yeah. Becky Wallace. That's what Sergeant Curry said her name was.”
Bandana Woman . . . B. W. . . . whatever.

Stu made a face. “Feels funny to know what her name is.”

“Humph.” Ruth folded her arms across her bosom. “A disgrace to such a pretty name, she is.”

Yo-Yo snorted. “In case you guys never thought about it, everybody in prison has a name. Maybe you guys—” She checked herself. “Maybe
we
are s'posed to, you know, pray for her. Or visit her. You know, like Ruth did for me.”

“Oh, who's sounding ‘spiritual' now?” I snapped. “Ruth wasn't your
victim.
And all you did was forge a couple of checks.” I shut my mouth, afraid of the sudden anger that heated my words.

Yo-Yo just shrugged, unperturbed. “All I'm sayin' is, this
is
the Yada Yada
Prayer
Group, ain't it? So . . . pray.”

Where did she get off getting so holy all of a sudden? Yo-Yo hadn't been a Christian more than a few months, didn't even go to church yet. What did
she
know?

She knows what it's like on the other side.

The thought was so loud in my head I looked around the room to see if somebody had spoken it aloud. But no one was looking my direction.

“Well, now, the way I see it is . . .” Florida jabbed her finger at no one in particular. “I don't like this woman. Wouldn't mind if I never saw her again all my born days. Same time, I didn't like myself five, ten years ago either. And God still saw fit to give me another chance. So I say, maybe some of us
should
go visit this woman, this Becky whoever. And 'cause I been where she is—not in prison, thank ya, Jesus!—but drugged out and desperate, I might go visit her if some of you all would come with me.”

No one else spoke for a long moment. Then Yo-Yo said, “Well, I been where she is, too—not drugged out, ‘thank ya, Jesus!' ”—she smirked at Florida—“but stuck in prison for long enough. Some people don't have nobody to visit 'em.”

“Mmm.
Lord have mercy,” Avis murmured. Her lips continued to move, like she was praying in tongues or something.

Hoshi put her face in her hands and started to cry. “No, no. I couldn't . . . couldn't.”

Nony put an arm around her. “Shh, shh. No one's asking you to, Hoshi. It's all right.”

“Besides,” Yo-Yo went on, “you can't just show up at Lincoln to visit somebody. They gotta put you on their visitors' list.”

My ears perked up. “What do you mean?”

“Somebody has to write and tell what's-her-face that we want to come visit her, and she'd have to put our names on a list.”

Oh!
Relief surged through me.
No way would Bandana Woman
put any of our names on her visitors' list!
That would be bizarre beyond belief. I felt let off the hook.

But my relief was short-lived.

“Maybe Jodi could write and axe her to put our names on the list—she's good at that sort of thing.” Florida talked like I wasn't even there, but when I glared at her she just grinned back at me.

“I don't know,” I mumbled. “I don't think . . .”

“Won't hurt to ask. All she can do is say no.” Yo-Yo's logic was maddening.

Avis broke in. “I don't think we ought to decide anything for sure right this moment. This might be the right thing to do—or not. Let's pray about it and see what God says. If she's already been sent to Lincoln, she's not going anywhere soon. We have time to pray.”

I flashed Avis a grateful look then bowed my head, all ready to tell God privately that this wasn't such a hot idea, didn't He agree? But Ruth said, “Um, before we pray . . . could I say something? Jodi and Denny and Stu came to the Rosh Hashanah service at Beth Yehudah last weekend, which I appreciated, can't begin to tell you. Tomorrow is Yom Kippur—some of you are coming, yes?” A few heads nodded around the room. “I want to explain about the Ten Days of Awe—the period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Because, to tell the truth, I think it applies to what we've been talking about here.”

There was an awkward pause. This certainly sent the flow of the meeting on a detour, but Nony graciously said, “Of course. I would like to hear. Mark and I and the boys are coming tomorrow.”

I felt impatient to get on with our prayer time but settled back reluctantly, hoping Ruth wouldn't go into a long description of everything we'd already heard at the Rosh Hashanah service.

“Rosh Hashanah, the New Year, begins a time of introspection, looking back at the mistakes of the past year and planning the changes to make in the coming year—a spiritual inventory, as it were.” Ruth's face took on a flush of excitement, like a babushka showing her grandchildren around the ancestral farm. “Although it's not spelled out in the Torah, most Jews consider the blowing of the shofar during Rosh Hashanah to be a call to repentance.”

“Yes, I remember that from the sermon that your rabbi gave at Rosh Hashanah,” Stu put in.

Ruth gave her a look, just like the one my mother used to give me and my brothers that meant,
“I'm doing the talking here. Zip
your lip.”
“Pastor,” she said impatiently. “Beth Yehudah's got a pastor like everybody else. He's not a Jewish rabbi.”

I wanted to snicker.
Sorry, God.
But I did love it when Stu got put in her place.

“Messianic Jews,” Ruth went on, “believe
all
the Jewish festivals and holy days are not only a remembrance, but a foreshadowing of Messiah Yeshua. During the Ten Days of Awe, we are preparing our hearts for His return.”

“This is so interesting.” Avis leaned forward. “All the years I was coming up in the African-American church, we identified strongly with the Old Testament stories and the history of the Jewish people. Now that I think about it, a lot got focused on God's deliverance of His people from Egypt and the meaning of Passover—not the meaning of the others feasts and festivals.”

“Uh-huh. ‘Go down, Moses!' and ‘Let My people go!' ” Chanda rolled her eyes. “Rev'rend Miles at Paul and Silas Apostolic? He preachin' on that two, maybe t'ree times a month!”

Nony tossed her head, setting her newest 'do of curls dancing behind a bright-colored head wrap. “A lot of white Christians presume we're stuck there too. Mark and I were invited to a gospel concert at a big North Shore church, and the choir mostly sang spirituals from slavery times, as if that was the sum total of black contribution to gospel music. Why is that?”

Florida snorted. “ 'Cause ya sing spirituals slow, and white church folks can't sing fast and step and clap at the same time.”

That got a laugh, even from us “white folks.” Except Ruth. She was giving Avis “the look” for getting us offtrack again.

“Sorry,” Avis said, trying to hide her smile. “Go on, Ruth.”

“Where was I?” Ruth frowned, hands on her knees.

“The Ten Days of Awe.”

“So I was. During the Ten Days of Awe, we not only confess our own sins, but we intercede on behalf of our people. Not just asking God to bless us, but asking God to forgive the sins of our people. For Messianic Jews, that means the sins of our fellow Christians as well. All of which culminates in a time of fasting and prayer at Yom Kippur.”

Ruth sat back in her chair. The room was silent till Yo-Yo said, “That's it?”

“Well, no, there's lots more, but that's mainly what I wanted to say.”

“So . . . how does that relate to what we were talking about?” I didn't mean to make that sound so challenging—or maybe I did.

“I think I know,” Stu offered. “We can ‘intercede' for our thief—uh, Becky, did you say?—because she's probably not at a place she can do that herself. Like European-Americans needing to take responsibility for how our ancestors treated the Native-American people—or ask forgiveness from African-Americans for the terrors of slavery.”

Oh, thanks, Stu. I didn't ask you.
Sounded like a lot of “politically correct” stuff from the current crop of social activists.

Florida muttered, “That would be the day.” Ruth just nodded.

We finally got to our prayer time, though it seemed shorter than usual. I heard the front door open while Delores was praying for “the Becky woman” in prison and whether we ought to visit her. Then I heard Ben's voice mutter, “They're still at it,” and the door closed again. Finally we ended with some good old-fashioned praise, did a lot more hugging, and got ready to go.

Just as I was trying to catch Chanda's eye to say Denny was waiting for us outside, Delores pulled me aside. She hadn't said anything about Ricardo tonight—I wondered if things had gotten worse. I looked at her expectantly.

“You know Amanda came to Iglesia this morning,
si?”

“Well . . . sure. She said she wanted to go to the parade with Edesa and Emerald afterward.”
Oh dear. Guess I should have called
Delores and checked it out with her, since it involved Emerald. Is she
upset?

Delores seemed embarrassed. “I wondered about that . . . but thought you should know. Amanda called the house last night and asked José to take her to the parade.”

22

I
t drove me nuts that we had to give Chanda a ride home, so I couldn't talk to Denny about Delores's revelation the whole way. The moment Chanda got safely inside the front door of her apartment building, I exploded. “I'm going to strangle that girl!”

Denny looked at me as if I was crazy. “Who? Chanda?
What
are you talking about, Jodi?”

I told him what Delores had said. “Amanda never called Edesa about going to the parade! She lied to us, Denny!”

“Hmm.” Denny frowned as he turned off Clark Street at the Rogers Park Fruit Market to do the “square dance” around the one-way streets to get to our house. “Sure sounds like it.”

“Sounds
like it! She said she was going to call Edesa, but Delores said she called
their
house and asked
José
to take her! If that's not a lie, I don't know what is.”

“I know. Just . . . let's not go off half-cocked till we hear what Amanda has to say.”

Half-cocked, my foot.
I was ready to go into the house with both barrels blazing. What was Amanda thinking, anyway? Why didn't she just say she wanted to go to the parade with José?
Oh, right,
Jodi—like you would have said yes. She's no fool.

I was, though. I should've obeyed my instincts and said no to the whole crazy scheme in the first place.

Denny drove the Caravan into the garage and turned off the motor. “You ready to go in the house, or do you want to calm down first?”

“Don't patronize me, Denny,” I snapped. “Why shouldn't I be upset? Why shouldn't Amanda
know
we're upset?”

He didn't answer, just made no move to get out of the car. I sighed. He was probably right. I needed to calm down before we confronted Amanda. But what was with that? Seemed like parents used to tell their kids what's what and didn't stress so much about their kids' feelings.

After a minute, Denny spoke. “What are you most upset about, Jodi? That Amanda told us a lie? Or that she went to the parade with José? What if she had asked us if she could go with José—would we have let her?”

I opened my mouth to say,
“That she lied, of course!”
but I shut it again. Yes, I was upset by the lie, but if I was really honest, I was more upset about her going with José.

Denny waited. Finally I worked up courage to voice my thoughts. “Okay, both. I mean, I like José—he seems like a nice boy, what little we know about him. But I like him mostly because I care about Delores, and I know she tries her best with those kids. They all seem sweet. Yet . . . cultures are different. Expectations are different. I don't know.”

“We've got to think about this, Jodi. If there's a problem, we've got to address the real problem, not a bunch of vague fears and prejudices.”

Oh, thanks, Denny. Play the prejudice card.

“There
are
real concerns, Denny. For one thing, José's only fifteen— too young to be responsible for Amanda in a rowdy crowd like that parade. I thought she was with Edesa, an adult. You
know
forty or fifty people usually get arrested for disorderly conduct whenever there's a big parade in one of the Chicago neighborhoods. Edesa would be wise enough to take the girls out of harm's way. But José—he's just a kid himself! And Delores said she worries some gangbangers will go after him someday to keep him from testifying against the guys who shot him.” I hit my forehead. “Sheesh! A big Latino parade like that? Probably crawling with Latin Kings and Spanish Cobras. Didn't even
think
about that when we said she could go.”