2-in-1 Yada Yada (71 page)

Josh was at the computer, surfing the Net for college info. So much for writing that letter to Becky Wallace—not that I minded putting it off. With a hint of glee I noticed that Josh's head sported a brown shadow, like a thin mat of Astroturf. He was probably getting tired of having to shave it every two to three days. “Where's your dad?”

Josh grunted. “Living room, I think.” He resumed clicking the mouse, intent on the computer screen.

The living room? It was dark when I came in. I headed to the front of the house. “Denny?”

“Yeah. In here.” His voice came from the recliner near the bay windows.

“What are you doing sitting in the dark?” I shuffled in my sock feet toward the recliner, illumined only by the pale streetlights outside, and almost tripped over Willie Wonka, who was snoring right in my path.

Denny held out a hand and pulled me down onto the arm of the chair. “Just thinking.”

Yuck. He smelled like cigarette smoke. I almost said something but caught myself, hoping he'd let me in on whatever he was pondering. Besides, we might argue over his occasional beer, but I
knew
he wasn't lighting up on the side. Not the way he jumped all over his student athletes if he caught them smoking.

“Florida get home okay?” he asked.

My perch on the arm of the chair was a little precarious, but I snuggled closer, in spite of how he smelled. “Yeah. She got a ride with Stu, who was taking Edesa and Delores home. Not really on the way, but you know Stu. Have car, will travel.”
Listen to yourself,
Jodi!
Even though Stu got on my nerves with her “instant solution” to everything, I had to admit she was generous to a fault, picking people up, taking people home, giving of her time to make Yada Yada happen.

“I met Carl.”

“You met—oh! When you took Florida's kids home?”

“Yeah. Carla fell asleep in the backseat, so I carried her inside. Carl buzzed us in, but I'm sure he was expecting the kids to come up by themselves—at least he just stared at me when he opened the door and saw me standing there with Carla over my shoulder. I said, ‘Hi, I'm Denny Baxter. Where should I put her?' And once inside . . . I dunno. Figured this was my chance to meet Florida's husband beyond just hi and good-bye.”

“Ah. That explains why you smell like an ashtray.” I sniffed pointedly.

“That bad, huh.” He chuckled. “Well, yeah, he seemed pretty nervous. Must've smoked half a pack while I was there.”

“Half a pack! How long did you stay? Did you guys actually, you know, talk?”
Oh, wow, God.
And I hadn't said anything yet to Denny about what Florida told me out on the porch.

“Yeah. Well . . . as much as guys talk who are sizing each other up like tomcats in an alley. Mostly we talked about his kids—I figured that was safe territory. Told him how much I enjoyed getting to know them; thanked him for sharing them with us. He seemed kinda surprised by that. We talked about Carla too—that opened him up a little. His face lit up talking about Carla.”

“Did he say anything about needing a job?”

“Nope. I think that's kinda touchy. But I did invite him to church. Told him to come with Florida and the kids, that I'd be really glad to see him.”

“And?”

Denny shrugged. “He said, oh yeah, yeah, he would. But who knows. Still, now that we've talked a bit, maybe I'll invite him to our next men's breakfast at Uptown.”

Now I was sure this meeting was God-inspired. I told Denny what Florida had said on the porch that afternoon. “Maybe knowing some guys who care will make a difference.”

“Maybe.”

I rolled off the arm of the recliner and pulled up the frayed ottoman.
Ahh, much better.
Somehow I wasn't as flexible with a steel rod in my leg. “So why are you sitting here in the dark? I thought something was wrong.” By now my eyes had gotten used to the dim light of the streetlights, and I could see Denny's face, puckered in a frown.

He sighed. “I don't know. Just started thinking on the way home. Thinking about a lot of things, stuff that's happened. I've been involved in Uptown's outreach for the last ten years, but that's nothing compared to the stuff we've confronted since Yada Yada walked in our door. You'd think I'd know something by now, but you know what?” He smacked the arm of the chair so hard, even Willie Wonka jumped. “I feel pretty darn helpless to make a difference! Carl Hickman? It's tempting to tell him to shape up and support his family, but what do
I
know about what he's had to face in his life? And Becky Wallace . . . what does God expect of us in that situation? I still get mad when I think about all the danger my wife and daughter and our friends were in that night.”

He fell silent again. I laid a hand on his knee, but he didn't seem to notice. “Know what, Jodi? Want to know what bothers me the most?” His voice broke a little. “Adele. Adele and MaDear. Why did God let that happen? I'm not the man MaDear thinks I am—but it still rips me up that she thinks I am.”

He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. When he spoke again, I knew it'd been a cover for the tears he was fighting back. “Heck. I don't have a clue why we moved into Chicago. Thought I could make a difference. Ha.”

I DIDN'T THINK OUR CONVERSATION in the dark was the best time to bring up the fact that Hoshi wanted—maybe needed—to visit Becky Wallace and face her fears, which obviously implicated Denny, since he and I were the only people with a car on B. W.'s visitors' list so far. Unless I drove.

Not sure I'm ready for that.

I put off writing to Becky Wallace for a few days, caught up in a school week that included Halloween,TV specials about ghosts and ghouls, and an entire classroom that would be high on sugar the next day. Not the best week to see what Hakim could do with some one-on-one attention, but between Christy and me, we managed to spend at least twenty minutes a day working with him verbally or hands-on in different subjects. Working that way, he seemed to catch on quickly, came up with clever answers, and beamed when he solved problems. Once, to test him a little, I waited half an hour then gave him the same comprehension questions we'd just discussed written out on paper. He got angry, drew a big X over the paper, and refused to cooperate the rest of the day.

“I think he has a learning disability,” I told my student teacher.

“Makes me so mad his mom won't get him tested.”

“Maybe we can talk to her at parent-teacher conferences in a couple of weeks.”

“We?” I pulled a face. “I was going to let
you
do that conference.” Christy's eyes widened under her cap of dark curls. “Ms. Baxter! You wouldn't!”

Wouldn't I?
“Just kidding. Don't worry. Got any ideas for something fun we can do on Halloween—
besides
bobbing for apples?”

She grinned sheepishly. “We could let them ‘wrap the mummy.' All we'd need is five or six rolls of toilet paper.”

So on Thursday, Christy and I used the last half-hour of class time to divide into teams and let the kids “wrap a mummy.” It was loud and chaotic, but most of the noise was laughter and squeals of excitement—except for the moment when Ramón pushed over his team's “mummy” because she wouldn't stand still. We sent the winning team out the door with red apples and gave yellow apples to all the runners-up. My feeble antidote to the usual candy frenzy.

Uptown Community sponsored a “Hallelujah Fest” at the church as a Halloween alternative—ghoulish costumes strongly discouraged—and Denny, Josh, and Amanda were shanghaied along with the rest of the youth group to help with games, eats, and a costume parade. I stayed home to answer the door for neighborhood trick-or-treaters, though I'd been told by Uptowners that “kids don't trick-or-treat in Rogers Park—it's too dangerous.” Last year—our first in Chicago city limits—we'd gotten a few in our neighborhood, which still boasted a lot of houses, so I decided to have treats on hand “just in case.”

At the last minute I remembered to light the jack-o'-lantern in the front window as daylight faded. Ugh, it was starting to rot. “Hang in there for a few more hours, buddy,” I told the pumpkin, propping it up on the windowsill. “Then you can rot to your heart's content out in the garbage can.”

The doorbell rang a few times, but the bowl of Tootsie Roll Pops and bubble gum pretty much stayed untouched. So I figured this was as good a time as any to write Becky Wallace. Redeeming the time, so to speak. As I called up our e-mail, my heart did a leap as a new message joined the clutter in our Inbox: a note from Nony! I could hardly click it open fast enough.

To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Re: Hello from Kwazulu-Natal!

Dear Yada sisters,

Please forgive me for not writing sooner. Mark says, “Please e-mail Yada Yada! They keep calling to ask if I have any news about you!” I feel glad for your concern. My brother finally helped me access my e-mail online at his office, so now I can let you know how things are with us in South Africa.

What a joy to see my mother! She is still in hospital, but she improves a little bit each day. However, visits tire her, so we are limited to only one hour. I am not sure when she will be able to come home. I would like to stay until she is released from hospital, to help make arrangements for her care and see that she is settled.

Hmm,
I thought.
Wonder how Mark feels about that? Her return
date sounds rather vague.

In the meantime, I am getting reacquainted with my country. Kwazulu-Natal is called “The Garden Province” with good reason! The summer season has just begun, so everything is in bloom. Lilies everywhere! African lilies, bugle lilies, lion's tail . . . the flowers must enjoy the humidity (though I confess, I don't). My mother is in hospital in Pietermaritzburg, but I am hoping to take the boys to visit their cousins who live along the coast and maybe even take a “safari” into the savannah—like real American tourists!

But, dear sisters, my heart is also heavy. It is one thing to read statistics about the AIDS pandemic in Africa. It is quite another to learn that my old school chum's teenage daughter was raped by her uncle, because he thought he could be cured of the disease by having sex with a virgin. Now she is HIV. Myths and ignorance abound! Proverbs 13:16 is so true: “Every prudent man acts with knowledge, but a fool exposes his folly.” My brother, Nyack Sisulu, who does social research for the KZN Department of Health, told me that half of all fifteen-year-olds in South Africa and Zimbabwe will eventually die of AIDS. It is so hard to see the suffering and do nothing!

The doorbell rang again—
Okay, this is it,
I decided—and I dispensed candy to a Harry Potter look-alike and a ghost in a pillowcase with eyeholes. “Cute!” I said, waving to an adult standing out on the sidewalk. The ghost stood on my porch, pawing through his—her?—sack of goodies, trying to see what I put in there. “Go on, honey,” I urged, casting an anxious eye down the block. I wanted to get the porch light turned off and the pumpkin blown out before any late trick-or-treaters took it personally.

After darkening the front of the house, I hustled back to the computer wondering just what Nony planned to “do” about the AIDS crisis. I scanned the page on my screen trying to find my place. Ah.

As elsewhere, the poorest people pay more for less. Food prices are soaring in the Eastern Cape—a direct result of the political chaos in Zimbabwe, which used to provide one of our food staples: maize. Without their export, the price of maize has skyrocketed. And for South Africa's poor, maize is the primary food that they buy. Can you imagine spending over 50 percent of your income just on food?

No, I couldn't. Yet right now I was more concerned about Nony. Was Mark right to be worried that Nony's heart would find reason to stay in South Africa? I read on.

But as always there is hope. This week the Sunday
Times
told a story about schoolchildren right here in Pietermaritzburg who collected 240 rand, or about thirty-three dollars, to help feed the Eastern Cape's starving children. One boy gave his taxi money, which meant he had to walk forty-five minutes to get home. Another gave his birthday money. Many come from indigent families themselves. The children saw a need, set themselves a goal, and made personal sacrifices. These children are my heroes! And they give me reason to hope.

Love to all. I do so miss the Yada Yada prayer meetings.

Nonyameko

P.S. Marcus and Michael have their own new hero— Makhaya Ntini, a star player on South Africa's cricket team! SA is playing a series of tests against Bangladesh here in Kwasulu-Natal, and everyone is as excited as if the Chicago Cubs were playing in the World Series. Not sure the boys are going to want to come home.

Ha! Denny and Josh would get a kick out of that. The Chicago Cubs in the World Series.
Don't we wish.

And then I read her last sentence again.

35

I
called up New Message, wrote “Got Nony's e-mail. How do we pray???” and sent it to Avis. Nony had sent her e-mail to the entire prayer group, so it wasn't like telling tales. But it was a whole week till the next Yada Yada meeting, and I felt an urgency to be praying for Nony and Mark and their boys. I also felt perplexed. Maybe taking Marcus and Michael to South Africa was a mistake. I mean, a visit was great, but the boys couldn't help picking up on their mother's strong desire to return to South Africa to live.

I was still at the computer working on the letter to B. W. when Denny and the kids got back from the Hallelujah Fest. I handed Denny a printout of Nony's e-mail. “Maybe you should call Mark; see how he's doing.”

He read the note, nodded, then leaned close to my ear. “Guess who showed up to play keyboard for the Hallelujah Fest?”

Keyboard? Who played keyboard? One of Yo-Yo's brothers? Florida's Chris? Or . . .
Duh. Of course.
“José.” I sighed.