The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real (20 page)

I pushed a green plastic grocery cart down the first aisle, picking up carrots, fresh cilantro, and romaine lettuce on the way. The fruit market was one of my favorite haunts in Rogers Park, with its down-to-earth mix of accents and ethnic foods, good prices for fresh vegetables and fruits—okay, not as fancy as the big-box grocery stores, but still—and the same for meat, where I could get
exactly
twenty chicken wings or two pork chops if I wanted, because nothing was prepackaged. Many times I walked out of there with two heavy bags of groceries and only ten or twelve dollars poorer.

Today I pointed to a nice boneless chuck roast, hefted a ten-pound bag of potatoes into the cart, and added a Mexican mango to the usual mix of bananas, lemons, apples, and a grapefruit or two. A good old American pot roast would be perfect for Sunday lunch tomorrow—I could put it in the oven in the morning with potatoes and onions and carrots, and it'd be warm and savory by the time we walked in the door with Peter Douglass and Avis. Everybody liked pot roast, didn't they?

APPARENTLY NOT.

“Help yourself, Peter.” Feeling slightly weird calling this distinguished-looking man by his first name, I handed our guest the large, shallow pasta bowl filled to its brim with beautifully browned potatoes, tender carrots, and hunks of sweet onions surrounding the juicy hunk of beef. He smiled, took a polite serving of vegetables, and then passed the dish to Avis.

Oh God! He must be vegetarian!

The fruit salad with mango went over better, along with the hot dinner rolls. But to me, Peter's plate looked too empty.What if he went home hungry? Aack!

Avis and Peter had driven to our house from Uptown Community in his black Lexus. Loaded. My eyes bugged as I'd watched them park across the street. But I liked the way he got out, walked around to Avis's side, and assisted her out of the car. They made a stunning couple. Avis—wearing a black wool coat over her fitted magenta suit, with calf-hugging black dress boots and a faux fur hat— held on to the arm of Peter's gray tweed topcoat as they crossed the street. He must have said something funny, because she tossed her head back and laughed.

I loved seeing Avis laugh.

No one mentioned Peter passing over the pot roast, and he talked easily enough about his business—a computer software company that originated in Philadelphia. “. . . and now I'm here to set up a Chicago branch. By the way, I'm hiring, if you know anyone with a computer background who'd like a job. Lots of room for advancement.”

Job? I caught Denny's eye and knew we both had the same thought: Carl Hickman. At the same time my spirit sagged. Peter had said “computer background”—I was certain that didn't describe Carl.

“Uh, I could use a job next summer,” Josh spoke up. I'd pretty much gotten used to his shaved head by now, though I did wonder what other people thought when they first met my bald eighteen-year-old. “Don't have any job experience,” he added, “but I'm pretty good with computers. I'm a fast learner too.”

Okay, smart move. He was going to need money for college.

Peter nodded thoughtfully. “Hm. You're a senior this year, right? I'm basically looking for full-time employees. What are your plans next fall?”

Josh pushed his plate back and shrugged. “Not sure. I applied to U of I—but I'm thinking I might want to wait a year before going to college. Maybe volunteer with Jesus People Ministries downtown. But I'd need a job too.”

I rested my chin on my fist so that my mouth wouldn't drop open. Not go to college next fall?! Where did
that
idea come from? Now here was Josh telling Peter Douglass about it before he'd talked to Denny and me!

I stood up. It was time to get dessert. Apple crisp. Surely nobody in his right mind could pass up apple crisp.

Wrong again. “None for me, thanks, Jodi,” Peter said, holding up one hand like a traffic cop. “It looks wonderful, but I'm diabetic and need to go easy on the sweets. I'll take some of that coffee, though. Smells great.”

I brought coffee—carefully—feeling like a rookie batter who'd already managed to strike out twice.
Sheesh.

Over coffee, it was Peter who launched the questions. What's this
quinceañera
he'd been hearing about? What a great idea! . . . And he kind of envied Denny's job, coaching high school basketball. “Man! I remember my high school coaches—wouldn't be where I am today if some of them hadn't encouraged me and taught me some discipline. You've got an awesome opportunity to make a difference in kids' lives, Denny.” . . . Then, “Tell me about this Yada Yada Prayer Group, Jodi. I've heard Avis's version—I'd like to hear yours.”

I blinked, suddenly feeling on the spot. I would've liked to hear Avis's version too! But I found myself telling Peter how this group of women got thrown together randomly at the women's conference, like a college student throwing jeans, underwear, and wool sweaters all into the same load of wash. But somehow we'd hung together, even survived a few trips through the wringer, because we believed in Jesus and we believed in prayer.

“So, let me see if I understand.” Peter had taken his suit coat off and leaned back in crisp laundry-pressed shirt and suspenders, cradling his cup of coffee. “You think you are doing something important, maybe cutting edge, being part of a diverse group of women that cuts across class and race and culture.”

I was quiet for a moment. Where was
that
question coming from? Did he think Yada Yada was just some effort to be relevant or politically correct? My defenses prickled . . . but maybe it was a good question.
Was
that why I wanted to be part of this group? I looked at Avis, and sudden tears—grateful tears—seemed to fill up my heart.

“I probably had thoughts like that at first,” I admitted. “Felt kinda proud of myself being part of such a group—which is dumb, because we all ended up in the group pretty much by accident.” Suddenly I had a vivid picture of the drugged-out panhandler on the streets of Rogers Park more than a decade ago who had tried to hit me up for money. And then God had given
that same
woman
back to me—“five years saved and five years sober,” Florida always said—as one of my best friends, one of my Yada Yada sisters.

“I take that back,” I said. “Nothing that has happened in this group, before we met or since, has been an accident.”

I looked at Avis through the tears that threatened to smudge my mascara and knew she was reading my heart. “But to tell you the truth, Peter”—my voice wobbled a bit—“I now know that God put me in this group because I need these sisters. The differences in our backgrounds, our cultures, the different ways we worship—they are God's gifts to me. So, yes, it's important—important because God is using Yada Yada to remake my life. Though,” I added hastily, “my family will tell you He's not finished with me yet.”

“Don't anyone respond to that!” Denny crowed. “It's a trap.”

Everyone laughed, even my kids. But to my surprise, Peter Douglass smiled at me.

I hadn't struck out.

STU WAS DOING A DCFS visit that afternoon and said she'd go straight to Avis's apartment for Yada Yada, so not to wait for her. That was fine with me, because I wanted to get there a few minutes early and talk with Avis about our lunch with Peter—which meant convincing Josh and Amanda to leave ten minutes early if they wanted me to drop them off at Uptown for youth group on my way. “Or you could walk,” I said pointedly, knowing good and well walking over to Morse Avenue at dusk when it was only ten degrees outside was not an attractive option.

I dropped off the kids and still got to Avis's apartment five minutes before anyone else arrived. Her third-floor walkup seemed to sit in the treetops—probably because she left her windows uncovered by blinds or shades, and the last light of the evening filtered through the bare branches of the trees along the parkway into the apartment. Everything had an airy feel—shining oak floors, beige and black furniture, plants hanging in the windows, lots of books and pictures.

“Oh, good,” she said, when she'd buzzed me up. “You can help me get the tea things on. I'm running late, for obvious reasons.” The magenta suit had given way to a loose tan and black caftan over black harem pants.

“Whaddya mean?” I carried a wooden tray of teacups and various kinds of herb tea into the living room and set it on the square coffee table. “You and Peter left our house by three o'clock!”

“Doesn't mean I got
here
by three fifteen.” A smile played at the corners of her mouth, but if she was teasing me to ask more, I played dumb.

“What I want to know is . . . why didn't you
tell
me Peter is a vegetarian? And a diabetic, for Pete's sake!— pardon the pun. I would have been glad to fix some-thing else.”

She shook her head, every hair and extension tucked tightly into the sculpted braids tight to her scalp. “He wouldn't let me. He doesn't like people catering to how he eats. He thinks people ought to cook and eat like they normally do, and he just eats what he can. Besides, he's not a true vegetarian—he just doesn't eat red meat. It's mostly a health thing—not ideological. He's that age, you know.”

I sank down on Avis's couch and sighed. “Yeah, well, I wish I'd known. Felt stupid serving stuff he couldn't eat. Glad to hear he eats chicken and seafood, at least—oughta be easier for you.”

She gave me a funny look just as the buzzer rang. “What do you mean, easier for me?”

I couldn't resist. “When you get married, of course.”

“Oh, stop!” And she whacked me with a throw pillow as she headed toward the door to let the next Yada Yada in.

It was Stu—carrying a beautiful azalea plant, delicate and pink. “Here,” she said breathlessly, handing it to Avis. “Hide this somewhere for Florida. Don't know if every-one got the e-mail I sent last night—only found out yesterday that it's her birthday next week. Jodi, you're always doing those name things. Did you happen to look up what Florida means? Or make her one of your little name posters?”

I groaned. I'd totally forgotten Florida had an upcoming birthday. How could I forget? I'd even had time after Avis and Peter left after lunch to do
something,
except that Denny and I had taken a nap. “Nope,” I said weakly, resenting the familiar day-late-and-a-dollar-short demon that twisted my gut. “But I did look up the meaning of her name a while back, and if I remember right, your azalea hits it on the head.”

Stu lit up. “What?”

“Florida means ‘flowering' or ‘blooming'—something like that.”

Avis smiled big just as the buzzer rang again. “Well, if that's not just like God.”

20

A
vis decided to “hide” the azalea in plain sight, in the middle of the coffee table.We had nearly a full house of Yada Yada sisters that night—except Adele. “The sistah told to me at church dis mornin' that she has ta stay 'ome with 'er mother,” Chanda chirped. “Give me to tell all you.”

“Is MaDear sick?” I realized I hadn't seen the thin, birdlike old woman who held court at Adele's Hair and Nails since before Christmas.

Chanda shrugged. “Adele not say. I t'ink she sistah gone away for two, t'ree weeks—someting like that.Adele got de mama all de time.”

“If Adele can't come to Yada Yada, we should take Yada Yada to her,” Ruth said, giving her head one firm nod.

“I'll ask her,” Florida offered. “Gotta get my hair done before Amanda's big party anyway.”

A chorus of “Party?” “What party?” followed that announcement.

I groaned silently. The day-late-and-a-dollar-short demon grinned in my gut. “Sisters, you
will
be getting online invitations, but you are
all
invited to Amanda's
quinceañera
—well, you tell them, Delores.”

Delores was only too happy to describe the Latino custom of celebrating a girl's fifteenth birthday and to fill in brief details on the upcoming party at Uptown in two weeks.

“An' Stu an' Yo-Yo an' I got jobs for everybody,” Florida chimed in. “Don't blame Jodi—she still thinkin' she has ta do everything her own self. But I'm fryin' up some chicken an' a pot o' greens—don't you go rollin' yo' eyes at me, Delores Enriquez.We are havin' ourselves a multicultural keen-seen-era, or however you say it—and everybody who's not doin' somethin' else is cookin' too—whatever is your first love. But Jodi, you gotta call Adele yourself an' make an appointment ta get Amanda's hair done that Friday—Saturday mornin' even better if she got a slot.”

In a few short minutes, Stu and Florida had covered food, decorations, and cleanup, and got promises from almost everyone that they'd show up. “That new beau of yours, too, Avis,” Florida said, wagging her finger at Avis. “If I'm gonna bring Carl, he gonna need a few more black men there. Nony, can Mark and the boys come?”