The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real

/ct_l.jpg Prologue /ct_r.jpg

CHRISTMAS DAY 2002

The lean, wiry woman let the door of the central dining room bang behind her, taking in big gulps of clean, cold air. Not a moment too soon. If she had to listen to the kitchen super gripe about one more thing, she might do something that would land her in solitary. Nag, nag, nag—that’s all she ever does. I cain’t do nothin’ right. It’d be easy to take down that cow, big as she was—but she couldn’t go there. Had to stay cool.

Four months down . . . 116 to go.

The woman hunched her shoulders against the sharp bite of the wind, wishing she’d put on a couple more layers—but it was sweltering working the big steam dishwasher in the CDR kitchen. Digging in a pocket of her jean jacket for a cigarette, she turned her back until she got the thing lit, then she leaned against the building, blowing smoke into the wind, watching it get snatched away.

Beyond the squat, two-story cottages sprawled in an awkward line from the CDR to the visitors’ center, she could see the ten-foot wire fence rimming the perimeter of the prison yard, topped by rolls of razor wire like a great, wicked Slinky toy. Humph. That fence might keep them in, but it sure didn’t keep the bone-chilling prairie wind out.

She switched the cigarette to her left hand so she could warm up her right one under her armpit inside the jean jacket. Christmas Day . . . so what? Not enough to do. Any other Wednesday she’d be in the prison school. She was going to get her GED if it killed her—not that it would. Maybe college too. If she could survive an addiction to the lethal Big Four—heroin, methadone, vodka, and Valium—surely algebra and Illinois history weren’t going to waste her.

And Christmas dinner—what a joke. Yeah, they’d been served slices of pressed turkey, blobs of mashed potatoes covered in greasy gravy, sweet potatoes smothered with melted marshmallows in big metal pans on the steam table, along with the trimmings—jellied cranberry sauce, Jell-O salad, rolls, butter pats, and canned cherry cobbler. Okay, it was one step up from the usual mystery mess and seasick-gray canned vegetables. Still, the long tables of sad women hunched over their trays, spearing food with plastic forks, served as a painful reminder that they weren’t home for Christmas.

Only two food fights had broken out, though—chalk that up to the holiday spirit.

Wallace! A sharp bark from inside the CDR caught her like a watchdog on the prowl. What makes ya think we done with these dishes? Get yo’ butt in here, or I’m gonna cut yo’ pay hours.

The woman named Wallace deliberately took a slow drag on her cigarette before dropping it on the ground and grinding it out with her Nike. Cut my pay hours—big deal. At fifty cents an hour, it wasn’t a big loss. Still, the job added to her credit in the commissary and helped fill the hours. But she was going to quit this lousy kitchen gig—tomorrow, if possible. Already her hands looked like pale pink prunes. Even piecework in the factory would be better than this. Maybe they needed somebody to shelve books in the library . . . or do garden-and-grounds. Yeah, that was it! Garden-and-grounds. Physical work. Outdoors—

Wallace!

Well, come spring, anyway.

FINALLY RID OF HER SOAKED APRON and the sour-hot breath of the kitchen supervisor, Becky Wallace made her way back to C-5, one of the minimum-security cottages at Lincoln Correctional Center, a cement-and-wire fortress sitting on the Illinois prairie. The rec room on the lower level of the CDR was open seven to nine tonight, like most evenings. But maybe the pileup at the pay phone in the cottage had dwindled. She fingered the scrap of paper in the pocket of her jean jacket, making sure it was still there. A phone number . . . some woman up in Chicago had sent her a number last week. She’d been afraid to call, afraid to hear the voice on the other end. Afraid not to.

Today, though, she was going to suck up the courage. Surely her baby’s foster parents wouldn’t refuse to accept her collect call on Christmas Day.

A Department of Corrections truck sat in front of the door of C-5, piled with parts of the standard-issue metal bunk beds and a stack of narrow mattresses. She peppered the truck with a string of cuss words. Were they sticking more new arrivals in her cottage? The dorm on the first floor was already packed to the max. Maybe they were going to double-up the single rooms upstairs. Her name had moved up on the list for the second floor. Man! She’d give anything for a single. Yet if she had to have a roommate, that’d still be better than sleeping like cordwood in a woodpile.

Even walking to the bathroom was like playing Russian roulette, never knowing who was going to hit you up for your last cigarette or bust you one for dissin’ her in the food line. And just when she got everybody figured out—who to watch out for, who to stand up to, who to give a wide berth—they stuck in some newbie who upset the whole social order.

The TV was babbling in the day room, and a game of Bid Whist was going on at one of the card tables. But the phone in the hallway was free, screwed to the wall facing the front door of the cottage like a one-eyed mole planted there to spy on their comings and goings. Behind that wall—squeezed between the day room on the left and the dorm on the right—was a small kitchen with a hot plate and a fridge, and an even smaller room with a washer, dryer, and ironing board.

Becky stood looking at the scratched-up black phone a moment. Finally she picked up the receiver and punched zero, then the numbers on her scrap of paper. One ring . . . two . . .

Operator. How may I assist you?

Wanna make a call. Uh—collect.

State your name, please.

Becky Wallace. Andy’s mommy, she wanted to say. But didn’t.

The line seemed to go dead. A long stretch of silence. Had she been cut off? Two men in service uniforms came clattering down the stairs, followed by a female guard, arguing about the double bunk that had just been delivered as they went out the door, leaving it standing open. Becky slammed it shut with a well-aimed kick, then she turned back to the phone as a tinny voice spoke in her ear. I’m sorry. That number does not answer. Please try again later.

Becky swore, fighting the urge to rip the phone right out of the wall. Not home? Where were they? Didn’t they know how much she needed to talk to her baby? On Christmas, for—

Hey, Wallace! A tall girl the color of light caramel came in the door. You got a package. She held out a brown box, neatly taped.

Becky stared at it. Ain’t no mail call today. It’s a holiday.

The girl shrugged. Musta got lost in the mailroom. Somebody asked me to drop it off. She grinned. Maybe it’s food.

Not likely. Thanks. The tall girl was all right—kept her nose clean. Athletic. Maybe they could form a volleyball team when the weather loosened up. But the girl was too nice. She’d have to make sure she covered the girl’s back if anybody ever messed with her.

Becky took the package and headed for her bunk in the dorm room. A quick glance told her that five women were already sitting or lying on their bunks, ready to be done with Christmas Day. Kneeling beside her lockbox, she twirled the combination lock and dropped the package inside. Later.

THE LIGHTS-OUT ORDER had been given; the front and back doors to the cottage locked. Muffled snores slowly coursed through various parts of the room like belly rumbles after a meal of chili beans. Still Becky Wallace waited. Finally, she slid a hand under her pillow and drew out the package. She sat up, slowly, quietly, so as not to wake her bunkmate above.

Light filtered in through the barred windows of the dorm room from the floodlights in the prison yard, and she peered at the sending company: Estée Lauder. What kinda business was that?

The tough packing tape had been slit open for inspection and retaped with ordinary office tape, which easily gave way under her sharp thumbnail. A whiff of something fruity—melon?—spilled out of the box as she lifted the lid. In the dim light, she felt inside the box. Nestled in a bed of shredded, crinkled paper lay long plastic tubes of various sizes . . . a small round jar . . . a spritzer with liquid inside. Carefully she lifted out one of the plastic tubes, unscrewed the lid, and squeezed. A delicious squirt of creamy silk fell cool and soft into her hand.

Hand cream. Rich, velvety hand cream. Slowly she spread it over her hard, cracked knuckles and worked it into the chapped skin on the backs of her hands. Then she silently began to weep.

/ct_l.jpg 1 /ct_r.jpg

CHICAGO—NEW YEAR’S DAY 2003

The call of nature—Willie Wonka’s, not mine—got me out of bed at the bleary hour of seven thirty, even though the New Year’s Eve party upstairs had kept me awake till after three. Three a.m.! But Willie Wonka’s bladder was on dog-time—old dog-time at that—making sleeping in on holidays a moot point. Stuffing my feet into my scuffs and pulling Denny’s big terry robe around me, I stumbled out of our bedroom mumbling thinly disguised threats at our chocolate Lab as he led me to the back door.

Coming into the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of pale blue sky and the rising sun bouncing off a row of windows at the top of a nearby apartment building like golden dragon eyes . . . and for a nano-second I entertained the illusion of a blissful day in Key West. But when I opened the back door to let Willie Wonka out, a wall of icy air killed that pipe dream. I slammed the door after Willie’s tail and peered at the little red needle on the back porch thermometer.

Brrr. Ten degrees.

Then I smiled. Add the windchill factor, which was sure to kick up by noon, and surely the Uptown Community Church youth group would cancel the so-called Polar Bear Plunge they had scheduled for today.

But by the time Denny and the kids wandered out of their bedrooms around eleven o’clock, the thermometer had inched up to almost twenty degrees, and everyone looked at me stupidly when I asked if they were going to cancel. Mom, said Josh patiently, pouring himself a heaping bowl of oat flakes and raisins, it’s a Chicago tradition. As if that explained anything.

Happy New Year, babe, Denny murmured, wrapping his arms around me from behind—and the next thing I knew he had untied the belt, snatched his robe off me, and disappeared with it into the bathroom.

I was just warming it up for you! I yelled after him, scurrying back into our bedroom in my pajamas. Time to get dressed anyway.

Mo-om! whined Amanda, wandering into the kitchen ten minutes later while I was making another pot of coffee. "I really need a new bathing suit. This one is so . . . so babyish."

I turned and eyed my fifteen-year-old. Apart from the fact that it was absurd to be talking about bathing suits in the middle of a Chicago winter, there was nothing babyish about this busty teenager, who was indeed filling out her one-piece bathing suit in all the right—or wrong—places. I declined to comment. Go get some clothes on before you catch cold, I ordered. But I grinned at her back. I’d make some hot cocoa and take it along—that’d be a big hit after the plunge.

The phone rang at 11:25. Jodi! said a familiar voice. "Are these niñitos still going to do this craziness?"

I allowed myself a small grin as I cradled the phone on my shoulder and stirred the pot of hot chocolate. I’m afraid so, Delores. And not just ‘niñitos,’ either. Denny’s got his bathing suit on under his sweats, in case he gets brave. Is José coming? Like I couldn’t guess. Delores Enriquez’s fifteen-year-old son had been showing up rather frequently, trailing Amanda like Peter Pan’s shadow. Or was it the other way around?

"Sí. Emerald, too, but just to watch. Edesa and I are coming up on the el with them. This I’ve got to see for myself."

Two more phone calls followed in quick succession from Yada Yada Prayer Group members. Florida Hickman wanted to know what elevated train stop was closest to the beach where the Polar Bear Plunge would take place; Ruth Garfield grumbled that only love for Yo-Yo Spencer and her brothers would get her and Ben out on New Year’s Day for such craziness. "But what can we do? A car they don’t have. We’ll be there at twelve. Then straight to the doctor so they don’t die of pneumonia. Oy vey." A click told me the conversation was over, and all I’d said was, Hello?

THE SMALL CROWD GATHERED AT LOYOLA BEACH along the bleak lakeshore of Chicago’s north side, wearing ski jackets, knit hats, and fat mittens, looked oddly out of place tromping over the sand. Even more so because a mild December had delayed the usual buildup of ice and frozen spray sculptures that usually marked Lake Michigan’s winter shoreline. The lapping water looked deceptively harmless.

Going in, Jodi?

I squinted up into the face of Uptown’s lanky pastor, who could easily have played Ichabod Crane in community theater. Widowed and childless, Pastor Clark was Uptown Community—a mission church that stubbornly hung out its shingle in Rogers Park, Chicago’s most diverse neighborhood. Today he was bundled in an outdated navy parka with a snorkel hood, a long hand-knit scarf wound around his neck, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.

"Me? Not for love or money! I held up the armload of beach towels and blankets I was carrying. I’m here on life support."

He chuckled and trudged on to greet others gathering to witness the Polar Bear Plunge. The crowd was growing, and I saw Leslie Stuart’s silver Celica pull into the beach parking lot. Stu had been attending Uptown Community for several months, ever since we’d met at the Chicago Women’s Conference last May, even though she lived in Oak Park, on the west side of the city.

Hey, Jodi. You going to take the plunge? Stu’s long blonde hair and multiple earrings were hidden by a felt cap with earflaps. She was grinning, flap to flap.

Don’t think so. Calendar says January.

Ah, c’mon. You know what Oliver Wendell Holmes said: ‘You don’t quit playing because you get old; you get old because you quit playing.’ Hey—there’s Delores and Edesa! She waved both arms in their direction.

I bit my tongue. Stu was probably in her midthirties—not that much younger than I was. But she didn’t have to make me feel like an old fogy just because I was smart enough not to jump in the lake.

Ack! I left something in the car. Stu ran for the parking lot, passing Delores Enriquez and Edesa Reyes as they headed my way, bundled against the stiff wind adding whitecaps to the choppy gray water. I dumped my load of blankets and towels so I could give them each a hug.

Delores and Edesa were members of a Spanish-speaking Pentecostal church and had attended the same conference that had brought women together from various churches around the city. None of us imagined that the prayer group we’d been assigned to for the weekend would take on a life of its own. But when Delores got an emergency phone call that weekend saying her son José had been caught in gang crossfire in a local park—well, no way we could stop praying after that, just because the conference was over.

Where are Emerald and José? I asked.

Delores jutted her chin in the direction of the knot of excited teenagers gathering at the water’s edge, still bundled in their winter coats. Such antics! The forty-something mother wagged her head. "Mi familia en México? They will think we have all gone loco." She rolled her eyes. But whatever Amanda and Josh do, Emerald and José want to do it too.

Don’t mind Delores, Jodi, Edesa said cheerfully. "Underneath all that fussing, she’s happy José is alive and can do something fun and crazy! Edesa’s dark eyes danced in her warm mahogany face. Edesa—college student, baby-sitter, and big sister" to the Enriquez children—wore her African-Honduran heritage as brightly as the neon-orange wrap that held back her mop of loose, nappy curls. And she’d rescued Amanda’s grades last spring tutoring her in freshman Spanish.

Hey, Ben! Over here! I heard Denny’s voice hail Ruth and Ben Garfield trudging over the hard-packed sand like two refugees trekking out of Siberia, following Yo-Yo Spencer and her half brothers, Pete and Jerry. The boys ditched the adults and joined the teasing, shoving group of teenagers at the water’s edge, as Ruth and Ben stopped to talk to Denny.

Hey. Yo-Yo nodded at Delores and me, then arched an eyebrow at Edesa. You gonna take the plunge, ’Desa? Jodi? Anybody?

Are you serious? Edesa shook her curls and laughed.

Yo-Yo grinned, reached inside her overalls and bulky sweatshirt, and pulled out a swimsuit strap. I dunno. Thought I might if some other adults did. She tipped her spiky blonde head toward Ruth and Ben, who were still talking to Denny. Didn’t tell Ruth, though, or she woulda given me a nonstop lecture all the way here. Didn’t tell Pete or Jerry, neither. Ya know them two—they think you’re dead meat if you’re over twenty.

I hooted. Yo-Yo dead meat at the ripe old age of twenty-three? Ha!

A flurry of activity near the shoreline caught our attention as the teenagers and even a handful of brave—or merely foolish—Uptown adults started shedding coats, sweatshirts, sweatpants, shoes, and socks and dumping them in piles on the beach. Oh, good grief, I sputtered. Denny is really gonna do it. Stu, too.

The Polar Bear Plungers formed a ragged line, backs to the water, facing the huddled onlookers. Bundled up as I was, I still felt the bite of the wind nipping off the lake, making my eyes water. Denny was jogging in place, trying to keep his blood going, while the younger set hopped up and down from one bare foot to the next. Josh—the oldest Uptown youth at eighteen—held up both hands like a prizefighter, dressed only in his swim trunks, complete with shaved head. We who are about to freeze, he yelled, grinning defiantly, salute thee!

The Polar Bear line went crazy, cheering and yelling like gladiators about to enter the arena.

Hey, wait for us! somebody yelled. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Chris and Cedric Hickman—Florida’s boys—running toward the line of half-naked daredevils, leaving a trail of their clothes and shoes on the sand as they stripped to their swim trunks. Behind them, Florida was hustling in our direction, picking up clothes as she went, trailed by a tall black man carrying a young girl piggyback.

"Bless You, Jesús!" Delores breathed. It’s Carl Hickman! And Carla. The whole family! She winked at me. Now maybe that’s worth coming out today to see.

I felt torn between wanting to greet Florida and her husband—it was a first, Carl showing up at an Uptown event with his family—and not wanting to miss The Plunge. Just then the ragged line broke ranks and ran into the water, yelling at the top of their lungs. Beside me, Yo-Yo kicked off her shoes, dropped her denim overalls and sweatshirt, and ran toward the water.

What? Yo-Yo’s going in? That girl, she is crazy, yes? Without turning my head, I knew Ruth and Ben had joined our little cluster. And Denny! A heart attack he is going to have.

I was trying to keep track of my kids in the water—Amanda was still wearing her bright red knit hat—to make sure they came out again. But I couldn’t help laughing at Denny, lifting his legs high and waving his arms, looking for all the world like a marionette pulled by invisible strings. A majority of the teens plunged headfirst into the numbing-cold water, then came splashing out, still yelling and dancing up and down. Denny, probably figuring he’d gone far enough proving his manhood, turned when he’d waded in up to his waist and splashed back to shore.

I rushed forward with my armload of towels and blankets, trying to locate my shivering family. You’re nuts, I told Denny, throwing an old quilt over his shoulders, but he just grinned, as proud of himself as if he’d climbed Mount Everest. Josh ran up, grabbed a towel, and ran off again to pose with the youth group for somebody’s camera.

Here, Yo-Yo, I said, handing her an extra beach towel, as we rejoined the group of Yada Yada sisters and the ragtag assortment of husbands and younger kids. Hey, Florida. Carl, it’s great to see you . . . and Carla! I grabbed the eight-year-old and gave her a hug. You guys coming to the Warm-Up Party at Uptown? Pastor Clark drove the church van here to give a ride to anybody who needs one.

Carla hopped up and down in her white pull-on snow boots, tugging on her daddy’s hand. I want some hot chocolate!

I bent down to her level. I’ve got some in the car. Yours will be the first cup when we get to the church.

No! I mean over there! The little girl pointed and all heads turned. Sure enough, Stu—back in her sweats and felt helmet—was passing out Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate from a huge Igloo cooler to a cluster of grateful teens. Right on the beach.

Sure, baby. Come on, Carl murmured, as she pulled him away.

I groaned inwardly. Upstaged again. God, why do I always feel like this around Stu? Then I scolded myself. Suck it up, Jodi Baxter. Who gave you a patent on bringing hot chocolate? I looked at Ben and Ruth. You guys coming to the Warm-Up Party?

Don’t look at me, Ben Garfield groused. Ask Ruth. I’m just the cabbie.

Of course we come, Ruth announced. We didn’t drive all this way to just watch these young people catch their death. Though the purpose of such nonsense, I don’t see. She looked this way and that. Where’s Avis? Doesn’t she go to your church?

Ha! I snorted. You’re not going to get Avis out of the house to watch a bunch of crazies dip in the lake in midwinter—not unless it was a baptism or something.

Well, now, see? Florida grinned slyly. I been prayin’ that this here Polar Bear thing be like a prophecy, an’ someday we gonna see all these kids come outta that water washed in the blood of Jesus.

Yo-Yo had one leg back in her overalls and one leg out. But she froze in midhop as if someone had yelled, Red light! in the kids’ party game. Her blue-gray eyes widened. "Whatcha talkin’ ’bout, Florida? Washed in what blood?"

/ct_l.jpg 2 /ct_r.jpg

Ilaughed aloud at the look on Yo-Yo’s face. Poor kid. She had barely stuck her toe into this Jesus gig, as she called it, since coming to the Yada Yada Prayer Group, and she was still trying to figure out what she’d gotten herself into. Uh, baptism, I said. You know, to show we’ve died with Christ and . . .

I stopped. Her round eyes and mouth were obvious clues that I was talking gobbledegook. Never mind. We can talk about it later. Avis can explain it later is what I meant. Or Florida. Somehow my churchy clichés didn’t communicate to Yo-Yo, who wasn’t that long off the street and out of prison.

By now, most of the Polar Bear Plungers had wiggled themselves back into their clothes and were making a beeline for cars in the beach parking lot. Seeing Josh in the driver’s seat of our Dodge Caravan, Yo-Yo’s brothers piled in along with José and Emerald Enriquez, so Denny and I hailed a ride with Pastor Clark and the Hickman family in the church van. Fourteen-year-old Chris muttered darkly about having to ride with the old farts, which got him a slap upside his head from Florida.

The spicy smell of homemade chili greeted us as shivering bodies crowded through the door of Uptown Community’s storefront on Morse Avenue. I shanghaied a couple of teenagers to haul my picnic cooler of hot chocolate up the stairs to the large multipurpose room on the second floor, set it on the pass-through window from the kitchen, and began filling cups with the sweet, hot liquid.

Ooo, girl, this stuff is good! Florida drained a cup and held it out for a refill. You use real chocolate to make this?

Yeah. Cocoa, sugar, milk, cinnamon. I felt mollified. Stu might have won points by being Johnny-on-the-spot with her hot chocolate on the beach, but even Jesus saved the best wine till last when He partied.

The bathrooms were busy for a while as the Polar Bear Plungers got out of their wet swimsuits and damp sweats and back into dry clothes. The rest of us sat on folding chairs in little clumps, sipping hot chocolate and filling our bellies with bowls of thick chili. I could hear the electric hand dryers going nonstop in the women’s bathroom. Makeshift hair dryers, I murmured to Florida—or tried to—but I’d just eaten some crackers and it came out, Mathift hay dryerth.

Florida snickered. Oh Lord, I’m glad somebody else feedin’ my kids today! These holidays take a big bite outta money we don’t have. She cast a roving eye around the room. Satisfied that her kids were both eating and behaving, she craned her neck again. I don’t see Stu. She didn’t drive all the way from Oak Park just to jump in the lake for two minutes, did she?

"Two miserable minutes," I added.

Florida snickered. Ya got that right! But if ya ask me, it’s time that girl quit talkin’ ’bout movin’ into the city and do it. She’s puttin’ a lot of miles on that fancy lil’ car of hers, traipsin’ back ’n forth ever’ Sunday for church and Yada Yada too.

Yeah, I know. She talks about getting out of real estate and back into social work. . . . Maybe she wants to, maybe she doesn’t.

Ruth sat down with a whumph. What? A new job Stu has? Florida and I quickly shook our heads, but Ruth was already shooting her marbles down another alley. When is Nony coming home? Doesn’t school start next week? Ruth fanned herself with an old church bulletin she’d picked up and sighed. I suppose we’ll be hearing ‘South Africa this’ and ‘South Africa that’ once she gets back.

Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith—another Yada Yada sister we’d met at the conference last spring—and her two boys had been in Kwazulu-Natal ever since Nony’s mother had had a stroke last November, yet she’d been taking her own sweet time coming back, much to her husband Mark’s frustration. He had finally joined them in December for the holidays, but Nony’s absence had left a big hole in the Yada Yada Prayer Group for too long. Last e-mail we got from her said this weekend, I said. Didn’t I forward it to you, Ruth? They thought her mother wouldn’t survive the stroke, though it looks like she’s recovering bit by bit.

E-mail, she-mail, Ruth muttered. Haven’t looked at it since Christmas. A favor that woman should do, die decently and let Nony come home to her family.

Florida and I looked at each other. That sounded terrible—but we both knew what Ruth meant. We all thought Mrs. Sisulu would pass, and then Nony could wrap things up with her relatives and be able to be at home here in the States with her husband. Yet I had my doubts that her mother’s death would change anything for Nony. It was South Africa that was in her blood, not just her extended family.

So, a man she has now, Ruth said.

I stared at Ruth. Who?

Avis! Last time Yada Yada met, teasing her you were, about some man who showed up at church with her. Church dates—sounds serious to me.

Ruth! Trying to follow Ruth’s jumps in conversation often left me spinning. Yes, I was teasing her, but I hardly think it’s serious. The guy knew Avis’s husband before he died—an old friend, I think, who moved here to Chicago on business and looked up Avis since he didn’t know anyone.

Mm-hm. Ruth just fanned as if she knew better.

Hey, guys. Stu was one of the first ones out of the bathroom, her still-damp hair falling over one shoulder as she pulled up a chair to join Ruth, Florida, and me while balancing a bowl of chili, a napkin, and a plastic spoon. Anybody know of any apartments for rent? Not you, Ruth—I don’t want to live out in Lincolnwood. Somewhere in the city. Here in the Rogers Park neighborhood would be great.

Florida and I exchanged a tiny glance. Stu hadn’t overhead us, had she? Nah.

So. Ruth nodded knowingly. You are no longer selling houses? Back to social work, eh?

Stu wrinkled her nose. Got an interview at the DCFS office here in Rogers Park next week. Probably have to start at the bottom again, but I’d like to work with foster care.

Ruth flinched slightly. Foster care was a touchy subject, ever since the Department of Child and Family Services had taken away a foster daughter she’d wanted to adopt and sent the child back to her mother—after the girl had spent five years in Ruth’s home.

Don’t know any rentals offhand, I said hastily. I’ll keep an eye out, though.

Uh, Señora Baxter?

I jumped. José Enriquez stood behind me, smiling big, his wet black hair slicked back from his forehead. Gosh, he’s good-looking. Too good-looking for only fifteen. No wonder Amanda was smitten.

Could I speak to you and Señor Baxter a moment, please?

Me and Denny? My systems went on red alert. He sounded too serious, and he was smiling too big. Ruth fanned her bulletin really fast now and stared at José. Florida studiously looked the other way and—dang it!—was trying not to laugh.

Uh, sure, José. I reluctantly stood up and looked around for Denny. I handed my empty chili bowl to Florida but kept my cup of hot chocolate. I had the feeling I was going to need something to hang on to.

Denny was talking to Carl Hickman and Ben Garfield, which made an odd trio. Ben was sixtyish, short, wide waisted, and crowned with a surfing wave of silver hair on his high forehead. Carl was twenty years younger, tall and thin, his pecan coloring setting off his salt-and-pepper moustache and tuft of hair under his bottom lip. Denny was solid, given his job as a high school coach. He had flecks of gray in his brown hair, too, but his clean-shaven face couldn’t hide the big dimples that creased his cheeks or the laugh-wrinkles around his gray eyes, making him look like an overgrown kid.

I caught Denny’s eye and crooked a finger at him. He excused himself and met us in the middle of the room. What’s up? Hi, José. No frozen toes?

José grinned. No, Señor Baxter. But the girls—he waved toward the women’s restroom, which still buzzed with high voices and the electric hum of the hand dryers—are creating their own sauna, yes? He laughed.

Get to it, José, I muttered to myself. My anxiety was popping out like pimples on prom night.

As if reading my mind, José suddenly sobered. Señor and Señora Baxter, I would like to ask your permission to give Amanda—

My heart lurched and I sucked in my breath, ready to scream, Not on your life, buster!

"—a quinceañera. It is a special party when a girl turns fifteen. I have talked it over with my mother, and she thinks it is a wonderful idea."

I just looked at him stupidly. Amanda had turned fifteen last August. Had Amanda put him up to this? What was Delores thinking, giving my daughter a birthday party, a . . . a quince-something. Whatever. Sounded like something from their Mexican culture. The Baxters, however, were anything but Hispanic. Ordinary Midwestern white-bread. That was us.

Hm. Sounds interesting, José. Denny gave me a quick glance to be sure I wasn’t about to fall out on the spot. You do know that Amanda already turned fifteen last summer?

José nodded. "Sí. But we were not yet friends till you came to visit us at Iglesia del Espírito Santo, so it was not possible then. Now that we are friends, it seems a shame that a wonderful girl like Amanda should not have a quinceañera." He smiled big again. It does not really matter if the time is exact. It can be for her fifteen-and-a-half birthday!

Which would be—I counted quickly in my head—February. Next month.

I took a quick glance around the room. Where was Delores? Why didn’t she