The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out (8 page)

Well, why not? I
was
thankful.

I backed carefully into the parking space,maybe six inches farther out from the curb than I should be, but who cared? Pulling up the collar of my winter jacket and slinging my purse over my shoulder, I picked up the largest set of boxes from the back of the minivan, locked the car, and started gingerly up the slippery sidewalk toward the Hickmans'. I'd send one of the kids out for the other boxes.

Hearing muffled footsteps running behind me, I walked a bit faster.
Wish I'd parked closer to the house—

Without warning, my feet flew out from under me as someone jerked my purse off my shoulder with the full force of a run. I didn't have time to think before I spun around and crashed to the icy sidewalk on my back, the boxes flying out of my hands. Pain shot up my leg, as if I'd been stabbed by a hot knife . . . my left leg! The one I'd broken in the accident . . . but the pain shot up from my ankle, which was twisted under my body.

I let out a cry of pain—just as I saw two more figures headed straight for me. Terrified, I threw up my arms to protect my face . . . but the two figures, bundled up against the cold, simply parted as if I was a traffic island and kept running.

They weren't going to hurt me! I tried to get up, but the pain pushed me down. “Help! My ankle! . . . Somebody, help me!” Hot tears squeezed from my eyes. “Ohh,” I groaned. “My ankle . . . I can't . . . ”

Far down the block I heard someone yell, “Boomer! Whatchu doin'?
Come on!”

I twisted my head, trying to see. But pain and tears blurred my vision. I tried again to get up, but the pain was too great. No way was I going to walk on this ankle.
Oh God, help me . . . help me . . .

Again that voice, further away. “Boomer, you
idiot!
Get outta there! . . .We're leavin', man!” The voice faded.

Cold seeped through my slacks. I started to shiver. I had to get out of here . . . my cell phone! I had my cell phone! Frantically I patted my jacket pockets . . . nothing.
Oh no! Did I put it in my
purse? . . . No.
I distinctly remember putting it in my pocket, with my keys—

A head crossed my vision. I couldn't see a face—just a hooded jacket and knit cap pulled low, the face in shadow. But someone was bending over me.

I flinched . . . then gasped, “Help me . . . please. I'm hurt. I need my cell phone. I . . . lost it when I fell. Do you see it?”

The figure straightened. Had to be just a teenager. He looked about, and then bent down and picked up something . . . my phone! He flipped it open and punched the keys. I heard three beeps, then a Send tone.
Three beeps?
“What—?”

But before I could ask who he was calling, the person set the phone down on the ground about six inches from my fingers . . . and ran.

7

F
or half a second, I forgot the pain in my ankle.
What in
the world—?

Then I heard a faraway voice. “9-1-1 operator. F What”—I snatched the phone off the ground and put it to my ear—“is your emergency?”

“Uh, uh . . . I'm sorry. Dialed by mistake. Sorry.” I fumbled with my cold fingers, managed to flip the phone closed. The lighted LED died. I let my head fall back to the snowy sidewalk. No way did I want to lie here for ten minutes waiting for paramedics to arrive, and it was probably just a sprained ankle anyway. The Hickmans were just up the street. That's what I needed to do—call Florida and Carl, tell them I'm lying out on their sidewalk, feeling like a fool.

Good thing I had the Hickmans'
number on speed dial. My brain felt like cold oatmeal. And the pain in my ankle robbed me of lucid thought. Carl was at my side in half a minute, no coat, Florida right behind him. I was so glad to see them, I started to cry.

“Jodi Baxter! What—? Never mind. I'm gonna call 9-1-1.”

“No, no,” I gasped. “It's just a sprained ankle. Just get me to your house. Please.”

Between the two of them and me hobbling on one foot, they got me inside. I sank down on their couch, winced as Florida pulled off my boot, but gratefully accepted the pillows she used to prop up my left foot. “Ice,” she muttered. “Gotta get ice on that foot. Carl, where you goin'?”

“Goin' to pick up Jodi's stuff lying out there on the sidewalk. I saw a bunch of boxes. Those yours? What else is out there? You got your purse? ”

I shook my head. “I was bringing boxes for Becky. But my purse . . . it's gone. That's what happened. Somebody ran up behind me, grabbed my purse, made me fall down . . .” I blinked back hot tears, suddenly feeling the full weight of fear and pain now that I was inside and safe and among friends.

Both Carl and Florida stared at me. “I'm calling the police,” Carl muttered.

“No, wait! I . . . give me a minute to think, please?” I wanted to stay on the Hickmans' couch. I didn't want police standing around in their living room asking questions.

Carl scratched his head. Like Denny. Did all men do that when they felt frustrated? Then he yelled up the stairs. “Chris! Cedric! Get down here! I need some help!”

The two boys came clattering down the stairs—and stopped, staring at me propped up on the couch. “What's wrong, Mrs. B?” At sixteen, Chris Hickman had shot up as tall as his dad—and was as good-looking.

“Don't you be askin' no questions,” Florida scolded on her way to the kitchen. “Just git on outside, help your dad pick up Mrs. Baxter's things. She . . . fell.”

“Wait!” I sniffled, fumbling in my jacket pockets until I found my car keys. “There's a bunch more empty boxes in the back of my car. Can you bring 'em in, Chris? They're for Becky.”

Florida came back with a plastic bag full of ice cubes wrapped in a dishtowel and packed my foot, muttering the whole time. “You're a stubborn woman, Jodi Baxter. You need to get this x-rayed. What if it's broken? An' if you don't report a purse snatchin' to the police, then I'm goin' to. Don't want no thief workin'
my
block. Whatchu got in that purse, anyway—credit cards? You gotta call the credit card companies and put a stop on 'em, else that thief gonna rack up several hundred bucks tonight 'fore you can blink.”

“Thieves,” I said.

“What?”

“There were three of them. One came back to help me.”

Florida stared at me. “What do you mean, came back?”

I tried to explain what happened. “I'm not positive the person who found my phone was one of the thieves, except somebody kept yelling at him to run. But he found my phone and dialed 9-1-1.”

“What? That's what I'm talkin' about. You should be on your way to the hospital. Wait—if he called for an ambulance, how come I don't hear no sirens out there?”

“Um . . . I ended the call. Called you instead.”

Florida threw up her hands. “Lord, help me here 'fore I slap this girl upside the head. I have half a mind to throw you right back outside on the street.”

WELL, I GOT to hang out with the Hickmans that evening, all right. Carl wouldn't hear of taking me home and leaving me alone, even though I was anxious to find our credit card numbers and get the cards cancelled. He finally got through to Denny, who'd had his cell phone shut off while he was inside the juvenile detention center; Oscar Frost dropped him off at the Hickmans' around nine-thirty.

Tight-lipped, my husband agreed with Florida, called the police to report a purse-snatching-with-injury, and told the dis-patcher we'd meet them at the emergency room of St. Francis Hospital. “What about the credit cards?” I winced as he and Carl helped me out to our minivan. “Shouldn't we go home first, make some calls?”

“Did it already. I have my cards, remember? And Oscar was driving.”

“Oh.” Something told me Denny was in no mood to be questioned right now.

We didn't get home until almost midnight. “Told you it was just a sprain,” I mumbled as he helped me into the house. “How much is this going to cost us?”

“Jodi Marie Baxter. I don't care! It's a
bad
sprain, you've got a torn ligament, it could've been worse, and now we both know you have to stay off it totally for
at least
two days, and on crutches for a week.” He rattled the discharge papers at me. “I've got it all here in black and white. Besides . . . ” He picked me up and carried me into the bedroom, and started helping me out of my clothes. “Just say you did it for my sake.”

He leaned forward and fixed me with his gray eyes. His voice gentled. “You scared me half to death, Jodi. You didn't just fall down. You were mugged. It's a violent crime! I just thank God that you're . . . ” He stopped. And then grinned.

“What?”

“Um, did anyone at the Hickmans' tell you that your mascara is all smudged? You look like a raccoon.”

DENNY CALLED BETHUNE Elementary first thing Friday morning to say I was “laid up,” and was going to take a sick day himself to stay home with me. “I know you. You'd be up and down all day, trying to get stuff done. Ain't gonna happen, babe. That recliner is your throne until further notice.” But Florida must have tattled to Yada Yada while we were at the hospital, because Estelle came downstairs and offered to “Jodi-sit.” Her most recent elder care patient had passed away, and she didn't start a new assignment until Monday.

“Leave her to me, Denny,” she said, waving him out the door. “I've got experience with ornery patients.”

Except for the dull throb in my ankle and aching all over from the fall, it was kind of nice being waited on hand and foot. Estelle seemed to anticipate when I needed another cup of coffee, brought me pain medicines when I needed them, and chatted with me just enough to be companionable, but she didn't hover over me every minute. In fact, she lugged Stu's sewing machine downstairs, set it up on our dining room table, and sewed away on one of her sewing projects while I read.

Dozing in the recliner after lunch—homemade corn chowder and hot biscuits—my mind drifted to what had happened the night before.
Being jerked off my feet . . . falling . . . muffled footsteps
running away . . . then the shadowy figure bending over me . . . some-one
yelling in the distance, “Boomer, you idiot! Run!”—

I opened my eyes.
Boomer.
That must be the name of the per-son who came back! Why didn't I remember that last night when the police officer asked me if I could identify the thieves in any way? Should I call him back? The officer had given me his card in case I remembered anything else.

But something inside me checked. Maybe there had been three thieves. But the person who came back wasn't the one who'd grabbed my purse. My gut was sure of that. And he'd come back. And tried to help. No, I wasn't going to call . . .

But you can pray, Jodi. Pray for Boomer. Like you did for Sara, even
before you knew her name . . .

“Estelle? Can you come here a sec?”

The
whirring
in the other room stopped. Estelle appeared in the living room archway. “What you need, baby?”

“Nothing. I just wondered . . . would you help me pray for Boomer?”

ESTELLE MADE SUPPER from stuff she found in our kitchen—smothered pork chops and corn pudding—and Stu joined us when Denny got home; it felt almost like a party. But by Saturday, I was plenty tired of just sitting in the front room recliner with my foot in the air and answering phone calls from well-meaning friends.

“Keep that foot elevated at least another day, Jodi,” Delores cautioned. “Keep icing it, too, but only ten minutes at a time, and then rewrap.”

Avis called. “Don't worry about school on Monday, Jodi. We've already got a sub lined up for you.”

“Never wear de purse over just one shoulder, Sista Jodee,” Chanda scolded. “Over your head and inside de coat, next time.”

“Who needs a purse?” Yo-Yo snorted. “Just stuff what you need in your pockets. Works for me.” Right. Yo-Yo always wore overalls.

“Boxes, schmoxes,” Ruth sputtered in my ear. “Half your age, Becky is. Let her get her own boxes. I'm coming over with chicken soup.” . . . “I'm not sick, Ruth.” . . . “So? You need to be sick to eat chicken soup?”

When the phone rang for the tenth time that day, I hollered at Denny, “If that's Becky again”—she'd already called twice, saying it was all her fault—“tell her I'm on my way to Colorado to go skiing!”

Denny brought me the phone. “It's Josh.”

“Oh . . . Hi, honey.”

“Sorry about your fall, Mom. And getting your purse snatched. Must have been scary.”

“Yes, I—”

“I called to ask you and Dad to pray. And feel free to pass it on to Yada Yada.”

So much for being fawned over by one's offspring. “Sure, honey. What's wrong?”

“Carmelita's missing again.”

I WOKE IN the middle of the night, my ankle throbbing, and got up to take some pain meds, using the crutches we still had from when I broke my femur. Heating a mug of milk in the microwave, I peeked out the window in the back door. Snowing again. So much for going to church in the morning. Walking on crutches indoors was one thing; crutches on snow and ice was another.