Who do i talk to, p.10
Who Do I Talk To?, page 10
Ha. Part of me would have loved to let Sarge squirm after all the grief she’d given me about Dandy. But the night’s events had been traumatic for her too—confronting the intruder alone, finding a knife at her throat, getting tied up.
“Uh, Mabel. I’m partly to blame as well. I saw the supper volunteers take trash bags out that side door and didn’t think anything about it. I was on cleanup, the last one to leave, and I should have checked that door. But I had big problems on my mind and just wasn’t thinking.”
To my surprise, Sarge shot me a look that seemed almost . . . grateful.
Mabel finally leaned back. “Well, obviously, we need to tighten the security. When something like this happens, we all have to learn from it. We can’t afford to make mistakes. We were fortunate this time. It could have been worse . . .”
I zoned out, impatient to talk to my mom, get some sleep, call the boys to tell them about Dandy, ask how they felt about staying another month in Virginia. But I tried to focus.
“. . . a lot to be thankful for. We need to give God some serious praise around here! And no doubt about it, Dandy’s the hero of the day. I’m so sorry he got hurt, Gabby. How’s your mother taking it?”
I shook my head. “Haven’t really talked to her. I’m not sure she understands. She gets confused when things get stressful. But I think she’s doing all right for now. I just hope those reporters don’t find out Dandy is her dog and shove those microphones in her face. She’d freak.”
“Good point. Right now I think they assume Dandy is your dog, Gabby. Let’s keep it that way.”
Not that I wanted any microphones in my face either. “Uh, I kind of promised we’d give them a statement soon, just so they’d let us get in the door.” I looked at Mabel hopefully. “Would you . . . ?”
Mabel made a face. “All right. Hopefully, this will blow over soon. Most of our guests don’t want—or need—media spotlight. Guess we should call a meeting of all the residents and make sure everybody has the straight story so we don’t start a lot of rumors.”
The three of us worked on a statement we hoped would satisfy the diehards still waiting outside. Finally Mabel stood up. “All right, while I’m giving our statement, would you two gather the residents in the multipurpose room? Sarge, can you stay a bit longer? Gabby, do we have anything scheduled this morning?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to think. “Uh, yes, Jodi Baxter is coming to teach a typing class at eleven.” I groaned inwardly. I’d had every intention of trying to talk with Jodi when she came this morning, thinking Mabel wouldn’t be here. I still needed help sorting out the options the Legal Aid lawyer had presented to me. But now, all I could think of was sleep.
“Fine. We’ll be done by then.” Mabel started out of her office, then caught her reflection in the glass windows around the receptionist’s cubby. “Oh, Lord, help me. You sure do have ways of keeping me humble.” Our shelter director gave a short laugh, then gave a shrug and marched toward the front doors, crowned with her bedtime hair wrap.
I had to smile. Was that a prayer? Mabel talked to God like He was just another person sitting in on our conversation.
While Mabel was out facing the cameras, Sarge started rounding up the residents and I checked on Dandy—stretched out on his comforter, eyes closed, the bandages wrapped around his shaved chest and shoulder rising and falling with each labored breath. Eight-year-old Sammy sat patiently nearby.
“You okay, Sammy? You want a book to read? Or here . . .” I grabbed some blank paper and colored markers from my desk. “Would you like to draw?”
Tanya’s boy nodded eagerly, took the paper and markers, and scrunched down on the floor. Then he looked up. “Some a’ the other kids wanted ta come in, but I told ’em nobody s’posed ta be in your office but me. Ain’t that right, Miz Gabby?”
“That’s right, Sammy. For now, anyway.” Smiling at his loyalty, I scurried back upstairs to the main floor, where residents were gathering just as Mabel came back through the double doors into the multipurpose room. I was glad to see my mother dressed in navy blue slacks and a clean—though wrinkled—white blouse, and her hair brushed. I slipped up to her, gave her a hug, and pulled a folding chair close.
Done with her statement, Mabel marched into the multipurpose room and clapped her hands. “Everybody here? Good. Ladies, quiet down . . . Hello! Ladies! We need to brief you about what happened last night, and—”
“’Scuse me, Miz Mabel!” Lucy’s hand shot up.
“We’ll have time for questions later, Lucy. First—”
“’Scuse me, Miz Mabel. We got somethin’ ta say first, right, ladies?”
Murmurs all around. Mabel sighed. “All right, Lucy. What is it?”
Lucy poked Carolyn. “You go. They gonna listen to you, ’cause you got all that book learnin’.”
“She would, si te callaras la boca, Lucy!” Tina hollered. Everybody laughed.
“Ladies, please . . .” Mabel looked frustrated.
Carolyn stood up. “Sorry, Mabel. We don’t mean to joke. We’ve been talking—all the ladies here—about what happened last night, and we have a proposition to make.”
Heads nodded all around the room. “That’s right” . . . “Sí” . . . “Uh-huh” . . .
Lucy poked Carolyn again. “Get on with it.”
“Lucy, if you poke me one more time, I’m—!” Snickers from the residents. “Anyway, we all know Dandy’s been living here on borrowed time. Sarge has been saying he’s got to be out of here by this weekend.”
Sarge threw up her hands. “Well, not today. The dog’s hurt.”
“Exactly. Gramma Shep’s dog got injured protecting all of us from an intruder. Hurt bad. So all of us here agree we owe him somethin’. We took a vote—”
Mabel’s eyebrow went up.
“—and we all agree that Dandy should be made a resident of Manna House Women’s Shelter as official watchdog.”
The room erupted with cheers and claps from the residents, even Sheila, the big-chested woman who’d screeched like a banshee the first time I brought Dandy and my mom to the shelter for a visit. Carolyn handed Mabel a sheet of paper with a ballpoint pen clipped to the top. “See? We’ve all signed a petition.”
Mabel glanced at the paper, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, then handed it to Sarge. The night manager shrugged. “Humph. I’m overruled, no? City inspector might not like it, but tell you what . . .” Sarge grabbed the pen, laid the paper on the nearest end table, and signed it.
Now the residents did raise a cheer, laughing and slapping Sarge on the back. I saw Mabel turn her head toward the foyer asif listening to something, then slip out as Sarge passed the list of signatures to me.
I showed the paper to my mother, who had a fixed smile on her face, as if aware that something good was happening but not sure what it was. “Look at this, Mom! Everybody wants Dandy to stay here at the shelter as the official watchdog. Isn’t that great?”
As I glanced over the list, I didn’t see Lucy’s name. But at the top, among the first few signatures, was a large, scrawled X.
My neck prickled. Was that why Lucy fussed about being asked to read Dandy’s dog tag in the back of the squad car?
Lucy couldn’t read!
A tap on my shoulder made me look up. “Gabby?” Mabel beckoned. “You’ve got a phone call. Take it in my office if you want to.”
Strange. Who would be calling me? The boys? Maybe their granddad had told them they were staying in Virginia, and they wanted to talk to me. Or—I picked up Mabel’s phone. “Hello? Gabby Fairbanks speaking.”
“Gabrielle!” My name was shouted in my ear like a cuss word. “What are you trying to do—ruin me?”
I recoiled from the phone in shock. Philip! But I took a deep breath and tried to collect my equilibrium. “What do you mean, ruin you? Why are you calling, Philip? This isn’t exactly a good time. I’ve got a lot going on—”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Talking to reporters, splashing the Fairbanks name all over the news!”
I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to calm the voices shouting in my head. “Philip. I’m not—”
“Oh yeah? Turn on the TV! Of all the lowdown things to do, making a spectacle of yourself. I’m supposed to play golf in an hour with one of our new clients today—now this!” He swore right in my ear. “Don’t play innocent with me—I know what you’re up to, Gabrielle. My mother always said you’d drag down the Fairbanks name someday!”
chapter 14
The phone went dead. Stunned, I stumbled through the multipurpose room and into the TV room, turned on the set, and started flipping channels. Cartoons . . . cartoons . . . home renovation . . . cooking show . . . news . . .
There. Mabel Turner standing with the arched oak doors of the Manna House shelter at her back, camera lights bouncing off her maple-colored skin, finishing our carefully worded statement. “. . . grateful that no one was seriously hurt.”
Questions flew before she even had time to take a breath. “Ms. Turner! Ms. Turner! You said the dog was treated by a vet—how badly was he hurt?” . . . “Who does the dog belong to?” . . . “Why was he at the shelter? Are you taking in homeless animals too?” . . . “Where’s the dog now?” . . .
“Oh brother,” Mabel’s voice breathed in my ear. I jumped. Where had Mabel come from? “The one time I’m on television and I look like I just fell out of bed.”
“. . . belongs to one of our staff,” Mabel was saying on air, “and just happened to be here last night. Fortunately.” She smiled into the cameras. “Thank you. That’s all.”
Aware that others were pushing into the small TV room and peering over our shoulders, I deliberately slowed my breathing. That was it? Mabel had been very careful not to give out any personal information. What is Philip’s problem? But just then, the TV camera zoomed in on a perky blonde reporter with perfect makeup and a big microphone, saying, “Earlier this morning, a squad car brought back the shelter’s hero, a mutt named Dandy . . .” The footage showed Officer Krakowski lifting Dandy out of the car, swathed in bandages, followed by Lucy Tucker in her pajama bottoms, sweatshirt, and purple knit hat—and me, running up the steps and leaning on the door buzzer, pulling it open until the trio got inside, then turning around while voices yelled, “Mrs. Fairbanks! Mrs. Fairbanks! Can you—”
Close-up of Gabby Fairbanks, bags under my eyes, snarly chestnut curls that hadn’t seen a comb or brush (or a haircut) since who knew when, and chirping, “Uh, hi folks. It’s been a stressful night, as you can all imagine. I’m sure Manna House will issue a statement as soon as possible. Please be patient.”
Residents all around me babbled with excitement. “Hey, Lucy! You were on TV!” . . . “Didja hear that? They called Dandy a mutt! Stupid reporters.” . . . “Me? On TV? Where?” . . .
But their chatter was drowned out by the TV voices echoing in my head—“Mrs. Fairbanks! Mrs. Fairbanks!”—and Philip’s snarl on the phone: “. . . making a spectacle of yourself . . . always said you’d drag down the Fairbanks name someday!”
I never did get a nap that morning. Jodi Baxter showed up to teach her class, along with Estelle, who flounced in like a mini tidal wave, muttering that leftovers—the usual fare for weekend lunches, I gathered—would not do after the trauma of such a night. She immediately set about banging pots and pans and cooking something that began to smell mighty good.
“We saw it on the news,” Jodi told me. “Actually, Denny and I heard screeching upstairs, and the next thing we knew, Stu was pounding on our back door, telling us to turn on the TV.”
It took me a few seconds to remember that “Stu” and Estelle were housemates, and they lived above Josh’s parents in a two-flat. One day I’d get it figured out.
“But what’s this Josh and Edesa are telling me?” Jodi reached out and rested her hand lightly on my arm. I was aware of her gentle touch, and for some reason I wanted to cry. “Your husband locked you out, and you and your mother moved into the shelter?” Her eyes were round with disbelief, as if saying the words aloud felt like telling a fib.
I gave a little nod, afraid my high water mark was ready to breach and I’d soon be a blubbery mess right then and there. “Yeah, well . . .” I grabbed a tissue from my jeans pocket and blew my nose. Wasn’t sure how coherent I’d be on no sleep, but I really did want to talk to Jodi. “Um, if you don’t have to run off right after your typing class, I’d . . . guess I would like to talk to you.”
“Sure! Besides, I’d never hear the end of it if I left before Estelle’s sacrificial lunch offering. Cooking and sewing—that’s how she blesses people. Oh! Speaking of blessings! I need a few strong arms to carry in a couple of computers from our minivan. Software Symphony donated two more used computers to the schoolroom.” Jodi eyed me slyly beneath the bangs of her shoulder-length brown bob. “Of course, I bugged Peter Douglass about it mercilessly when I realized more women signed up to learn word processing skills than Manna House had computers.”
I couldn’t help but grin. Jodi Baxter wouldn’t exactly turn heads on the street, but she could turn a few hardheads into giving up what she needed. Sarge was gone, but I rounded up Carolyn and Tina to help Jodi and me bring in the computers, monitors, and keyboards. We made space for the equipment on the long table in the schoolroom that already held two computers, as Carolyn lifted the mass of wires and plugs out of a box. “Hm. Might be able to get these up and running for you,” she murmured. “Not in time for today’s class, though.”
I raised my eyebrows. What other talents lay underneath Carolyn’s scraggly ponytail?
Kim and Wanda showed up for Jodi’s typing class, along with one of the new residents, named Althea, who seemed to be Mediterranean-something. Sicilian? Turkish? She spoke good English—easier to understand than Wanda’s Jamaican patois. Jodi seemed comfortable, though, so I slipped down to my office to check on Dandy. Lucy was parked on my chair, leaning on the desk with her elbow, wrinkled hand holding up her head, which was still crowned in the purple knit hat, and snoring away.
“Lucy!” I shook her awake. “Go upstairs and get a nap. I’ll take over.”
Umph . . . gurkle . . . huh? Whatchu want, Fuzz Top? I ain’t “sleepin’.”
“It’s okay. You had a short night.” Huh. Didn’t we all. “Besides, I need to use my office.”
“Humph. Okay.” The phone rang just as Lucy hauled herself up from my chair. “You want me ta get that?” Without waiting for an answer, she snatched up the desk phone. “Miz Gabby’s office . . . Oh yeah? . . . Okay, I’ll tell her.” She hung it up. “You’ve got a visitor.”
I stiffened. A visitor? Philip wouldn’t . . . would he? “Did whoever’s on the desk say who it is?”
Lucy shrugged. “Only one way ta find out. C’mon.”
I followed meekly. If it was Philip, having Lucy pave the way wasn’t a bad idea. She wouldn’t take any guff from him. Or maybe it was just some reporter . . . Good grief. I’d almost rather talk to Philip. Didn’t the media know they were stirring up a hornet’s nest in my corner?
But my visitor was neither.
“Mr. Bentley!” I cried as Lucy and I came through the double doors into the foyer. The doorman from Richmond Towers—wearing slacks, a nice button-down shirt, and a tweed golf hat hiding his bald head, instead of his blue uniform and cap—stood holding a big bag of something. And next to him, carrying a couple of plastic store bags, stood his wide-eyed grandson. But the boy’s name had slipped my mind. “Uh, hi, young man. What brings you guys here two days in a row?”
“We saw the story about your dog on TV!” the boy piped up. “Grandpa said it belongs to your mama.”
Mr. Bentley looked a little embarrassed. “Yeah, DeShawn wanted us to bring something for the hero dog.” He hefted the load in his arms—a twenty-five-pound bag of dog food. “DeShawn has some stuff too—rawhide bone, dog toy, you know.”
“Yeah, but Grandpa! Who brought all that other stuff out there?” DeShawn tipped his head toward the front doors.
The boy had a beautiful face—large, dark eyes, smooth skin, an impish grin lurking beneath the surface. He looked up at Mr. Bentley with obvious respect. I stared, fascinated. Then what he said finally penetrated my brain. “Uh, what other stuff ?”
Lucy was two beats ahead of me, already pushing the doors open. “Uh-oh.”
“‘Uh-oh’ what?” I peered over her shoulder, then pushed the doors open wider.
The steps of the Manna House shelter were stacked with bags of dry dog food, towers of canned dog food, dog toys, dog chews, dog treats, and homemade posters in childish scrawls:
Dandy the Hero! Chicago loves Dandy! Get well, Dandy!
And a plethora of stuffed toy dogs sat atop the doggy loot—big ones, little ones, yellow and brown and spotted ones, with cute faces and floppy ears—like a child’s menagerie sprawled all over a lumpy bedspread.
chapter 15
I stared at the gifts piled high on the shelter steps, touched by the generosity of total strangers. But something felt out of whack. All this fuss over an injured dog—and I was grateful, I really was. But I felt embarrassed. Most homeless people in Chicago were invisible to the general population, except for the sleeping bodies here and there, dotting the parks or slumped in an out-of-the-way doorway. The Streetwise vendors were tolerated by most, even respected by some, but homeless families like Tanya and Sammy . . . who cared?
“Well, better get this stuff inside. Could rain this afternoon. C’mon, DeShawn.” Mr. Bentley put his load down in the foyer, then started hauling bags of dog food and stuffed toys inside. I saw a couple of people with cameras lurking across the street, snapping pictures before the piles disappeared.
Lucy and I started picking up the toys. “Aw, this here dog is cute,” Lucy said, holding up a floppy yellow dog with a big face and big paws.
“It’s yours, Lucy,” I said. “From Dandy. Next to my mom, you’re his favorite person.”
