Who do i talk to, p.18
Who Do I Talk To?, page 18
Even Edesa had laid it on thick. “Por favor? Like a family outing, sí? ”
Jodi knew the jig was up. Before they left, she’d given me a hug and murmured, “Invitation is still open. Think about it. And don’t forget your name—‘Strong Woman of God.’ See you tomorrow for church?”
Now, waiting for Precious to deliver that much-needed shot of caffeine, I thought about Denny and Jodi . . . Such nice folks. And if Lucy didn’t show up, I’d definitely lean on my mom to accept their hospitality for her and Dandy. But frankly, I was kind of relieved to leave the Baxter home. Their affectionate teasing dangled a working marriage in front of me but out of reach, like watching two lovers share a full-course meal in a fine restaurant while I stood outside the window by myself, stomach growling.
“Coffee!” Precious nudged my office door open and set down two cups of coffee, then plopped into the extra folding chair beside my desk. “Okay, no more stallin’. Whassup wit’ you, girl? I want all the deets.”
“Huh.” I cradled the cup of hot, creamy coffee in two hands. “If I give you all the ‘deets,’ you’ll never make lunch and we’ll have a mutiny on our hands. How about the skinny version, and I’ll fill you in later? Besides, I have a favor to ask you.”
I’m sure Precious meant well as lunch volunteer. But bologna sandwiches on white bread—no lettuce—with mayo and mustard, potato chips, canned fruit cocktail, store-bought cookies, and a mysterious red juice that tasted like colored sugar water was definitely not in the tradition of Estelle Williams’s yummy lunches. Funny thing, though. I heard no complaints from the residents, many of whom went back for seconds on those bald bologna sandwiches. Ugh.
Nutrition. I still needed to ask Edesa Baxter about doing a couple of workshops in nutrition. For everybody—not just the few in Estelle’s cooking class on Thursdays. She’d be the perfect person since she was she getting her master’s degree in public health.
On the pretext of taking my barely nibbled lunch into my office to work, I dumped it into the wastebasket and made a note to myself: Ask Edesa—nutrition?
Once the dish crew started cleanup, Precious joined me in the rec room since I’d asked her to help me decide what to do with all the dog food stacked under the Ping-Pong table, plus all the stuffed dogs, dog chews, and doggy toys we’d loaded into garbage bags last weekend. She surveyed the loot, hands on hips. “What’s the problem? Keep some of the dog food for Dandy—whatchu need, three, four bags?—an’ donate all the rest to the Humane Society or someplace like that. No, wait . . . I heard ’bout this group called Pet Supplies for Seniors. They give stuff free to old people who can’t afford food for their pets. Call ’em up. I’m sure they’ll send a truck or somethin’.”
“Really? That’s perfect.” I held up a yellow stuffed dog with brown floppy ears. “But what about all these stuffed animals? I mean, we gave a few to the kids here at the shelter, but . . .” I swept my hand at all the garbage bags. “There must be at least a couple dozen more dogs here!”
“Keep ’em.”
“What? I’m not that desperate for something to cuddle in my bed.”
Precious cracked up. “Girl, I don’t mean you keep ’em. I mean, store ’em someplace and give one to every kid who comes to the shelter with his or her mama, along with the basic kit. Somethin’ of your own to love is lots more important than a new toothbrush to a kid who’s been sleepin’ in a car or just got evicted.”
I liked her idea. But would Mabel? “Where in the world would we find room?”
“That, sister girl, is your problem. Look, I gotta go.” Precious headed out the door of the rec room, and I followed. “Sabrina got an appointment at one o’ them crisis pregnancy centers, an’ I wanna make sure she goes. She kinda ridin’ the fence about car-ryin’ this baby. Pray for us, will ya, Miz Gabby?”
We paused just outside my office. Should I offer to pray with her now? Seemed like it might be the right thing to do, but—
“That your phone ringin’?” Precious darted inside my office, picked up the desk phone, listened, shrugged, and hung it up again.
“What? Oh, could be my cell.” The ring was coming from a drawer in the file cabinet where I’d stored my shoulder bag. I still wasn’t used to the ring on my new cell phone. My old one had the “William Tell Overture,” which always got my attention. I finally found the phone and flipped it open, but the caller was gone.
And so was Precious.
Feeling a tad guilty that I’d let an opportunity to pray with Precious slip past me, I tapped my phone keys until I found Missed Calls. Lee Boyer? Why was he calling? I hit Call Back but realized I had no signal and didn’t get one until I got outside on the front steps of Manna House. Whew. It was hot out here.
He answered on the first ring. “Lee Boyer.”
Should I call him Lee? Still felt weird. I skipped it. “Hi! Gabby Fairbanks, returning your call. What’s up?”
“Have you found an apartment yet?”
He was checking up on me? I tried to keep the irritation from my voice. “No. I—”
“Good. Because this real estate guy I know has an apartment for rent in a six-flat in the Wrigleyville area. Not too far from where you are now. Nice place, pretty nice area. Actually he’s trying to sell the building, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Buyers have to honor leases, and most are glad to keep current renters.”
My irritation dissipated, replaced with . . . what? A warmth that somebody was looking out for me. “I need three bedrooms, you know.” As long as my mother was with me, the boys would have to bunk up, but that’s the way it was.
“That’s what caught my attention. This building has both two- and three-bedroom apartments, but it’s the three-bedroom on the first floor that’s available. Plus it’s only a couple of blocks from the Red Line—a real bonus if you don’t have a car.”
The first floor! No more dizzy moments just looking out the window from the thirty-second floor. As Lee Boyer spoke, I realized how overwhelmed I’d been feeling about trying to find a place to live. Where in the world would I start? I was still a Chicago tenderfoot. Could I find something big enough for me and the boys and my mom? And if I did, could I afford it? An actual apartment, recommended by someone who was in my corner . . . it felt almost too good to be true. “Sounds good. Could I take a look at it? Do I need to call somebody?”
“The old tenants are supposedly moving out today. But I think if I pushed, the owner would be willing to show it tomorrow, though it would still need cleaning, maybe some repairs. How about eleven? I could pick you up and take you there.”
Pick me up? “Oh, Lee. You don’t have to—”
“Don’t mind at all. Not doing anything else. The sooner you get into an apartment, the sooner you can get your boys back. I think I’ve got the address of the shelter . . . See you at eleven, then.”
Only after the call ended did I realize that tomorrow was Sunday. Eleven o’clock meant I couldn’t take Mom to church at SouledOut.
chapter 26
My mom’s face clouded when I told her the news. “But we have to go to church, Gabby. It’s Sunday.”
“Mom! It’s just this once. My lawyer wants me to look at an apartment near here. It’s important!” Did she just call me Gabby? Well, hallelujah.
“But does it have to be eleven? Couldn’t you make an appointment in the afternoon?”
I tried not to roll my eyes. Actually, I’d thought of that myself after Lee hung up. Sounded like he’d just pulled eleven o’clock out of the air. But I was chicken to call him back and change the appointment. What would I tell him? Oh, I forgot, can’t do eleven; gotta go to church. Which obviously wasn’t on his agenda. Would he think I was some fundy chick?
“I’m sorry, Mom. Just this once. And they have church Sunday evenings here at Manna House, did you know that?” Couldn’t remember what church group was scheduled for tomorrow, but I’d check it out.
Mom was slightly mollified by the idea that church would come to her . . . and by the time a youth group from Wheaton arrived at five o’clock with the makings for a taco salad supper and sides of beans and rice, I’d called the Pet Support for Seniors people and arranged for a pickup on Monday of the dog food, chews, and toys. The woman on the phone went all gaga when she realized Dandy, the “Hero Dog” of Manna House Women’s Shelter, was making this donation. I barely got her off the phone.
I was antsy to call the boys. Still had time. Supper wasn’t until six—but it was already six in Virginia. I had wanted to call all day but realized I’d been putting it off. Was Philip there visiting P. J. and Paul? The idea churned in my stomach. If he was, that was good . . . in a way. Would show he cared about them. They needed their dad. But they’d wonder why I hadn’t come too. Would they think I didn’t want to? Was too busy to make the trip? Should I tell them their father had put a lock on my finances?
Oh God, I don’t want to put my boys in the middle of our mess . . .
I grabbed my cell, scurried to the main floor, and slipped outside into the warm, humid air. Several shelter guests were lounging on the front steps, having a smoke. I walked halfway down the block until I got a good, strong signal on my cell. So far, so good. No reporters lurking about.
Philip’s mother answered the phone. Just my luck. “Hello, Marlene,” I said evenly. “May I speak to P. J. or Paul? Actually, both.”
“I’m sorry, Gabrielle. The boys are out.”
And . . . ? Out where? With whom? My insides screamed, Would it hurt to give me a little more information, mother-in-law dear?!
I let a few beats go by while I calmed down. But I blatantly fished. “With their father?”
“With their fa— . . . with Philip? Why do you ask?”
A simple yes or no would’ve been nice. “He’s out of town this weekend. I thought he might be visiting the boys.” I loaded up my tone with sugar.
For a moment, her end of the line was silent. Then . . . “No, he’s not here.”
Philip isn’t there? So where . . . ? The funny thing was, Marlene Fairbanks sounded startled. And offended. I wanted to laugh. The woman didn’t know her precious Philip was out of town! Worse, he hadn’t told her where he was going. Oh! I could almost hear her nose cracking out of joint over the phone.
I let Philip dangle. “So when will the boys be back? I’d like to talk to them.”
“They’ll be late tonight. Try tomorrow. Good-bye, Gabrielle.” The line went dead.
I would’ve been more teed off at her rudeness, except I couldn’t help but enjoy knowing Marlene didn’t know any more than I did about Philip’s whereabouts.
But I could take a good guess. The Horseshoe Casino in Indiana. With Henry and Mona Fenchel, who’d—“Hey! What time ya got, Fuzz Top? Anybody take that dog out yet since ya been back this mornin’? No, ’course not. Don’t know why I bother ta ask. Just wanna know if I got time ’fore supper.”
I grinned as Lucy Tucker, purple knit hat perched on her head, wrestled her overloaded cart up the front steps of Manna House. “Hey yourself, Lucy. I know somebody inside who’ll be mighty glad to see you.”
I kicked off my sheet and sat up, careful not to bonk my head on the bunk above me. Odd. My watch already said six thirty. What happened to the usual six o’clock wake-up bell? Did they actually let the residents sleep in on Sunday morning?
I peered around the dimly lit room. The four bunks were full, top and bottom—me, my mom, Lucy, and Tanya on the bottom bunks, Tanya’s boy, Sammy, above her, plus three more new lumps on the top bunks who’d been put on the bed list this past week. Must be the sweltering heat driving them in. Had hit ninety-plus yesterday.
Sliding off my bunk slowly to avoid the inevitable squeaks, I pulled on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, stuck my feet in my slippers, and fished under my bed for my jute carryall bag with the leather handles. Since I wasn’t going to church this morning, maybe I could find someplace to read my Bible since I’d started reading the gospel of Matthew again yesterday. Huh. Was I just feeling guilty? Okay, maybe a little. But I really did want to find a quiet place to read and think and pray.
Dandy raised his head from the dog bed the Baxters had given him as I opened the bunk-room door, but laid it back down again as if saying, Following you around is too much effort. Poor dog. He still wasn’t completely healed.
I slipped down the stairs to the main floor, wondering where to go. Could go to my office, but that felt too much like work . . . The chapel! Of course. It was easy to forget the small prayer room tucked behind the multipurpose room—especially since you had to pass the TV room, schoolroom, and toddler playroom first.
But this morning I peeked into the small room, with its several rows of padded folding chairs, a small lectern, and a kneeling prayer bench . . . Drat. Somebody was there already. I started to back out when the person turned—Liz Handley, the former director of Manna House, who’d shown up last night to do weekend night staff duty. “Gabby? Don’t leave. I’m done here. Gotta go start breakfast now anyway. Wake-up bell’s at seven thirty.” The short woman with the mannish haircut gave me a friendly pat on the shoulder as she passed and shut the door behind her.
Well, okay. Guess I hadn’t really chased her out.
I settled into a padded chair on the front row. The tiny prayer chapel didn’t have the benefit of the stained-glass windows that graced the front of the building and spilled prisms of tinted light into the foyer. But warm lights of various colors embedded in the ceiling—yellow, green, rose—created a quiet mood. For several long moments, I just sat, not really thinking. Just soaking up the sense of peace.
“Come to Me . . .”
Whoa. There it was again. Jesus’ words from the passage I’d read weeks ago in Matthew’s gospel. The last time that Voice had tugged at my spirit with those words was the night I couldn’t sleep and Dandy ended up foiling our would-be robber.
A week ago.
Okay, okay, I’m here, God. I opened my Bible and found the place I’d left off reading in Matthew’s gospel, chapter 13. Oh yeah. The parable of the sower. I remembered this story from Sunday school days. Jesus telling a story about a farmer who sowed some seed. Some of it fell on the hard path, and the birds ate it . . . some seed fell on rocky ground, so it only had shallow roots . . . some seed fell among thorns and got choked when it came up . . . and some seed fell on good ground and produced a big crop.
Never really thought much about this parable. After all, people who believed in Jesus were the seed that fell on good ground, right? Been there, done that, end of story. But today I had the same question the disciples did. What does this mean?
I read and reread Jesus’ answer. The seed was the Word of God. Got that much. The hard ground was like people who didn’t understand it, so it never took root. Okay, got that too. The seed that fell on rocky places were like people who embraced God’s Word at first, but when trouble came, it died, because their faith was shallow . . .
Ouch. Kinda like me when Damien dumped me, back when I was nineteen. I’d been a Christian up till then—thought I was, anyway. But at the first big bump in the road, my faith was too shallow to survive.
I kept reading. Thorns next . . . Jesus said the thorns were all the worries of this life, choking the Word of God. He said the “deceitfulness of wealth” did that too.
Oh brother. This parable had my name all over it. I’d let Fairbanks money cushion me from the pitfalls of life—until now. Huh. Always thought I didn’t really care about money, but I’d let its comforts and expectations blind me to the way it’d been eating away at my marriage, numbing the person I was inside.
Or maybe, keeping me from knowing the person God wanted me to be. Gabrielle, strong woman of God.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, chin on my hands, and sat that way a long time . . .
Somewhere on the floor above, the wake-up bell was ringing. Seven thirty.
But I still didn’t move. Funny that I’d found God again at a homeless shelter, of all places. Of course, if I really thought about it, God was always showing up in unlikely places. Jesus, the long-awaited Messiah—the Son of God!—had been born in a drafty, smelly cow barn, which certainly didn’t look good on His résumé. At least I got to sleep in a room with actual people.
Except . . . if I was honest with myself, my budding faith was still choking on all my worries. Even though the prayers of the Yada Yada sisters had buoyed me up last weekend, I hadn’t taken much time to pray since then. Really pray, I mean. Or listen. Most of my prayers were still talking at God. I let my mind get so garbled, wrestling with all my problems, that God would probably need a sledgehammer to get my attention—Oh.
Okay, God, I get it! Back off, already!
Lucy had just snapped the leash on Dandy’s collar for a morning walk when Lee Boyer pulled up in front of Manna House in a black Prius. “Just a sec!” I called out, and turned back to Lucy. “Just . . . try to keep Dandy out of sight as much as possible. Alleys or whatever. Those reporters, you know.”
The old lady gave me a look. “Don’t ya think I know a thing or two ’bout keepin’ outta sight?” She craned her neck to look into the car. “Who’s that?” Her eyes narrowed. “Not that slime-ball husband o’ yours, I hope.”
“My lawyer, Lucy. We have an appointment.” I decided not to say anything about looking for an apartment. She’d been muttering not-so-subtle digs ever since she showed up yesterday about how we’d “up and left her” last weekend. “Thanks again for walking Dandy.”
I opened the car door and slid into the leather passenger seat. “Ohh, nice.” I glanced at Lee behind the wheel. His usual business attire of blue jeans and boots had given way to khaki shorts and sturdy sandals. “Don’t know what I was expecting, but not such a high-tech car.”
