Who do i talk to, p.6
Who Do I Talk To?, page 6
“Uh, Sarge?” I’m not sure where the guts came from to speak up. “Why don’t we leave Tanya’s case till tomorrow when Mabel can decide what to do? If you want, they can move to our bunk room tonight. I’ll take responsibility for the decision.”
“Humph. Some people sure do feel free to bend the rules, if you ask me.” Sarge moved off, grumbling. “Like a certain dog that is not supposed to be here. No?”
“Don’t worry, Sarge. Mabel’s looking for a foster home for Dandy.”
Sarge headed for the foyer to check in the last few curfew-beaters—including Lucy, who was just coming in with Dandy after his evening walk around the block. “The dog better be gone by Sabato!” she tossed over her shoulder.
Tanya grabbed a tissue from a nearby box and blew her nose. “Thanks.”
I waited until the double doors had swung shut behind Sarge. “I’m not your case manager, Tanya, but I think you have some explaining to do.” The TV room was full of CSI fans, so I led her into the toddler playroom, empty at this time of night. Sammy wasn’t about to be separated from his mother, and my mother followed right on our heels. Well, so be it. We all deserved an explanation.
Tanya sat on a preschool chair, knees together, feet splayed out, tearing her used tissue into little shreds. “Well, I had a”— hic—“appointment at Deborah’s Place this mornin’, an’ . . . an’ I was so sure I was gonna get a place for me an’ Sammy this time. A studio, one-bedroom—I didn’t care. ’Long as it was just us. Miz Gabby, I been puttin’ my name on lists for six months! We was in two other shelters ’fore we came to Manna House—one place was jus’ one big room for about thirty wimmins plus they kids. Manna House been good to let me an’ Sammy stay here together, an’ the bunk room’s better’n nothin’. But I want my own place! You understand, don’tcha? What kinda mother has her kid livin’ in a shelter?” Tanya’s face went dark. “But this mornin’ they sayin’ I don’t qualify. Somethin’ about gotta be in they drug program. But I ain’t done no drugs!” The tears threatened again. “Man! I felt so bad, I wanted to hurt somebody! Or . . . or get drunk or somethin’! So I . . . I just walked around, and, yeah, I drank a few beers. But that’s all. Honest! I didn’t get high or nothin’. And I never meant to leave Sammy. Aw, come here, baby. Mama’s sorry.” The two wrapped their arms around each other and rocked.
I shut my eyes, her story too painful to process. Here I was, wallowing in my private pity party, and I’d been homeless for all of two days. I felt like the spoiled princess who complained because there was a pea under the mattress.
“Am I wrong, Miz Gabby?” Tanya’s voice broke into my stupor. “Sammy an’ me, we just need a place. But it’s like a dead-end road. Can’t get an apartment. Don’t wanna raise my kid in a shelter. Am I wrong for needing a little help to get on my feet?”
“No, no. You’re not wrong, Tanya.” I sighed. And you’re not the only one.
chapter 8
Tanya and Sammy took over the fourth bunk in our room—the more the merrier, as far as Dandy was concerned. Lucy, on the other hand, muttered her disapproval the whole time we were getting ready for bed. “Howza body s’posed ta sleep packed up in here like a bunch a’ sardines . . . Too many lungs usin’ up all the air . . . Humph. Dandy an’ me gonna go sit inna lounge till you all go ta sleep . . .”
Well, fine with me. Maybe I could get to sleep before Lucy came to bed and started her engines.
And I’d guessed right about Mabel the next morning. Since Tanya had shown up by curfew and hadn’t broken an actual written rule—though leaving your kids unsupervised was about to become one—Mabel gave Tanya another chance, but with a stern warning that she was on probation. Probably to soothe Sarge’s prickled sense of protocol as much as anything. I had to grin inside. Mabel and Sarge were like two sides of a kitchen sponge, one side soaking up people’s blunders and good intentions gone awry, the other scratchy and rough to deal with the tough cases.
Having to wait another whole day to talk to a lawyer, though, almost killed me. This was ridiculous! Three days ago my husband had kidnapped my children—yes, that was the word for it—leaving me homeless and broke, and I wasn’t supposed to confront him until I had my facts lined up in a row?
Bunk the facts. He needed to get a load of my feelings.
Twice I picked up the phone, dialed his office, and then hung up after one ring. The third time I steeled myself to stay on the line. Someone picked up. “Fairbanks and Fenchel. May I help you?”
The female voice took me by surprise. Since when did Philip and Henry have a receptionist? Sounded young too.
Okay. I can play this game. “Philip Fairbanks, please.”
“May I say who’s calling?”
I thought fast. “CitiCorp Business Accounts.” It was a bald-faced lie, but she probably had instructions not to send through any personal calls.
“One moment.” The line went blank. But a moment later the woman came back on the line. “I’m sorry. He’s in a meeting right now. Would you like me to put you through to his voice mail?”
I almost slammed the receiver down—but caught myself. “Yes. Thank you.”
Two rings in my ear, then Philip’s voice message, pleasant and professional. No hint that he was a monster in a business suit. I heard the beep. “Philip. This is Gabby. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, and I’ll see you in court.” I hit the Off button.
There. No hysterics. No crying. No pleading. But now he knew I wasn’t rolling over and whimpering like a kicked puppy. And I had every intention of showing up at his office in person as soon as I had my facts in hand.
Better yet, what if the police showed up at his office? With a wicked sense of vengeance, I picked up the phone again. Voices in my head said, “Wait, Gabby.” But I felt driven by an insatiable need to do something, to make something happen.
I dialed 9-1-1.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
“My—my children have been kidnapped!”
“Ma’am? Can you give me your name and location?” The questions kept coming—name and ages of my children . . . when did I discover they were missing . . .
“You say they turned up missing Monday night?”
“Yes! I came home from work, and the doorman said they’d left with my husband—and I haven’t seen them since!”
“Your husband.” The tone of voice changed. “Ma’am, if your husband took your children—”
“Without me knowing about it! He took them! He kidnapped them!”
“I see. Mrs. Fairbanks, that was three days ago. Why are you only reporting them missing now?”
“I . . . I . . .” My confidence drained away as though someone had pulled a plug. “Please. Help me. Please get my children back.”
“So you don’t know where they are.”
“Well, yes, I do . . . but I didn’t at first. He took them to his parents’ in Virginia.”
I could almost hear the silence on the other end laughing at me.
“Look, officer!” I was angry now. “My husband took my children away from me, without my knowledge or permission. He took them out of state. That’s a federal offense, isn’t it?”
Another pause. “Ma’am, do you have reason to believe your children are in danger?”
I felt pinned to the wall. “No,” I whispered. “No. They’re . . . they’re all right. But they—”
“So you’ve talked to them.”
“Well . . . yes. But—!”
“Mrs. Fairbanks. We’ll send an officer out to take a report, but this is really a civil matter. It will need to be settled in court.”
“Uh . . . no, that’s all right. You don’t have to send anybody. I’ll . . . I’ll talk to a lawyer.”
I sat at my desk, burning with embarrassment and frustration. I’d made a fool of myself. So much for the cops barging into Philip’s office and dragging him away in handcuffs. But I still knew I was right. Philip had kidnapped our children. And I was going to get them back.
Somehow I made it through that Thursday, trying not to feel like a fool. Even had a chance to sit down with Estelle and pull together ideas for the basic cooking and sewing classes we’d talked about before. We decided on Monday afternoon for Basic Sewing—threading needles, sewing on buttons, making repairs, hemming a skirt—while I worked on getting some sewing machines for the next level.
Huh. I have a sewing machine just sitting up in the penthouse. Maybe I should fight to get my stuff back.
“—Basic Cooking?” Estelle was saying. “You know I don’t use no recipes. It’s all in here.” The fifty-something woman tapped the side of her head. I noticed she was wearing her hair down more often, her silver-streaked hair falling in kinky waves to her shoulders. And was that glow on her cheeks natural or a touch of golden blush?
“So Harry Bentley likes your hair that way?” I tried to keep a straight face.
She gaped at me. “An’ since when is that any of your business? Humph.”
“Since I’m the one who introduced you two. As for recipes . . .” I moved right on without blinking. “Just start with simple stuff—different ways to fix chicken, season vegetables, some healthy soups and salads. You know, using the basic food groups to create a balanced diet, stuff like that.”
Estelle wagged her head. “Girl, you know I’ll be goin’ up against Fast Food City! Lot of these women think protein means a McDonald’s burger, veggies mean a bag of potato chips, and fruit means a bowl of Froot Loops.” Estelle started to shake with silent chuckles.
I suddenly had a burst of inspiration. “Hey. Maybe we ought to ask Edesa to show up at your class to teach good nutrition—she’s working on her degree in public health. Poor nutrition has to be a big factor in many of the health problems we see in here.”
“Yeah, well, you better sneak that stuff in between fried chicken an’ chocolate cake. Ain’t nobody goin’ to show up for a whole class on nutrition.”
So it was settled. “Cooking with Estelle” on Thursday afternoon, served up with a sneaky side of “How to Eat Healthy and
Live Longer”—providing Edesa was available. But as Estelle got up to leave, she hesitated, looking me up and down. “How you doin’, Gabby? I know you got more on your mind than cookin’ an’ sewin’.”
It was so tempting to unload on Estelle, to bare the fragments of my heart, torn between wanting my sons back—now—and knowing I had nothing to offer. I needed somebody to tell me I wasn’t a total fool for calling the police, for ignoring Mabel’s advice and trying to contact Philip, but I knew if I opened my mouth, I’d be a wreck. I needed to keep going, keep working, keep my mind busy, or I’d never be able to hold on to this job. And I needed this job, for a lot of reasons.
I shrugged. “Hanging in there. I see a lawyer tomorrow at Legal Aid. Can’t do much until then.”
The older woman lifted an eyebrow, as if seeing right through my little charade. “Hm. Well, honey, seems to me one of these days you gonna want to do some screamin’ at that man of yours. Just want you to know, I’d be glad to come with you so he don’t bully you around. Might even do a little screamin’ myself.”
Friday. I woke up early, before the six o’clock wake-up bell by the ever-punctual night manager, and caught myself smiling at Estelle’s offer. For some reason it made me feel good. It hadn’t occurred to me to take someone with me when I did go see Philip with my facts. Well, if I did, Estelle would be the one. No one—not even Philip—would mess with her.
Sensing I was awake, Dandy padded over and nosed my arm. Hmm. Why not take the dog for his morning walk? Lucy saw me pulling on a pair of jeans and started to roll out of bed. “Let me,” I whispered. “I need to get out. You can sleep in today. Where do you go—the cemetery?”
“Cemetery don’t open till eight thirty,” Lucy muttered. “Gotta go someplace else.” She rolled over and was snoring again before I got Dandy’s leash on, grabbed a couple of plastic grocery bags from her stash, and sneaked down the stairs. I heard someone—probably Sarge and her assistant—banging around in the kitchen, setting out breakfast. In the foyer, sunlight streamed in the stained-glass windows on either side of the oak doors, creating dancing prisms of colored light on the floor. I dutifully signed out, quietly opened the front doors, and slipped out.
Yes! Blue sky overhead. Cool, no hint of humidity. A beautiful day. I suddenly felt a pang of longing for the park and lakefront abutting Richmond Towers. I’d love to let Dandy run on the beach, kick off my sandals, and dig my toes in the sand. But here . . . I glanced up and down the neighborhood surrounding the shelter. Mostly two- and three-story apartment buildings. Brick, crowded together, several with storefronts on the ground level. The occasional Victorian house squeezed between them, with a six-foot wrought-iron fence in front as if holding the buildings on either side at arm’s length with its iron bars.
How far was it to the lake? Maybe a mile. I quickly nixed that idea. Another time. Too bad Graceland Cemetery hadn’t opened yet. Closest thing to a park I’d seen around here.
By the time we got back, morning devotions were just ending. Sarge hustled everyone downstairs for the usual weekday breakfast of cold cereal and milk, toast and jam, juice and coffee, giving Dandy and me the eye. “Saturday,” was all she said.
I felt a flicker of panic. That was tomorrow. Had Mabel been asking around for a foster home for the dog? She hadn’t said anything. And what about my mother? She was oblivious that Dandy’s days were numbered.
But I determined not to let Dandy’s fate get me down. Today was an important day. Today I had an appointment with a lawyer. Today I was going to get some answers.
chapter 9
A knock on my office door was followed immediately by a glowing brown face, brilliant blue headband, and bouncy hair twists. “Are you alone, mi amiga?” Without waiting for an answer, Edesa Baxter called over her shoulder in a stage whisper, “Coast is clear. Hurry!”
The next moment, Josh Baxter hustled into my office, carrying a large bakery sheet cake, followed by Edesa with Gracie on her hip. They shut the door behind them and stood there like the Three Bears, caught sneaking into Goldilocks’s house instead.
“Can we hide this cake in here, Gabby? Josh, set it on top of the file cabinet, out of her way.”
“Um . . . sure. What’s going on?”
“Da-Da!” Gracie squealed, spying Dandy, who’d gotten up to sniff at our visitors.
“How d’ya like that?” Josh made a face as he carefully set the cake on top of the file cabinet. “She says ‘Da-Da’ and means ‘doggy.’”
I had to smile. The young Baxter family made such an odd, cute trio. The ten-month-old’s creamy tan skin and loose, black curls made her look as if she could be their natural child—white daddy, black mommy—instead of a Latina child in the process of being adopted. “Are you going to tell me what all this hush-hush business is about?”
Edesa leaned forward, keeping her voice low. “Sí! Sí! It is Estelle’s birthday today! But this is just the backup cake. Señor Harry is bringing—”
Oh no! Estelle’s birthday! I slapped my forehead. “Drat! I forgot! I even mentioned it to Mr. Bentley last week, and then . . .” I shook my head. “With all that’s happened this week, it totally slipped my mind. I don’t have a card or a gift or—”
Edesa put a finger on my lips. “Hush, mi amiga. It’s all right. Estelle thinks we’ve all forgotten. Which is good, since . . . why are you poking me, Josh?”
“Don’t give it away, Edesa, my sweet. It’s supposed to be a surprise, remember?”
“Sounds like a regular party.” Had to admit my nose felt a little out of joint. Seems like somebody should have at least told the person in charge of shelter activities what was going on. But Edesa and Josh didn’t seem to notice my little snit.
“Sí!” She giggled. “Estelle might guess that we’ll celebrate her birthday Sunday night at Yada Yada, but she won’t suspect anything today. Oh!” Edesa looked at her watch. “I’ve got to run. I’m teaching Bible study in ten minutes. Pray for me!” She handed the baby to her husband, blew them both a kiss, and disappeared out my door.
Yada Yada Sunday night. That was the prayer group Edesa and Estelle and Josh’s mother, Jodi, were part of. Knowing each other so well, they celebrated birthdays . . .
I shook off my melancholy, aware that Josh and Gracie were still standing in my two-bit office. “Say, Josh, as long as you’re here, I wanted to ask you about that sports clinic idea you once mentioned.”
“Sure, Mrs. Fairbanks—I mean, Gabby—I’d be glad to talk about that. But . . .” The young man shifted the baby in his arms and cleared his throat. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but Edesa said that you . . . uh, that your husband—”
“Josh. It’s all right. Sit down.” I indicated the metal folding chair leaning against the wall. As he flipped it open with his free hand, I went on. “If you mean, did my husband kick me out of our penthouse? Yes. That and he took the kids back to Virginia without my knowledge or permission. So . . .” I shrugged. “I’m staying here at Manna House for the time being. My mother too.” For some reason, it was easier to be matter-of-fact with this young man than it was with Edesa or Estelle or Mabel. I even allowed a sardonic half smile. “Every staff person ought to be a resident of the shelter for a while. Gives one a whole new perspective.”
Josh shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Gabby. I thought . . . well, guess I’d hoped Edesa and I could get to know you two better, you know, as an older couple who’ve been married a few years.”
Now I did have to blink back a few tears. I nodded. “Yeah, I know. That’s how it should be. But . . .” I bit my lip and glanced at my watch. Ten forty. Still three hours to go before I could meet with the lawyer. Philip and I were on a road I hoped Josh and Edesa never had to travel.
I’d intended to duck into Edesa’s Bible study, but Josh and I ended up tossing around different ideas to meet the needs of kids who ended up at the shelter, while Gracie grabbed things off my desk. Now that his classes at UIC were over, he said, he’d have more time on the weekends. “Weekdays, though, I’ll be working full-time for Peter Douglass till school starts again. He has his own business—Software Symphony. Edesa and I really need a bigger apartment, but that takes moola.”
