Who Do I Talk To? (14 page)

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.