Who Do I Talk To? (25 page)

“Then you just go in with Dandy,” Jodi said quickly. “We'll drive off, and nobody will follow us. We'll drive around the block and bring Martha and your stuff in the side door. Just make sure when you get inside to ask somebody to unlock it.”

I hesitated only a nanosecond. “Okay. Come on, Dandy. Time to face the lions.” I grabbed his leash as the car stopped. As quickly as I could, I opened the side door of the minivan, lifted Dandy to the ground, and walked him toward Manna House.

Immediately the reporter's voice began shouting at me. “Mrs. Fairbanks! Where has Dandy been?” The woman whipped out her cell phone. “Tony! Get your camera over here. Hero Dog is back . . . Mrs. Fairbanks! Will Dandy be staying at the shelter as official watchdog now? How did he happen to be at the shelter last weekend when—”

Even I didn't notice when the minivan pulled away.

“Girl, you too much! And I thought I had drama in my life!” Precious McGill tucked her beaded extensions under a white mesh hairnet and shook a bread knife at me from behind the kitchen counter. “When was you going to tell me about your mama's dog getting' sliced up last weekend—not to mention you an' she takin' up space on the bed list here, just like all the rest of us po' folks?” She stuck out her lip.

“Just give me a cup of coffee, Precious. Cream, no sugar.

Please?”

“You go on, Drama Queen. I gotta brew a fresh pot.”

Gratefully, I unlocked my office and sank into the desk chair. The plan had worked. Hoping to pacify the reporters, I'd smiled into the cameras and made pleasant, vague comments. Yes, Dandy was much better . . . Yes, he'd been voted the official Manna House watchdog, “but we'll see” . . . We were all grateful to Chicago citizens for the outpouring of sympathy, but getting back to normal would be the best thing for all concerned.

And then I'd ducked inside. Precious, who'd turned up to do Saturday lunch on Estelle's weekend off, had been standing in the foyer, and she ran downstairs to open the side door. “Gramma Shep” and Dandy had been immediately mobbed with a spontaneous “welcome back” celebration by the residents and taken to the multipurpose room to hold court.

Given all the hullabaloo, Jodi had given up on teaching her typing class, and she and Denny were on the verge of leaving when Josh and Edesa showed up with Gracie in a back carrier, offering to take a few of the older shelter kids to the Taste of Chicago. “Dad! Mom! Didn't know you'd be here,” Josh crowed. “You wanna go to the Taste with us, help chaperone the kids? Let's see, who's going?” Sammy had jumped up and down, waving his hand, along with seven-year-old Trina and her six-year-old brother, Rufino, and Keisha, a bright-eyed girl of ten. “All riiight. That would make one kid per adult, plus Gracie.” He'd beamed at his parents.

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.