by Neta Jackson
“Well . . . sure, why not. I’ll call Estelle and see if she has time after lunch. Do you mind taking the El? It’s very near the Sheridan El Station—north of Wrigley Field.”
“I’ll find it! Thanks, Edesa. I’ll come as soon as I’m done at STEP. Be there about two, okay?”
Kat flipped her cell phone closed. Awesome! Edesa was finally taking her seriously. She’d go straight from STEP, catch the El—maybe even have time to take a pass by the Dumpsters at that Dominick’s store along Sheridan Road where she’d found so much good food thrown out and found Rochelle—
“Kat?”
Kat spun around. Nick had come out of the kitchen and was standing between the dining nook and the open living room, still in his haphazard running clothes.
“Could we talk a minute?” he said.
Yes! . . . No. She wanted to talk, but not now. At least he was acknowledging her existence, which she’d doubted back there at the breakfast table. But her mind was spinning in another direction. And she had to pack her backpack to be gone from the apartment most of the day.
Besides, she knew what he was going to say. Protest that the kiss last night was nothing, just a thank-you for reading to Conny. Well, she had things that needed to be said about that, and right now she didn’t have time.
“I’m sorry, Nick. I’ve got to run—and I might not be back until after work tonight. Maybe tomorrow?” She held up her hand, palm out. “Tomorrow. Scout’s honor. Okay?” And she fled to her bedroom.
But not before she saw the disappointment on his face.
Chapter 3
Who was that?” Lanky Josh Baxter came into the kitchen of their third-floor apartment, a tousled and jammie-clad Gracie riding on his hip, as Edesa stuck the cordless back into its cradle.
“Kathryn Davies.”
“The Kat girl? What’s up?”
“Miss Gato!” Gracie giggled.
“Miss Kathryn,” Edesa corrected, taking Gracie and setting the two-year-old in the booster seat at the kitchen table. “Here’s your juice, sweetie.”
Josh poured himself a cup of coffee from the Mr. Coffee sitting on the counter. “She calls herself Kat, and so do her friends. I think it’s okay.”
Edesa wrinkled up her nose at him. “It just sounds . . . disrespectful when you-know-who says it like that.”
Gracie banged her sippy cup. “Miss Gato! Miss Gato! I wanna play ina sand with Miss Gato!”
“We’re not going to the lake today, niña. Drink your juice. You want some banana?” Edesa took a banana from the fruit basket on the counter and started to peel it. “See what I mean?” she mouthed at her husband.
“Whatever.” Josh chuckled as he sipped his coffee. “So what’s up?”
“Kathryn’s been bugging me about the two of us teaching a class on nutrition for ‘poor families,’ and I’ve been, uh, putting her off. She’s . . . how do you say it? So eager beaver! But we’re going to meet at Manna House this afternoon. Might try to catch a ride with Gabby. I thought any discussion about food ought to include Estelle.”
Josh laughed. “Good idea. She’ll tell it like it is. Anything else? Everything all right at the apartment the students are renting?”
Edesa shrugged, cutting the banana into little wheels. “As far as I know. Kathryn did say Avis’s grandson is waking them all up early. I can imagine it’ll take some getting used to, having Rochelle and Conny living there. Can you start the toast?”
Josh took a loaf of wheat bread from the refrigerator and stuck a couple of slices in the toaster. “That whole scenario is really something. Sister Avis’s daughter and grandson go missing for a couple of months, and then Kat runs into them Dumpster diving behind that Dominick’s store. What a coincidence.”
“Gracias, Jesús! I don’t believe in coincidences . . . No, Gracie! Not on the floor!” Edesa rescued several pieces of banana from the floor, rinsed them off, and put them back in front of the little girl.
The toast popped up. Josh buttered both slices, stuck in two more, and brought the early birds to the table. “Well, guess they’ll work it out. That Nick Taylor seems like a responsible guy. Not sure I’d want to be in his shoes, though, living in an apartment with three females and a six-year-old—and interning on the pastoral team at SouledOut to boot. Does he have any idea what he’s getting into?”
Edesa shot her husband an amused glance. Nick and Josh were probably around the same age—just shy of twenty-four in Josh’s case, who was younger than she was by three years. “Hmm. How different is that from you living here at the House of Hope, with four apartments full of single moms and kids— not to mention your own two females. Right, niña?” Edesa was enjoying the tease.
“Hey. At least Philip Fairbanks is here half the time with Gabby and the boys. And I’m thinking they may be retying the knot one of these days. It’s been a year and a half since . . . Oh, shoot. Speaking of Gabby’s boys, I promised her I’d let them work with me painting the back porches and stairwells today while the weather’s good. She doesn’t want them frittering away their whole summer. Wonder if they’ll stick it out. It’s going to be a big job.”
Being property manager for the House of Hope was a big job, period, Edesa mused—bigger than either of them realized at first. Gabby Fairbanks, the program director at Manna House, had bought the six-flat with the dream of housing homeless single moms so they could be with their kids. Second-stage housing, they called it. She’d offered Josh the position of property manager in exchange for one of the three-bedroom apartments and a modest salary—a definite upgrade for the struggling newlyweds who’d been marooned in a studio apartment with an infant. At the same time, helping the House of Hope become a reality for homeless women with children was deeply rewarding. More like one big extended family than isolated apartments.
Josh had stuck his head back in the refrigerator. “We got any eggs?”
Edesa jumped up. “Let me make some huevos rancheros for breakfast.” She pulled out a frying pan. “You’re going to need a lot of energy trying to paint the back porches with two squirrelly teenagers.”
Come to think of it, she could use some extra energy herself trying to talk with Kathryn Davies, whose well-meaning but off-the-wall ideas needed a lot more reality and practical experience. But someone needed to come alongside the girl. And Edesa hadn’t been able to ignore the nudge she’d been getting in her spirit that she was that someone.
Edesa strapped Gracie and her car seat in the back of Gabby Fairbanks’s red Subaru and then jumped into the front. “Thanks for giving us a ride, Gabby.”
The curly topped redhead, mother of two teens and housemother for a flock of single moms and their kids at the House of Hope, pulled away from the curb. “No problem. I needed to come back to have lunch with the boys anyway. For Josh’s sake! Can’t expect the man to supervise them all morning and cover lunch too.”
Edesa laughed. “I’m sure he appreciated the break. Though they seemed to be doing all right so far. Heard no screams or death threats this morning. Just a lot of loud music on a boom box.”
“Yeah, well, hope he can stand them through Saturday. They’re earning money to help pay for sailing camp next week.”
“Good for you, mi amiga! It’s not good for children to have everything handed to them.”
“Didn’t have a choice. Neither Philip nor I can afford the whole tuition. It isn’t like it used to be when Philip was top dog in his commercial design business.”
Edesa studied her friend as she navigated the stop signs and one-way streets on the way back to her staff job at Manna House. The fact that Gabby could say that so casually was a miracle in itself. If Josh ever treated her like Philip had treated Gabby—kicking her out of their penthouse, leaving her homeless and virtually penniless—she didn’t know if she’d have the grace to give him another chance. A moot point, because she couldn’t imagine Josh ever doing something like that. But Philip Fairbanks had certainly been going through a transformation— giving up his busin
ess, teaching commercial design at Roosevelt University downtown, coming to SouledOut regularly, and “courting” Gabby again. Josh said the man even showed up from time to time at the “brothers” Bible study that met a couple of Tuesday nights each month.
Should she ask? “Um, speaking of Philip, how are things going with you two?”
Gabby snorted. “Huh. What you really mean is, are we going to get remarried, right?”
“Remarried?” Edesa felt confused. “But aren’t you still—”
“Married? Technically. Never got divorced. But, Edesa”— Gabby suddenly sounded teary—“our marriage was in pieces! You know that.” She was silent a long moment, frowning at the traffic. Then she took a long, shuddering breath. “I know he’s really trying. And our counseling is going pretty well. But . . . it’s taking me a long time to trust him again. When I think about him moving in with the boys and me and sharing my bed, I . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Edesa reached out a hand and gently touched Gabby’s knee. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I’ll just continue to pray, okay?”
Gabby nodded, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and pulled into a parking space half a block from Manna House. “Thanks. Don’t worry. I’m fine.” She waited as Edesa unstrapped Gracie from the car seat. “Need a ride home? I’m leaving around five.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know.” Edesa had no idea how the afternoon with “Miss Gato” was going to go. Oh, good grief, now Gracie’s got me calling her that.
After signing in at the front desk, Gabby gave Edesa and Gracie a quick hug before disappearing into the office of Mabel Turner, the director of the emergency shelter. Hefting Gracie to her hip, Edesa passed through the large multipurpose room they called Shepherd’s Fold and navigated the stairs to the lower level of Manna House, which housed the kitchen, dining room, rec room, and laundry.
Lunch was over and the cleanup crew looked as if they were almost done. “Well, look what the cat drug in. Hey, baby, how’s my sweetie pie?” Estelle Bentley, swathed in her big white apron and adorned with the unflattering white net cap required of all kitchen workers, came around the counter and held out her arms to Gracie.
But Gracie turned her head. “No! Wanna play ina sand with Miss Gato!”
Estelle looked taken aback. “What’d I say?”
Edesa rolled her eyes and held up a finger. “Be right back.” Making her way past the tables in the dining area, she took the little girl into the rec room where two of the shelter residents were playing Ping-Pong. “Can I leave Gracie in here a few minutes?” Edesa asked. “She likes to look at books.”
“Oh sure. We’ll look after her,” one of the women said. “Hey, Gracie, you remember me? Want me to read you a story?” The thin young woman, hair tied up in a bandanna, put down her paddle and plopped into a beanbag chair. “Bring me a book. I’ll read to ya.”
Edesa grinned. “Thanks, B.B. I just need to talk to Miss Estelle a minute.”
The shelter’s chief cook had poured two cups of fresh coffee and commandeered a corner of one of the tables, one foot stretched out on the seat of another chair. “Feet were killin’ me anyway. What’s this about ‘Miss Gato’? Whoever she is, got my feelin’s hurt.” The large black woman sniffed dramatically.
Edesa laughed. “That’s what Gracie calls Kathryn Davies— you know, one of the students from CCU—because she calls herself Kat. And you said ‘cat’—”
“Humph. So I did. Remind me to say ‘what the dog drug in’ next time. But what’s this about playin’ in the sand?”
“Oh, Josh invited the CCU students to tag along when the SouledOut youth went to Lighthouse Beach on Memorial Day, and Kathryn built sand castles with Gracie. Made a big impression on Miss Muffet. And this morning she heard me telling Josh I was going to talk to Kat today, and now she’s like a broken record.”
“Talk to her? What’s up?” Estelle doctored her coffee with two heaping teaspoons of sugar from the table dispenser.
“Well, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I tried to call you this morning, but only got your voice mail. She’s been bugging—perdón—asking me about teaching a class on nutrition at SouledOut. I think she’s appalled at seeing kids in the neighborhood walking to school drinking sodas and eating potato chips. I’ve told her that food issues for poor folks aren’t as simple as teaching them the basic food groups—but I’ve been feeling I should have a more serious discussion with her.”
“Uh-huh.” Estelle looked at Edesa skeptically over the rim of her coffee cup. “And where exactly do I come in? You the one with a fancy degree in public health.”
Edesa felt the top of her ears grow hot. “Sí. Which is why Kathryn’s been after me. But the fact is, I’m only a few years older than she is. I think we could use your age and wisdom when it comes to food. You’ve been cooking here at Manna House for—”
“You sayin’ I’m old?”
“Estelle! You know good and well what I mean.”
Estelle chuckled. “All right, all right. I’m just playin’ with you.” The fifty-something woman pursed her lips a moment. “You say you’re talkin’ to her today? Here?”
Edesa nodded. “She said she could get here around two. Would you have some time to—Uh-oh. What?”
Estelle was shaking her head. “I got my cookin’ class this afternoon. Plannin’ to do a grocery shoppin’ trip with my girls, ain’t gonna be here but two shakes of a saltshaker ’fore we leave.”
“Oh, right!” Edesa should’ve remembered the cooking class. Estelle occasionally asked her to do a session on nutrition with every new set of residents who signed up. “Wait . . . you’re going shopping for food? That’s perfect! Can Kathryn and I tag along? That would be a good experience for her.”
Estelle shrugged. “If she got the time. You know there ain’t anything but a couple mom ’n’ pop convenience stores in this neighborhood. We gonna have to take the El someplace to find a decent grocery store.”
A smile widened on Edesa’s face. “Exactly.”
Chapter 4
Little Red Riding Hood?!” Nine-year-old Kevin Green screwed up his face beneath the blond thatch. “That’s a baby story.” “Yeah,” echoed Latoya Sims, sticking out her lip. In spite of their obvious dissimilarities—boy/girl . . . braces/perfect teeth . . . towheaded/tiny black braids . . . leader/follower—these two usually presented a united front on any idea Kat suggested as a morning volunteer at Avis Douglass’s Summer Tutoring and Enrichment Program. Kevin usually reacted first, with Latoya providing backup. Might be “yay.” Might be “nay.” Either way, it was usually two against one.
“One” being her third tutoring student, Yusufu Balozi, whose family had arrived from Uganda only a year ago. Usually eager to please, today he looked blank. “Red Hooding? What it is?”
The boy’s charming accent always made Kat smile. The three students she tutored were doing drama that week for their last activity of the morning. The drama option alternated with computer skills a week at a time. But the volunteer who was supposed to work with all the children on a play came down with mono, so until another drama coach could be found, Kat had to come up with something roughly resembling acting for her three charges.
Theater games. That was as close as Kat had come to anything remotely like acting in high school. Her speech teacher had them do theater games—spontaneous, unrehearsed improvs—to loosen them up and get them comfortable speaking in front of people. She’d had to go online to refresh her memory about actual games—her clearest memory of that high school speech class was of laughing so hard she’d ripped a seam in her best blouse—but she’d come back to STEP the next day armed and ready.
They’d already done “The Bench” and “Freeze and Switch” the previous two mornings, and today she was trying “Movie Genres.”
“We take a familiar story like Little Red Riding Hood,” she explained, “and act it out in different movie styles—like a Western, or a Three Stooges movie, or sci-fi
. I’ll give you a movie style to start, then I’ll call out a different one and you have to change the story to fit—”
“Can we call it ‘Little Red in the Hood’?” Kevin wanted to know. “The wolf could do a break dance or a rap or something.”
Kat wanted to laugh. A strange comment coming from a yellow-haired, blue-eyed, white kid. But . . . “Why not? ‘Little Red in the Hood’ it is. Latoya, we need a girl to be Little Red, and, Kevin, you can be the wolf. Yusufu, would you like to be the hero woodsman?”
The boy’s dark eyes widened in panic. “But, Miss Kat, I don’t know what hero woodsman does. What is this story?”
So she sat them down and told the story of Little Red Riding Hood—which seemed a bit grim, now that she thought about it. Eating Granny? The hero killing the wolf with his ax? She ad-libbed a few changes—Granny in the closet, the woodsman chasing off the wolf.
By that time, Avis Douglass, Bethune Elementary’s principal during the school year and the creative force behind the STEP program, was ringing a bell to close out the morning session. Those who stayed for sports activities in the afternoon—or field trips on Friday—got sack lunches.
“Miss Kat! Miss Kat! Stay! Stay!” Latoya hung on her arm so hard Kat thought her shoulder was going to pop from its socket. “Can we do Little Red if we eat fast?”
At least they’d gotten excited about the theater games. Kat hoped Mrs. D had noticed. “Sorry, kids. I can’t stay today. Gotta go.” Which was true and not true. She didn’t have to be at Manna House until two. But she’d already decided not to go back to the apartment for lunch and risk running into Nick, though she supposed he was either at Software Symphony working in the mail room at Mr. D’s business, or at the church, getting the lowdown on his other job as a pastoral intern. Still, she didn’t want to risk it.
Begging a sack lunch “to go,” Kat shouldered her backpack and headed for the Morse Avenue El station. She’d been to the shelter once before—one of the places they’d visited as part of the Urban Experience program at Crista U—but she’d made a Google map just in case.