by Neta Jackson
Michelle stopped slicing an onion in mid-chop, blinking back tears—unsure whether it was because of the cut onion or the sudden wave of gratefulness she felt that Jared was such a good dad and a good husband. Never take it for granted, Michelle.
Squabbling erupted in the basement family room. “If you don’t tell, I will.”
“Ain’t your business, Tabby!”
“Don’t care. Gonna tell.”
Michelle was just about to yell down the stairs that she wasn’t going to listen to tattletales—but just then the front door opened and slammed shut, and Destin appeared in the kitchen. “Man, I’m starvin’! What’s for supper?”
“Hello to you too,” Michelle teased. “C’mon, give me some sugar.”
“Oh, Mom.” Destin rolled his eyes but gave her a smack on the cheek, sneaking a peek into the pot on the stove. “Chili? All right! Is it ready?”
“In two minutes. Call your brother and sister, then come back and help me set the table—but wash your hands first!” she called after him.
Five minutes later she was dipping chili out of the pot into each person’s bowl of rice. “Tavis, wait! We haven’t said the blessing yet.” While the steaming chili cooled slightly, Michelle bowed her head. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.” Okay, so it was her fallback prayer when the kids were champing at the bit and wanted a short blessing. Jared, on the other hand, always prayed extemporaneously over the food, usually adding a number of prayer requests he considered current, which sometimes got a bit long.
“So, did Dad send in the money for the Five-Star Basketball Camp?” Destin asked between spoonfuls of chili and rice. “It had to be in today!”
“If he said he was going to, I’m sure he did . . . Don’t talk with your mouth full, Destin.”
“Coach said he was really glad I’d signed up. Said I had the potential to be a starter next year, maybe even get a scholarship.”
“It’s not fair.” Tabitha glared at her big brother, toying with her own chili.
“Whatchu talkin’ about, twerp?”
“Why do you get to go to your camp and I can’t go?”
“’Cause you’re just a twerp, twerp.”
“All right, stop.” Michelle shot a warning glance at Destin. “Tabby, I know you’re disappointed about cheerleading camp, but it has nothing to do with fairness. We found out you have to be part of a cheer squad and go as a team. End of story.”
“Still not fair,” she pouted. “How are ya s’posed to learn all the moves an’ stuff to get on a squad?”
Michelle pursed her lips. Good question. “Don’t know, honey. But let’s leave it alone for now, okay?” She turned to Destin. “What did you and Dad decide about you getting a job this summer to help pay for this camp?”
Destin shrugged. “I dunno. Dad said he wanted me to start now, applying on weekends. But don’t know how that’s gonna work. School doesn’t even get out till the middle of June, an’ then I’ll be goin’ to camp just a week and a half later. What if I find a job an’ they want me to start right away when school’s out? I mean, I can’t really start a job till I get back from camp, y’know, after the Fourth . . . Can I have some more rice an’ chili?”
Michelle’s head started to ache. Destin had a point. What kind of summer job could he get that would let him start after the Fourth of July? And she and Jared still needed to talk about what Tavis and Tabitha were going to do this summer. Maybe a week at a church camp—though they had yet to find one in the Midwest that had a significant number of African American kids, unless it was a special week targeting “urban youth,” which kind of set her teeth on edge—like, “Let’s have a camp for the poor black kids.”
Bothered her more than her kids. Still, even summer camp would just be for a week, two at most. Then what?
It was Tavis’s turn to load the dishwasher, which Michelle supervised while putting away leftovers. “You were awfully quiet during supper, Tavis. You okay?”
“That bully’s been botherin’ him again!” Tabby yelled from the dining room.
“Shut up, Tabby!” Tavis yelled back. “It’s okay, Mom. Not a big deal. I can handle it.”
“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I was hoping that meeting we had with the boy’s mother and the teacher would stop it. Maybe we should—”
“No, Mom. Just makes it worse.” He raised his voice. “And you stay out of it, Tabitha!” He gritted his teeth and jammed the next few plates into the dishwasher. “He was messin’ with me, an’ she got in his face tryin’ to defend me. Just made all the kids laugh at me.”
“Oh, Tavis . . .” Michelle felt helpless. She wanted to respect his feelings, but her Mother Bear instincts were on full alert. Still, she had to hide a smile. So Tabby came to her brother’s defense, did she? Good for Tabby.
Tavis disappeared into his bedroom to finish his homework. Destin headed downstairs with the family laptop to write an English paper. Tabby confiscated the house phone until Michelle remembered the flash cards she’d made to help the twins study for the U.S. constitution test coming up next week—“which you need to pass if you’re going to get into eighth grade.”
It was eight o’clock by the time Michelle hefted her briefcase onto the dining room table and dug out the reports she needed to finish. At nine o’clock she told the twins to get ready for bed, then returned to the dining room table to make notes about today’s visits for the reports she needed to hand in tomorrow . . . when her cell phone rang.
Better not be Shareese with more of her “good ideas.”
“Sister Michelle? Estelle Bentley here!”
Michelle smiled at the buoyant voice on the other end. “Hi, Sister Estelle! How are things going with your new renter?”
“Oh, comin’ along, comin’ along. I think the poor thing is still in shock. It’s her old apartment, but everything’s so different. I’m actually callin’ a few neighbors to see if we could bring her some meals this week until she gets settled.” Estelle chuckled. “That phone list we made up at Miss Mattie’s homecomin’ is comin’ in handy now. Anyway, I took her some chicken an’ cornbread this evenin’, just made a little extra of our own supper. Would you be able to do a meal sometime this week?”
Michelle’s smile faded and she rubbed her temple with her free hand. “Estelle, that is such a sweet idea. I . . . I have some leftover chili if you need something right away—though maybe that’s not so good for someone elderly like Mrs. Krakowski. Uh, let me think about what I’ve got on hand. Can I get back to you?”
“Of course, honey. Like I said, she’s just one person, and I don’t think she has a big appetite. So just make a little extra of your own dinner. Well, I’ll let you go. Just call me with the day that seems good for you.”
Michelle clicked End and sighed. Estelle was right. It wouldn’t be a big deal, just make a bit more of what she’d make for their own supper. But for some reason, it felt like a puncture in her energy balloon. She still had reports to make of her client visits today, and she didn’t want to have to think of anything else. She should’ve just said she couldn’t do anything till this weekend.
“Mo-om?” A plaintive voice floated from Tabitha’s bedroom. Lucky girl got her own room in the small three-bedroom bungalow, while the two boys had to share a room and a bunk bed.
Michelle peeked in. Tabitha was in bed, her hair wrapped in lieu of being braided. “You okay, honey?”
“Yeah. Just . . . would you sing a song to me an’ rub my back, y’know, like Grammy used to do when I was little? One of her songs.”
Michelle slipped into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Sure, sweetie.” The request made her smile in the soft glow from the bedside lamp. This house used to belong to Jared’s mom, and they’d moved in with her ten years ago when it got too much for her to care for—and “Grammy” and Tabby had especially bonded. But Jared’s mom had passed when the twins were eleven. Michelle hadn’t realized that her big girl might still
miss her grandmother’s songs and back rubs.
She slid a hand under the T-shirt Tabby had worn to bed and gently rubbed her daughter’s warm, smooth back as she began to sing the old Tommy Dorsey song Jared’s mother used to sing:
Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn . . .
Michelle couldn’t remember all the verses, so she hummed through some of the phrases. But Tabby’s steady breathing indicated her daughter had fallen asleep before she’d finished the last “. . . lead me home.” Michelle turned out the lamp and tiptoed out, heading for her own bedroom.
Maybe that had been a strange song to sing to a thirteen-year-old. “I am tired, I am weak, I am worn . . .” More like how she felt at the end of a day at Bridges.
But a while later as she slipped wearily between the sheets and turned out her own light, she wished Jared was home to rub her back and sing her a song.
Chapter 6
As Michelle shoveled all three kids out the door the next morning to their respective schools, she saw DaShawn Bentley run out of the two-flat across the street and catch up with the twins. Nice that they went to the same school. Did he have trouble with bullying like Tavis did? He was a little bigger than her son . . . maybe she’d talk to Estelle about it sometime.
Making sure she had her car keys, briefcase, and the sandwich she’d packed for lunch, Michelle peeked into the “master bedroom”—which was a joke, since it wasn’t much bigger than the kids’ bedrooms and didn’t have a private bath. Jared was lying on his side turned away from her, but she stepped quietly into the room, leaned over, and kissed the side of his face. Scratchy. Needed a shave.
“Mmm,” he murmured. “’Bye, honey. Have a good day.”
She hadn’t meant to wake him up, but she’d only realized Jared was home and in the bed when she got up during the night to go to the bathroom. Didn’t know why she’d been so zonked last night. Yes, it’d been a tiring day, but not that unusual. Tiptoeing out of the room, she knew Jared would fall asleep again soon enough. He’d had to learn to sleep when he could, given his ever-changing schedule.
Once at work, she checked her calendar to see what time she needed to be in family court with Shirley Wilson, the young single mom, to ask for guardianship of her orphaned nieces and nephew. Not till eleven . . . good. She made copies for her supervisor of the reports she’d finished, and then made up a schedule for the day: call Tameeka to make sure her ex hadn’t shown up again; stop by Mrs. Dunlap’s to see how the abandoned baby was doing; check on two preteens she’d placed in a group home last month; check on the Motajo family, recent immigrants from Nigeria who’d been displaced by an apartment building fire a few weeks ago, to see if they needed more help accessing the resources and benefits available to help them through this loss of their few worldly possessions. Limited English was always a challenge.
As for Jeffrey’s parents, she’d wait till tomorrow evening to try again to meet them. At the very least, they were facing a hefty fine.
Jared was at work, of course, when she got home, and the evening was pretty much a repeat of the night before . . . except that she increased the recipe for spaghetti and meatballs she made for supper and packed a plastic storage container with at least two good-sized servings for Mrs. Krakowski.
There. Wasn’t that much extra work. Too late for Mrs. K’s supper tonight though—it was already seven thirty. Maybe she’d just run it over to Estelle and have her deliver it as needed.
Leaving Destin to load the dishwasher, she hurried kitty-corner across the street and rang the Bentleys’ doorbell two houses down. A scratchy voice on the intercom said, “Door’s open! Come on up!”
Estelle met her at the top of the open stairway. “Sister Michelle! How nice.”
Michelle handed her the plastic container. “I made a little extra tonight for Mrs. Krakowski like you suggested. Spaghetti and meatballs. I know it’s too late for tonight . . . could you give this to her for tomorrow or whenever? It should keep for a few days.”
“That’s great! But you should give it to her personally, let her know the neighbors who are lookin’ out for her.” Estelle beamed broadly and shooed her back down the stairs. “Go on. Just knock on her door. I’m sure she’s still up.”
A moment later Michelle stood in front of the apartment door on the first floor. Now what? She hesitated a moment, then knocked. And waited. No answer.
“Forgot to tell you!” Estelle called down the stairs. “You have to knock really loud!”
Michelle rapped loudly this time . . . and heard, “Who is it?” from inside.
“Uh, Michelle Jasper! Your neighbor across the street!”
“Who?”
“Michelle Jasper!”
The door opened a crack, held in place by a safety chain. Mattie Krakowski’s pale, wrinkled face appeared in the opening.
Michelle held up the plastic container. “I brought you some spaghetti and meatballs.” She suddenly felt foolish. Wished she had brought the food in a more attractive dish. Or maybe the old woman didn’t even like spaghetti and meatballs.
The door closed. Did I blow it? The chain rattled. Then the door opened again, wider this time. “Well, how nice. Won’t you come in?”
“Oh, no, I know it’s late. I just wanted to bring you something—”
“Nonsense. Come on in.” The lady left the door open and shuffled back into the living room. Michelle had no choice but to follow. Mrs. Krakowski waved a hand around the room. “Did ya see how they fixed up my house while I was in the hospital? Land sakes, hardly recognized the place. Got some renters upstairs now too. Black family, like you. But real nice. Come see the kitchen . . .”
But real nice? Michelle shook her head. Ignore it. More significant was the old woman’s confusion. Did she really think she still owned the two-flat and the Bentleys were the renters? Well, it wasn’t up to her to set the record straight. “It’s very nice.”
“What?”
Michelle raised her voice. “It’s very nice!” And it was. All the rooms had been freshly painted, the wood floors refinished, new appliances and cupboards in the kitchen. Mrs. Krakowski’s ancient floral-patterned couch and matching rocking chair, both badly faded, looked a bit dissonant but probably helped the old woman feel at home.
“Now that’s my boy there . . .” Mrs. Krakowski pointed to a picture of a man on the mantel of the gas fireplace. Michelle recognized the man who’d brought Mrs. K back to the neighborhood the other night. “And those are my grandkids.” More framed photos. “That’s Billy. And Nell. That one’s Susie. But they’re all grown now, moved away . . .”
The elderly woman talked on and on like an old Chatty Cathy doll, pointing to pictures, telling stories about where she got that vase, who crocheted the doilies on the back and arms of the rocker, and tsk-tsking about all the changes in the neighborhood. “You say you live ’cross the street? Used to know a Mrs. Jasper in the bungalow on the end, but don’t see her anymore. Black lady like yourself, real nice.”
“My mother-in-law.” Michelle smiled, glad to have a point of connection. “I married her son, and we took over the house. But . . . I really do need to go now, Mrs. Krakowski. My children are at home. Uh, be sure to put the spaghetti and meatballs in the refrigerator, okay?”
It still took another five minutes to get graciously out the door, and dusk had settled over the neighborhood as Michelle hustled up her own steps and into the house.
“Mom! Where’ve you been?” Tavis met her in the living room, clearly upset. “Dad’s been calling you, an’ you left your phone, an’ . . . an’ we didn’t know where you were! He wants you to call him right away!”
Oh dear. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I dashed across the street to take some food to Mrs. Krakowski, and she ended up talking and talking . . . I told Destin. Didn’t he tell you?”
Tavis glowered. “No. He’s downstairs somewhere. But Dad called an’ I couldn’t find you, so the
n he called your cell, but you left it on the table. You better call him—an’ next time, tell us where you’re goin’!”
Michelle grabbed her youngest—younger than Tabby by five minutes—and gave him a tight hug. “Absolutely. I should’ve let you know. That’s a good rule for all of us, even parents, right?” She smiled to herself as she headed for the phone. Didn’t hurt to slip in a teachable moment.
She rang Jared’s cell. “Jared? So sorry I wasn’t here when you called. Just ran across the street, didn’t think I’d be longer than a minute, but . . . What? . . . Yeah, I know . . . Hope you get some good sleep . . . All right . . . Yeah, we’re fine. I’ll miss you . . . Love you too.”
Michelle clicked End and sighed. Tuesday nights were the worst. Jared’s schedule switched to a day shift tomorrow morning, which started at six a.m.—but he didn’t get off till ten tonight. So he sometimes just stayed at the airport hotel to cut out the travel both ways. Which meant she hardly got to see him from the time she left the house Monday morning till the time she got home Wednesday night.
At least they usually got to see each other Wednesday evening—unless they went to prayer meeting at Northside or she had client visits to make. Thursday was another day shift—six a.m. till two—followed by a night shift starting later that same day at ten. How he managed juggling his sleep with all the switches, she didn’t know. By the time the weekend came around, it took Jared a day or two to get his equilibrium back.
“Somebody has to do it, hon,” he’d say when she complained about it. “And I’m good at it. People who fly don’t think about the guys in the tower, but we get those planes in and out of airports safely. Just be thankful I’ve got a job.”