by Neta Jackson
“Put that away! No way are you going to pay that sticker price. C’mon, let’s go talk to that baby-faced salesman, who’s probably only been on the job a month.” Harry Bentley chuckled. “He ain’t had to deal with Harry Bentley before!”
Don’t know how Harry finagled it, but we drove the Subaru to a mechanic friend of his, who gave the Forester a once-over and a clean bill of health. “’Cept the coolant in the air conditioner is low. We can recharge it, but there might be a leak that could be expensive. Can’t tell without running a pressure test. You’d want to get that fixed, ’specially in this hot weather.”
Mr. B told him to hold off on recharging, and once back at the dealer, used what the mechanic found to knock down the price a cool thousand. I paid cash, drove the wagon home, and parked it in front of the six-flat with Mr. B tailing me. I walked back to his RAV4, and he rolled down the passenger side window. “Take that in next week, have my guy recharge it, see what happens. He’ll do right by you.”
“Thanks, Mr. B. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” He shrugged it off, as I knew he would. “The boys will be home soon. You want to stay for supper or something?”
“Can’t. Gotta pick up DaShawn. My former partner—a great gal named Cindy—took him to a Cubs game today.” He grinned as he started the car. “Radio just said they beat the Cardinals, 5 to 4. Go Cubbies!”
I was stuck back on this great gal named Cindy. “Your former partner? What do you mean, partner?” I tried to imagine Mr. Bentley, former doorman at Richmond Towers, with a side business that needed a partner . . . named Cindy?
“You know . . . partner. Two to a car, got my back, all that stuff. She was the best on the force. Still is. I’m a retired Chicago cop, Firecracker. Didn’t you know that?”
chapter 10
Know that? I stared at the spare tire mounted on the back of the black-and-silver RAV4 as it disappeared around the corner. How could I not know something as important as that? To be honest, I’d just assumed Mr. Bentley had been a doorman all his life.
Mercy! A retired Chicago cop.
I felt embarrassed. Stupid me. What else didn’t I know about Harry Bentley? Or about his ladylove, Estelle Williams, for that matter? Still didn’t know why she’d once been a resident at Manna House. She never said. On the other hand, I had never asked her either.
That was going to change.
I was locking my “new” burgundy red Subaru and wondering if the rental car place could come pick up their car today so I wouldn’t have to wait until Monday and pay for another two days, when Philip’s big black SUV came down the street and pulled up to the curb. P.J. and Paul piled out. “What’s that, Mom? A new car?” Paul ran a circle around it. “Kinda small for an SUV, isn’t it?”
“Big enough.” I kept my voice light. “Yep, just drove it home.” I snatched him as he whirled past. “C’mere, kiddo. I need a hug.” He let me hug him long enough for him to snatch the car keys out of my hand, unlock the car, and crawl in, inspecting the travel cup holders, the pockets on the back of the front seats, and figuring out how to work the rollback cover over the luggage space in back. Even P.J. got into the driver’s seat, checking out the dash and console. I had to smile when he adjusted the rearview mirror to check out his hair and wraparound sunglasses.
I was so distracted watching the boys that I didn’t realize Philip had gotten out of the Lexus until I heard his voice right beside me. “So. You got a used car.”
I looked up. Gosh. With the wraparound sunglasses P.J. was wearing, the two looked like spitting images of each other. The fact kind of unnerved me—or maybe because I didn’t know what Philip really meant. Did he approve? Disapprove? Did he think a secondhand car wasn’t good enough for his boys?
“Yes,” I said—and bit my tongue, realizing how easy it would be for me to blather on making excuses for why I got a pre-owned car, trying to convince Philip it was a good deal.
He was dressed in neatly pressed tan slacks, dress shoes, and an open-necked short-sleeved black silk shirt that looked good against his tan skin and dark hair. Dressy casual, like he was going somewhere. Not exactly knockabout clothes like he’d been hanging out with the boys at some city fest or down at the lakefront.
“You’re a half hour early,” I said. “You got somewhere to go?” Ouch. I knew Philip didn’t like me asking personal questions about his comings and goings. It just popped out. But why not, if he was going to bring the boys back early? What if I hadn’t been here?
Wasn’t surprised that he didn’t answer. He just walked over to the Subaru and inspected a tiny dent in the rear fender, then walked around the car giving it the eye, and came back to me. “Looks okay for a 2003. Hope you had a mechanic check it out. They give you decent financing?”
He was fishing. No way was I going to tell him I paid cash. “Mm.” I took a few steps to the Subaru and knocked on the windows. “Come on, guys! I’ve got to call the rental car place to pick up the car before they close!”
Philip was still standing on the curb. “Is it far? If you want to drop it off, I could follow you over and give you a lift back.”
I stared at him. Had Philip Fairbanks just offered to do me a favor? I opened my mouth but stumbled over the words. “Uh . . . no, thanks anyway. This place picks up and delivers. You, uh, look like you’re headed someplace. Don’t want to make you late.” I raised my voice. “Boys! Come on! Lock up the car!”
Philip shrugged and headed for the Lexus. Then he turned. “Maybe you and I could get together next week sometime, talk over some stuff.”
What—? “About the boys, you mean?”
“Well, yes, that too. But maybe we should talk about us. Think we could do that?”
The boys dashed past, grabbing their duffel bags off the sidewalk and bounding up the low steps to the front door, Paul jangling my keys. “We got a new movie, Mom!” P.J. hollered over his shoulder. “Can we watch it tonight?”
I was glad for the momentary distraction. Philip wanted to talk? In person? The two of us? Sudden anger . . . confusion . . . longing . . . all pounded on the doors in my heart where I’d locked them all away, begging to come spewing out.
Don’t, Gabby, don’t. You don’t have to respond right now. Breathe, Gabby . . .
“Um, let me call you about that, okay? I gotta run.” And I did, escaping into the foyer of the six-flat as the big black Lexus pulled away with a squeal of its tires.
“Mo-om!” P.J. yelled from the living room while I was putting together a quick taco salad to eat while we watched their new DVD. “I thought you were going to get an air conditioner this weekend!”
“I tried!” I yelled back. Well, I had called one store. “They’re out. Everything’s for fall now—leaf blowers and stuff like that.” Which was a bummer. I’d hoped to get two or three end-of-the-season air conditioners at a rock-bottom price. At least I’d be prepared for next summer. Hadn’t figured they’d all be gone.
Well, the three fans would have to do for a few more weeks. While waiting for the hamburger to fry, I called Jodi Baxter. No answer. She’d said to call her, hadn’t she? Then I remembered. She and Denny were going to drive Amanda down to Champaign-Urbana that afternoon to get her settled for her second year at the University of Illinois. How long a drive was it? Three hours? Three down . . . three back . . . it would probably be late by the time they got in.
Shoot! I had to talk to Jodi! Somebody! What was I going to do about Philip’s request?
The boys had bought one of their favorite movies, Secondhand Lions with Robert Duvall and Michael Caine, even though we’d seen it at least two times already, and it kept us laughing the third time around despite the lingering August heat and the noise from the fans trying to keep the air moving. Curled up in my mom’s wingback rocker, I relished just hanging out with my boys having simple fun—but felt guilty about it too. Was I too easily slipping into “just me and the boys” mode, too easily giving up on my marriage, giving up hope that it could be the four of us ag
ain?
Philip said he wanted to talk about “us.” What did he mean by that? I hadn’t filed for divorce yet—even though Lee said it would be a slam dunk—but I had filed for unlawful eviction and custody of the boys. Wouldn’t he have said something if he’d gotten those papers in the mail? Lee said we had a court date now.
So what did Philip want to talk about? Getting a divorce? Or . . .
My heart constricted. Was he having second thoughts about our separation?
Taking a deep breath to loosen my chest, I gathered up the empty taco salad bowl, bag of corn chips, and dirty dishes, and stole out of the room while the boys were cheering for the two old brothers running off the conniving scoundrels who only wanted their money. Dumping the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, I tried Jodi’s number again. Still no answer. Rats. I’d have to wait until tomorrow at church.
Which I did. I pulled the Subaru into the big parking lot of the shopping center on Howard Street the next morning, which marked the city limit between Chicago and Evanston, its first suburban neighbor to the north. The large storefront hosting SouledOut Community Church would be hard to miss, the name painted in bold red script across the wide windows. The large open room, painted in bright blue and coral colors that reminded me of a Mexican restaurant, was rapidly filling up as P.J., Paul, and I came through the double-glass doors.
The boys had grumbled as usual about going to church on Sunday morning, but I held fast to Estelle’s no-nonsense approach. “Just tell ’em that’s the way it is.” And I suspected they found the lively service a lot more interesting than they let on.
I looked around for familiar faces, but didn’t see Estelle or Mr. B that morning. However, the Baxter’s Dodge Caravan pulled up outside, and Jodi came in, followed by Edesa and Josh carrying little Gracie while Denny drove off to park the car. Jodi immediately came over to me. “Oh, Gabby. I saw that you called a couple of times last night. I’m so sorry, but we didn’t get home until close to midnight. We decided to go out for dinner after getting Amanda settled in the dorm, and . . .” Jodi got all puppy-dog faced. “For some reason, it feels harder letting her go this year than the first time.”
“Uh-oh. You mean it doesn’t get any easier? Don’t worry about not calling. I just wanted to—”
“Oh, look! Pastor Clark is back!” Jodi interrupted. “Let’s talk later, okay, Gabby? I promise!” And she scurried off to join others welcoming the tall, thin white man who was one of SouledOut’s pastors. I vaguely remembered the church praying for Pastor Clark about two months ago when he’d gone to the hospital with chest pains, but that was the Sunday before my life ended up in the “critically ill” ward, and I had to admit I hadn’t given poor Pastor Clark a single thought since then.
I was glad to see Avis Douglass leading worship this morning— she was my favorite worship leader on the team—and she called the church to worship this morning with a call-and-response based on Psalm 103, basically giving thanks to God for restoring Pastor Clark to the congregation after his heart attack. The poor man still looked frail to me, but I noticed happy tears trickling down his face, seeming glad just to be there as the congregation worshipped with song after song.
When the kids and teens had been dismissed to their Sunday school classes, Pastor Cobbs, the other pastor—a short, African-American man with energy to spare—was all over the low platform that morning, preaching on a verse from 2 Corinthians, chapter 12, saying that “God’s grace is sufficient, brothers and sisters, sufficient all by itself—”
“Say it, pastor!” a woman called. Sounded like Florida, one of the Yada Yada Prayer Group sisters.
“—because His ‘power is made perfect’ . . . Do you hear that, brothers and sisters? Made perfect in our weakness.”
“Well,” someone else said.
“And I want you all to know that this brother here”—Pastor Cobbs stepped off the platform, walked over to Pastor Clark, and laid his hand on the tall man’s bony shoulder—“This brother here has been weak, laid up in a hospital room, poked full of tubes, hooked up to all kinds of fancy machines. And yet the power of God was so evident on this man, all kinds of hospital staff kept coming into his room just to be in the Presence. And you may be thinkin’ that Pastor Clark was takin’ a sabbatical from ministry these past many weeks, but I don’t think there was a doctor, a nurse, a PT or PA or food service person who came into that hospital room that this man didn’t pray for. Not quietly either. He asked, ‘How can I pray for you, son? How can I pray for you, daughter?’ And they’d tell him. And he’d hold their hands and pray. Pastor Clark here had his own congregation goin’ on up there on that hospital floor!”
By this time, everyone was clapping and shouting and saying, “Hallelujah!” Which of course led into some more praise singing and prayer that each of us, when we’re feeling weak, would remember this man’s example and realize that God’s power working in us isn’t dependent on us feeling strong and confident and all that. “In fact,” Pastor Cobbs ended, “sometimes God needs to take us down so He can remind us of the Power Source who changes lives. Amen?”
“Amen!” people shouted back, and the word seemed to still resound in the air even when the service ended and everyone gathered around the coffee table, consuming sweet rolls and coffee and lemonade.
“I don’t see Estelle or Mr. Bentley or DaShawn today,” I mused aloud to Jodi as I slipped cream into my coffee. “Mr. B helped me buy a car yesterday, but he didn’t say anything about not coming to church. Do you know where they are?”
Jodi shook her head, picking out a sweet roll. “Not for sure. Estelle and Stu were leaving just as we were coming out to get in the car, and Stu said she was taking Estelle to check on her son— something like that.”
“Her son?”
“That’s what she said.” Jodi grimaced. “To tell the truth, I didn’t know she had a son.”
“Huh. That makes two of us.” At least I wasn’t the only one in the dark. “And Mr. B?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he went with them.” Jodi balanced her sweet roll on top of her cup of coffee. “But, hey, what’s this about a new car? And I still want to hear more about what the board said about your proposal! Do you have time now?”
P.J. and Paul were hanging out with some of the other SouledOut teens, so I followed her to a couple of chairs in a corner. “But that’s not all I need to talk to you about. It’s . . . Philip.”
chapter 11
Jodi’s eyebrows shot up when I told her about Philip wanting to talk. “You’re kidding.”
I snorted. “Would I kid about something like that?”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing! Just . . . I’d call him later. Actually can’t remember exactly what I said. It was like he’d thrown marbles under my feet and I couldn’t get my balance! I mean, he barely returns my calls when we have to make a decision about the boys—and now he wants to talk? Doesn’t that just rot your socks?”
Jodi giggled. “Now you sound like Lucy.” Then she sobered up. “He actually said he wanted to talk about you two? Not the boys?”
I made a face. “Huh. Even talking about the boys would have been a big deal. We haven’t had an actual conversation since—” I felt color rise into my face. Not since the disastrous day I’d ignored everybody’s advice and confronted Philip in his office about kicking me out of the penthouse. But he’d whittled me down good, made me feel like he’d done me a favor kicking me out and putting me on the street where I belonged. “Anyway,” I finished lamely, “he said not just the boys, but about us.”
“Whew.” Jodi blew out a long breath, staring into her Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Wonder what he’ll say when you talk to him.”
If I talk to him.” “
Her head jerked up. “Gabby! What do you mean, if ? What if your husband wants to—”
“Ex-husband.” My voice was as cold as the coffee. I tossed the remains of my cup into the closest potted plant.
A long silence sat bet
ween us. I studied my nails. Badly in need of a manicure. I should go back to Adele’s Hair and Nails and give Hannah the nail girl some business. Especially if I was going to talk to Philip for longer than two minutes. He’d notice if I had ragged nails.
Finally Jodi spoke, her voice soft. “Gabby. I know you’ve been through a lot . . . no, I take that back. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but it sounds awful from what you’ve told me. But what if Philip wants to talk about getting back together? Maybe he’s willing to work on the relationship. Isn’t that what you want?”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Don’t know what I want. I guess, in one way, yeah. I’d like us to be a family again, especially for the boys’ sake. But . . .” I didn’t want to say it, but Jodi—whose own husband adored her—couldn’t possibly understand the stress I felt just being around Philip, who knew all the right buttons to push to reduce me to pulp. Talk? Did we even know how? I shrugged. “He probably just wants to talk about getting a divorce. Probably wants to talk me into a ‘no-fault’ or something, no alimony or child support. Might as well just let our lawyers talk.”
“Oh, Gabby.” Jodi laid a hand gently on mine. “There’s only one way to find out. And that’s to talk to him. That’s all I’m saying. Just talk. But I’m not in your shoes. You’re the one who has to decide, and it’s got to be hard. Do you want to pray about it?”
I jerked my hand away and stood up. “No. Not now. I—I’m sorry, Jodi. I need to get the boys home.” Which was a pathetic lie, but I was close to tears and wanted to get out of there. I didn’t want to pray about it! Didn’t want Jodi or God or anyone else to tell me I “should” talk to Philip.
I was miserable as I drove home from SouledOut. How could I treat my friend like that? Jodi Baxter, of all people! Hadn’t she listened patiently to me spilling my guts the past month and a half about the breakup of my marriage? Hadn’t I asked her to be my prayer partner? So why had I gotten all riled up when she wanted to pray with me about this latest wrinkle?