by Neta Jackson
I could hardly speak. “Is he . . . is her son badly burned?” Just burning my hand on the stove was painful. I could hardly imagine how Estelle must feel, knowing her son was in terrible pain.
Mabel shook her head. “Don’t know.” She straightened and pushed back from her desk, all business again. “Well. Main thing we need to do is put together some lunch teams to cover for Estelle. Can you work on that this morning? Start with Precious—she’s done it before. But someone will need to check on the menus and food supplies on hand. Estelle usually takes care of all that.”
And now it was in my lap. Which was okay . . . though I wanted to ask Mabel why Leroy was living alone. Why didn’t Estelle live with him—it was her house, wasn’t it? And how come she ended up here at Manna House a couple of years ago? But Mabel was already back on the phone.
I found Precious in the schoolroom, trying to update her résumé. But before I could say what I’d come for, she pounced. “Girl, you just the sistah I need to see. Can you proofread this for me? I gotta find a job an’ soon. Money I had is all run out, and Sabrina gettin’ bigger all the time. That baby gonna be here ’fore we know it.” The thin, strappy woman eyed me sideways from beneath the fall of short kinky twists that fell across her forehead. “An’ I don’t mean ta ride on ya, but anything happenin’ ’bout this grand idea of yours ta turn that building into a place for us single moms? Me an’ Sabrina, we gonna need someplace ta live, an’ quick, ’fore that baby gets here.”
I ran my fingers through my own mop of red curls, my head spinning. Yes, I needed to get moving on the next steps for the House of Hope, but I wasn’t even sure what came first—buying the building or approaching the city? And in the meantime, Philip had thrown me off center asking to talk . . . and now Estelle was out of commission and I was supposed to make sure Manna House served lunch to the fifteen or twenty residents who weren’t out for the day, plus staff . . .
I blew out my pent-up frustration. “Uh, Precious, we’ve got a situation.” I quickly filled her in on Estelle’s absence and the need to put together a lunch team. “You know your way around that kitchen better than I do. Can you help me put together a lunch team today? If you’ll find a couple extra hands—”
Precious was already halfway out the door. “No, you go find the warm bodies. You think they gonna listen to me if I tell them they gotta cook today? You’re on staff. They’ll listen to you. I’ll go hunt up Estelle’s menu and see if we got the goods.”
chapter 13
Estelle didn’t come back until Thursday, and in that time Pluto had been demoted as a planet and Precious and I managed to pull off two halfway decent lunches for twenty-five folks. The former was big news on CNN and for the astronomy junkies at Chicago’s Adler Planetarium, but for me, filling Estelle’s shoes in the Manna House kitchen and getting only two complaints—and that was because we ran out of watermelon the second day—should have been right up there with CNN’s top stories.
When I’d gone looking for helpers, I’d spied the stuffed animal dogs I’d secretly placed on Tawny’s and Sabrina’s bunks sitting on their pillows like spoiled show dogs, and Sarge told me on the sly that both teenagers had gone to sleep hugging their new comfort friends. Which gave me the courage to ask Tawny if she’d mind doing lunch prep again—“Since you know your way around the kitchen better than I do”—after her stint on Monday. Okay, maybe I stretched the truth a little, but she deserved some encouragement after surviving kitchen duty bouncing back and forth between Estelle and Wanda. Besides, it gave me a chance to get to know the girl a little.
But I sure was glad to see Estelle come sweeping through the double doors into the multipurpose room—correction, Shepherd’s Fold—on Thursday morning, shaking water off her umbrella as an early thunderstorm shook the building. Her hair had been pulled into a no-nonsense topknot and she looked like she hadn’t slept much the past few days. Against my selfish instincts—I didn’t really want to “do lunch” again—I trailed her downstairs to the kitchen. “Are you sure you should be back at work? You look like you could use some R & R.”
She stowed her carryall bag under the counter and tied on a big apron. “Don’t need sleep. Need to get back to work. Only so much bedside-sittin’ a body can do.” She cast a critical eye over the counters, stove, and appliances. “Hm. Not bad. Everything looks clean. And praise Jesus, somebody made coffee.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “You?”
“Heard you were coming back today. Thought you might need it.” I grabbed the pot, poured two cups, and headed for the nearest table in the dining room. “Estelle, please, take a minute to sit down. I want to hear how your son is doing. Mabel said he has third-degree burns. That sounds terribly painful. Is he going to be all right?”
Estelle hesitated and then gave in, easing herself into a folding chair while I brought sugar for her, creamer for me, and a couple of spoons. She stirred absently and heaved a big sigh. “Hard for me to tell. They’ve got him in a sterile environment, pouring all kinds of intravenous fluids into him, antibiotics and all that. And he’s pretty knocked out on morphine to cut the pain.” Her dark eyes teared a little. “He’s got burns on a third of his body, mostly along his left side—his left arm, part of his torso and back, and his left leg. They started skin treatment yesterday, putting moist dressings on the burns, then taking them off . . . Lord, Lord, couldn’t stand to watch it.” She shuddered.
“But, what happened? Mabel said your house is a total loss from the fire. He was living in your house?”
“Mm.” Estelle seemed lost in thought.
I waited, but when nothing more was forthcoming, I said bluntly, “Estelle, I don’t understand. If you have a house, why were you a resident here at Manna House a couple of years ago? I mean, why is your son living in your house and not you?”
She allowed a sad smile. “Kind of a long story. Told you the other day Leroy has mental problems. One day he’s gentle as a lamb, other days . . . well. He lived with me a long time, held odd jobs in construction. But sometimes he’d get upset, wouldn’t take his meds. Then . . . well. All hell would break loose. Got so we couldn’t live together.”
I stared at her. “What are you saying? He got violent? I mean, did he hurt you?”
She didn’t answer.
“So you moved out and let Leroy stay there? That doesn’t make any sense!”
“Not to you, maybe. Did to me.” Her eyes got soft. “If I’d kicked him out, where could he go? He would’ve just ended up in some institution.”
“But you ended up in a homeless shelter! Seems upside down to me.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But what mother can kick out her own child from the only home he knows? He’s family!”
Family. The irony was not lost on me. That hadn’t stopped Philip from kicking me out. But I kept my mouth shut. Estelle’s son was in the hospital with serious burns and her house was a total loss. Kind of put my woes in perspective.
“Oh, Estelle, I’m so terribly sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
Estelle shook her head. “Can’t talk about it anymore. I’m too tired.” Then she frowned at me. “I think you called me a couple of days ago and left a message, something about Philip. Didn’t get it until yesterday. What’s going on?”
“Oh, just . . . Philip said he wants to talk. About us. But I—”
“What’s he want to talk about?” Estelle’s frown deepened.
I felt guilty diverting attention from Estelle’s big crisis to my petty marital problems. “I don’t know! But as you well know, talking ‘about us’ isn’t our strong point. Usually turns out to be Philip talking at me, and me mentally bouncing around trying to figure out how to keep the Fairbanks boat from rocking.”
“Humph. Told you before, don’t talk to that man alone. Look what happened when you ignored Mama Estelle’s advice and sailed into his office, like a curly-headed pigeon flying into a skeet shoot.”
I groaned. “Don’t remind me. I haven’t said I’d meet him. Don’t real
ly want to talk to him at all.”
“Oh, you have to talk to him, Gabby girl.”
“What?” Not what I expected from Estelle.
“He wants to talk. That’s new. Could be anything. Might be good, might be bad. Only way to find out is to talk to him. Or ask him straight up what it’s about. All I’m sayin’ is, ain’t real smart to go it alone. That’s all I’m sayin’.” Estelle pushed herself up from the table. “Gotta get to work. Hang in there, Gabby.”
I kicked myself later for bringing up the stuff with Philip. Hadn’t asked Estelle how the fire started, or what was going to happen now that her house was gone. On the other hand, those topics might be a little touchy. Maybe it was just as well.
By the time Paul and I left Manna House that afternoon, the morning rain had moved out over the lake, replaced by a hazy sky and muggy air. Dropping Paul off at the apartment, I decided it was as good a time as any to take the car to Mr. B’s mechanic and get the air conditioner fixed. He even said he’d fix it while I waited. “Harry told me to take good care of you,” the mechanic said. “He’s always brought me his business. Glad I can return the favor.”
By the time the car was fixed, I was wilting from the heat. “Dad called a few minutes ago,” P.J. said, not looking up from the video game he was playing as I came in the door. “I told him you’d call him back . . . aha! Zam zam! Gotcha!”
Oh, thanks a lot, buddy. I rolled my eyes at P.J. behind his back and headed for the kitchen, where I stuck my head into the fridge . . . Darn it! Who drank all the cold pop? Stupid question. All I could find in the pantry were a couple of cans of warm, generic lemon-lime soda. Did I buy that? Oh well. I poured the contents of a can over ice, crushed the can, and went out onto the back porch to toss it into the plastic wastebasket I used for recyclables . . . which was overflowing. I’d forgotten to empty it into the big recycle bin out by the Dumpster. Which got me thinking . . . Did the city pay for that Dumpster and recycle bin? Or the landlord? If I bought the building, would I have to pay for services like that? I had an hour to kill before the boys and I took in the 5:30 movie at the Broadway Theater—our plan for this Thursday. Maybe I should do some more research on the responsibilities of owning a six-flat in Chicago . . .
I let the screen door slam behind me. I was stalling and I knew it. This was the third time this week Philip had left a message, and I still hadn’t returned his calls. Had to admit, that in itself was enough to annoy any normal person, me included.
Okay, I’d call him back—but first I dialed Jodi Baxter’s number. She sounded a bit breathless when she answered.
“Hey, Jodi. It’s Gabby. Philip’s been calling. He wants to meet tomorrow before he picks up the boys. I still haven’t called him back. Thought I could use that prayer we talked about . . . and, uh, I have a favor to ask.”
“A favor? Sure, if I—hey, hey, hey! Isaac! Don’t bang that on Havah’s head! That is not a toy! Gabby? Hang on a minute . . .” Jodi put the phone down, and I could hear the screeching of some little kids and Jodi’s teacher voice sounding as if she was distracting them with something. Then she was back. “Sorry. I’m babysitting Ruth Garfield’s twins while she gets her hair done at Adele’s. Cute little buggers, but hoo boy. Mischief is their middle name. Now, what were you saying about needing a favor?”
I told her I’d decided to talk to Philip, probably tomorrow, but Estelle didn’t think I should talk to him alone. Would she consider going with me?
Jodi didn’t answer right away.
“I mean, if you can’t, I understand,” I blathered. “Estelle just said—”
“No, no, it’s not that. I was just trying to think. If Denny and I were having a problem and he wanted to talk, he’d shut up like a clam if I showed up with someone else. Would Philip be willing to talk to you if I came along?”
Denny and Philip. Huh. That was like trying to compare Chicago hot dogs and fois de gras. Still, maybe they had a few guy things in common. I sighed. “Probably not. In fact, highly unlikely. But . . .” I was grasping. “What if you ‘just happened’ to drop by wherever we decide to go, act all surprised, say hi and go sit somewhere else?”
“Mm. I don’t know, Gabby. He’d see through that in a minute. Look, why don’t you just call him and ask what this is about. If he wants to talk divorce or legal stuff about the kids, tell him you want your lawyer present. Otherwise . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Otherwise what?”
Jodi gave a short laugh. “Otherwise, we better pray! Because I’ve run out of my half-baked wisdom and I think we need to ask God for some of His!”
Jodi’s prayer calmed my spirit. Didn’t God have my back? She prayed those words from Psalm 56: “When I am afraid, I will trust in You . . . in God I trust; I will not be afraid.” And it was true. In the past few months, when I’d trusted God for the things I didn’t understand or when I didn’t know what to do, God always came through. Somehow.
I made sure the boys were busy, went outside to sit on the flat cement “arms” that hugged the outside landing and front steps, and called Philip on his cell. Couldn’t believe it when he answered. “Gabrielle! I’ve left several messages. Why—”
“I know, Philip. I should have called before now. But I don’t know if I want to talk about us. Can you tell me what this is about?”
A brief silence. “It’s . . . personal. I’d rather talk face-to-face.”
Take the initiative, Gabby. “Look, if it’s about our legal situation”—ouch, why didn’t I just say “divorce”?—“I think I’d like to have my lawyer present.”
“Don’t need our lawyers. Like I said, it’s personal. Can we just talk? You name the place. I’ll meet you there. Like five o’clock tomorrow? I’m supposed to pick the boys up at six. Just one hour, Gabby.”
He called me Gabby. I let a moment of silence go by. Then . . . “All right. I’ll meet you at the Emerald City Coffee Shop. It’s right under the Sheridan El Station, a few blocks north of Wrigley Field.”
The wall clocks at Manna House seemed to crawl on Friday. Nine hours until my meeting with Philip . . . eight and a half . . . eight . . .
This was stupid! You’d think I was in a hurry to talk to him . . . No, that wasn’t it. I was in a hurry to get it over with.
I’d wanted to sit in on Edesa Baxter’s Bible study she’d started on Bad Girls of the Bible, using a book by Liz Curtis Higgs. The ladies who attended last week, I’d been told, had eaten it up like chocolate. But I only caught the tail end of her study about Lot’s wife and the consequences of momentary disobedience after doing my midmorning run to get P.J. from Lane Tech. Maybe Edesa would loan me the book and I could catch up.
I concentrated on work to make the time go faster. Getting the afterschool program up and running by the time school started was the main priority right now. Kids whose lives had been uprooted needed a lot of extra help to not fall through the cracks at school. Avis Douglass, Jodi’s principal at Bethune Elementary, had sent us some helpful math and reading materials for grades one through five. But I needed at least two volunteers to be here daily . . . and so far I only had Precious, who’d be great with the younger kids. She only had a high school education herself, but she was the queen of trivia—what’s new in NASA’s space program . . . who just got traded in the NBA . . . the latest squabble at Chicago’s city council . . . the sorry state of bridges in the U.S.— you name it, Precious had the latest facts. Or opinions, anyway.
But her daughter Sabrina had two more years of high school, and the girl would need a lot of help with schoolwork once that baby got here. Had to be someone besides her mother—wait. What about Carolyn? She’d been at the shelter when I first came and only recently got her own apartment. But Carolyn had been a lit major and former librarian, for goodness’ sake! She said she wanted to come back to Manna House to volunteer and we’d been talking about starting a book club . . . why not ask her to put together an honest-to-goodness afterschool program and tutor Sabrina? For that matter, w
hy didn’t we run our own GED program for our residents? Seemed like half of the adult women hadn’t finished high school.
Two o’clock—my quitting time until the boys went back to school—galloped across the finish line before I knew it. I’d managed to get hold of Carolyn and she agreed to come in Monday to talk about it. I gathered up my things, collared Paul—whose enthusiasm for entertaining half a dozen bored kids seemed to be fading—and took P.J. and Paul out for ice cream and a swim at Foster Avenue Beach. When we got home, they flopped in front of the TV and the fans and didn’t seem the least bit curious when I said I had to go “out” at quarter to five.
“Don’t forget to pack your duffel bags with a change of clothes and underwear,” I reminded them, freshening my lipstick and giving my auburn curls a comb-through in front of the hallway mirror. “Your dad will be here to pick you up at six.”
On the dot. Philip had one hour to underwhelm me.
chapter 14
I arrived at the coffee shop ten minutes early. No way did I want to arrive late and apologetic. I ordered an iced latte and looked around for a seat. The couch by the window? No, too cozy. But most of the small tables were occupied. Rats. Maybe I should have suggested something like that funky retro place Lee Boyer had taken me to after he showed me the six-flat . . . no, no, no. Meet Philip at the same place I’d been with Lee? Too weird. This would have to do.