Who Do I Lean On?

by Neta Jackson

  “Might just do that.” Harry signed, and I chuckled. He obviously hadn’t checked with Estelle, who didn’t do Sundays.

  Lucy still hadn’t come back to pick up Dandy. “I think Lucy should just give him back to us,” Paul pouted as he packed his duffel bag for the overnight with their dad. “Maybe she’s never coming back. He’s practically my dog anyway . . . hey! Can he come with us to Dad’s?”

  I lifted a knowing eyebrow at Paul.

  “Oh, right. Well, will you promise to feed him? And walk him?”

  Assuring Paul I would, I hustled the boys so they’d be ready by six o’clock when Philip usually picked them up. But six came and went, then six thirty . . .

  I didn’t particularly want to talk to Philip, but I dialed his cell phone and got his voice mail. But when he hadn’t shown up by seven, I tried again. Again I got voice mail—but this time he called back just as I was telling him what I thought of a father who stood up his own kids.

  “Gabby, I can’t talk right now . . . Look, can I call you back?”

  “Philip! It’s seven o’clock! The boys have been waiting for you for an hour.” The background on his end was noisy. Other voices. Some music.

  “I know. I thought I’d be done here. Something got delayed.”

  “Something-what got delayed? Something more important than your kids?”

  “Just some . . . business I had to attend to. And no, it couldn’t wait.” Philip’s tone got tight. “I wouldn’t have to do this if you had—” In the background I heard someone yell his name. He tried to muffle the phone, but I heard him say, “I said, just give me a minute, Fagan.” Then he came back on. “Look, Gabby, I have to go. I will pick up the boys. Just ask them to sit tight.” The phone went dead.

  Irked, I went ahead and fed the boys some boxed macaroni and cheese and hot dogs, but I had a hard time trying to cover for their dad. I was mad, and the boys knew it. Finally the front door buzzer sounded at eight o’clock. Philip was already back in the car when the boys clomped out the front door and down the steps. “See you tomorrow night, guys,” I called after them, watching P.J.’s dark hair and Paul’s red-gold curls disappear into the backseat of the Lexus.

  Only after I went back inside did I realize the significance of both boys climbing into the backseat.

  Well, good. Philip needed to know the boys had feelings too. What kind of business was he doing, anyway, on a Friday night? Huh. Probably out drinking with Henry Fenchel and some business client, Fagan-somebody. Except, what did he mean he wouldn’t have to do this if I had . . . if I had what? Given him the loan? Was he getting a loan from somebody else? Well, let him. It wasn’t my responsibility.

  “Come on, Dandy; guess it’s just you and me.” The yellow dog flopped by my feet as I tried to watch TV, but another Friday night by myself made me feel depressed. Turning it off, I curled up on the window seat in the sunroom at the front of the apartment and stared at the streetlights shining through the trees. Holding two fingers together, I touched my mouth, trying to remember Lee’s soft kiss . . .

  Good grief! If Lee felt that way about me, why didn’t he ask me out on a date? I’d love to see a movie or go out to dinner or . . . or even bowling! What did Lee like to do on weekends? I had no idea. Why had I let him kiss me when I still hardly knew the guy!

  Well, I wasn’t going to call him and whine. It was almost ten. I should just walk Dandy and go to bed. Would it be safe? I got the dog’s leash and stepped outside, glad to see at least two other dog walkers. The night air was mild. Warm, not hot. Nice for September first. But it’d soon be fall, with winter not far behind. “What are you and Lucy going to do then, huh, boy?” I murmured to Dandy, as he lifted his leg for the tenth time, marking every tree along the sidewalk.

  As we returned to the six-flat, I saw bright lights in the first-and third-floor apartments on the left side of the building. Windows open. I could hear loud voices from the third floor. An argument. Those were the people moving out tomorrow.

  My spirit revived a notch or two. It’d be fun to fix up those apartments for Precious and Tanya and their kids. Maybe I could get a work party together on Monday. “Labor Day,” I snickered at Dandy as he curled up on the scatter rug beside my bed. “Get it? Labor . . . work . . .”

  I was just about to turn off the light when I spied my Bible I’d brought home from my office and realized I hadn’t read the note Estelle had stuck in it. I pulled it out. All she’d scrawled was a Bible verse: John 8:31–32. Plumping up my pillows, I found the Bible passage and read it aloud to Dandy. “Then Jesus said to those Jews who believed Him, ‘If you abide in My word, you are My disciples indeed. And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’”

  Huh. That’s what Estelle had said to me . . . “The truth will set you free.” What was she trying to tell me? Something about Satan telling us lies about who we are and who other people are. And the only place to get the truth was God’s Word—just like these verses said. I read them again. “If you abide in My word”—hmm, definitely hadn’t been doing much “abiding” in God’s Word lately—“you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

  I shut the Bible, turned out the bedside light, and slid down beneath the sheet. “God,” I whispered into the inky darkness, “I’ve been kind of afraid to know what You think about all this mess with Philip. Afraid maybe You’ll end up on Philip’s side and I’ll be the person in the wrong again. But if the truth sets us free, guess I shouldn’t be afraid, right? I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding You. Not wanting to pray, not reading my Bible. You’ve done a lot already to free up my spirit, now that I found You again at Manna House. I want to be Your disciple, Lord, like it says in those verses. So I’m going to try to be a little more faithful about ‘abiding’ in Your Word . . .”

  As sleep overtook me, I found myself wondering what “abide” meant. Funny word . . . kinda archaic . . . My kids would say, “Huh?” . . . Maybe it just means “hanging out” with God . . . no, more than that. Soaking in His words? Soaking, that was it . . .

  I woke up to thumps out in the stairwell and voices cursing. Moving day. Standing by the open back door with my coffee, I winced as I saw broken furniture, an old box spring, and bags of trash get dumped out in back by the alley. Who was going to pick that up? Shuddering at the prospect of being the future owner and having to deal with all that, I decided to get out of there until the move was over.

  Top on my list of things to do was picking up the picnic list and making sure we had enough transportation. I drove to the shelter—and ran into Jodi Baxter on the front steps, just about to ring the doorbell. Right on time for her typing class. She was wearing a denim skirt and had pulled her brown shoulder-length hair into a short ponytail. “Hey,” I said and fumbled for my Manna House key. “I can let you in.”

  “Hey, yourself.” Jodi didn’t move, even when I got the door open. “I was hoping I’d see you. I left a couple of messages this week but you haven’t returned my phone calls. Did I . . . I mean, are you upset with me for some reason?”

  I let the door wheeze shut again and sighed. “No . . . well, yeah, kind of.” I sank down onto the top step. She sat down beside me. “But not just you. Just ask Estelle. I’ve been avoiding her too. Avoiding everybody, I guess. Even the Big Man Upstairs.” I rolled my eyes heavenward and made Jodi smile. “I’m sorry, Jodi. You’re a good friend. And a good prayer partner. It’s just . . . you got so excited about Philip and me ‘fixing’ our marriage, I didn’t feel like you were really listening to me.”

  She winced. “Ouch. Okay. I’m listening now.”

  We sat outside for several minutes while I tried to tell Jodi everything that had happened since I told Philip I wouldn’t give him the loan. It came out all in a jumble, but she put her arm around me and pulled me close. “Oh, Gabby, I’m so sorry. You’re right. I was too quick to jump ahead, hoping things could get resolved between you and Philip, and didn’t take time to put myself in your shoes.” She glan
ced at her watch. “Ack, I’m late. The ladies are probably waiting on me for class, if they haven’t given up already. But I really do want to hear more. I promise to shut up and listen this time.” She gave me another hug and stood up. “I’m glad we bumped into each other. I’ve really missed you, my friend.”

  I stood up too. “Yeah, missed you too . . . Uh, by the way, what are you and Denny doing tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow? Besides church you mean?” She squinted as if reading her schedule on the bright sky. “Nothing much, far as I know.”

  “You guys want to go on a picnic? Can we borrow your grill . . . and your Caravan?”

  chapter 21

  Not counting people who had their own cars—Harry Bentley and the Baxters and Mabel—twenty-five ladies had signed up for the Labor Day picnic. “Your minivan won’t be enough,” I moaned to Jodi before she left. “And Moby Van only holds fifteen.”

  “Talk to Josh,” she suggested. “Maybe he can borrow the SouledOut van.”

  I didn’t tell Josh his mother had suggested it—but he seemed excited about bringing Edesa and Gracie to the picnic when I got him on the phone. “Sounds like fun. Don’t know of any reason we couldn’t use the church van. I’ll let you know.”

  “You’re a prince, Josh,” I gushed. Frankly, having another man on hand made me feel more secure herding a large group of streetwise females, many of whom, I was told, had never been to a forest preserve. I didn’t want to lose anybody in the river.

  I did my grocery shopping, stopped by the dry cleaners, and got my nails done. By the time I got back to the six-flat in late afternoon, both moving trucks were gone. Curious, I tried the door to the first-floor apartment across the hall from me. Locked. Drat. I’d have to get the key to do any painting. But the third-floor apartment door was open.

  I peeked into the empty apartment . . . “empty” being a relative term. Trash still littered the front room—a stained carpet, a broken lamp, old newspapers, even some clothes. I heard my front door buzzer while I was still in the apartment. Almost six . . . had to be the boys. I located the intercom and buzzed them in, then yelled down the stairwell, “I’m up here!”

  The boys thundered up the stairs. P.J. stopped at the front door. “Whoa. What a mess.” But Paul came on in and ran down the hall, opening doors and looking in every room. “Hey, can we play up here?”

  “Sure,” I said, grabbing him and knuckling the top of his head. “We can play drag-the-carpet-out-to-the-garbage, and then—”

  “Aw, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, let’s not waste a trip down. Here, help me roll up this rug . . .”

  It took all three of us to heave the old carpet into the Dumpster in the alley. If the first-floor apartment was in similar shape, I’d need a cleaning crew before we could do any painting.

  Back in our own apartment, I stuck a frozen pizza into the oven. “Wash your hands, guys. This won’t take long. You have fun with Dad?”

  P.J. ran his hands under the kitchen faucet and wiped them on his shorts. “I dunno. Kinda boring. Dad took us out for breakfast this morning, but then he spent most of the day in his office.”

  “Yeah,” Paul piped up. “We played video games all morning, then he let us go swimming at Foster Beach.”

  “He didn’t go with you?”

  Paul shook his head. “Nah. But it was okay. They’ve got a lifeguard there.”

  I zipped my lip. No, it was not okay. Wasn’t the whole point for Philip to spend time with his sons?

  I did get the boys up in time to go to church at SouledOut, even though they griped about not getting to sleep in. Frankly, I was sorely tempted to let them sleep so I could get to work on the empty apartments, but I couldn’t very well ask to use the church van today and miss another Sunday.

  And I was so glad we went. I’d pretty much taken going to church for granted growing up. But today, singing “We come rejoicing into His presence” and seeing arms lifted all over the room was almost a tribal experience for me. The congregation was such a mishmash of colors and cultures—where else would people who might not have much in common come together and sing with such abandon? For that moment I felt part of a family— a sense of belonging that made me feel connected to people all over the world who were together worshiping God today.

  If only it would last.

  I’m so sorry, God, I prayed as the youth were finally dismissed for Sunday school. How easily I gave this up in Virginia, traded it in for a few extra hours to eat a lazy breakfast and read the Sunday paper . . .

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw P.J. and Paul leave the building with the other teens and climb into the church van. “Where are they going?” I whispered to Jodi.

  “The lake,” she whispered back. “Pastor Cobbs asked Josh to teach the teens a series on Sea of Galilee stories from the Gospels, and Josh being Josh, he thought taking the teens to the lake might make it seem more real and relevant—though I’d like to know what he’s going to do about Jesus telling Peter to get out of the boat and walk on the water. Half the teens might just try it!” Jodi started to giggle and we both had to stifle it when Pastor Cobbs—the younger pastor of the two-man pastoral team at SouledOut—got up to preach.

  The van came back while the rest of us were enjoying coffee and sweet rolls after the worship service. P.J. and Paul both hung around Josh with some of the other teens, talking and horsing around. “Aw, Mom!” P.J. whined when I told them I needed to leave to get ready for the Manna House picnic. “Do I hafta go?”

  “What?” Josh overheard us and feigned horror. “Your mom’s making me drive! You’re not going to leave me alone with all those women, are you? Hey—make you a deal. Why don’t you guys stay here and ride with me in the church van? What time do you want us there to load up, Mrs. Fairbanks—two thirty?”

  The boys were already in cargo shorts, T-shirts, and gym shoes—typical teen garb even for church these days—so I said fine, a bit amused at this sudden bonding between my sons and Josh Baxter.

  “Bring Dandy!” Paul yelled after me as I headed for the Subaru in the parking lot.

  True to his word, Josh pulled up with my two boys and his wife and baby in the SouledOut van right at two thirty, followed a few moments later by the senior Baxters and their Dodge Caravan. Most of the women and shelter kids were already waiting outside on the front steps, and I noticed we’d picked up a few more strays. No problem. With the shelter van, too, we’d get everybody in.

  Edesa helped me pack two large food coolers with the picnic stuff Estelle had left in the refrigerator, and Josh and Denny Baxter loaded them in the Caravan with their grill. Paul wanted Dandy to ride in the SouledOut van with him and P.J., but I didn’t want Josh and Edesa to have to be responsible for ten women, my two sons, and the dog, so I said Dandy had to ride with me in Moby Van. To my surprise, Paul hopped out of the church van and climbed in behind me with Dandy.

  “Where’s Mabel?” Precious yelled from the back. “She was on the list!”

  “Going to meet us there! Everybody buckled up? All right, let’s go.”

  I waved at Josh behind me and had just started to pull out into the street, when I heard someone yelling, “Hey! Hey, wait for me, dagnabit!” Stomping on the brake, I glanced in my rearview mirror, trying to see who we’d left. Someone was knocking on the windows of the passenger side. Then the side door slid back.

  “Where y’all goin’?” said a gravelly voice. “Hey, there he is! Hiya, Dandy boy! Didya miss me? I’m back!”

  “Aw, Mom!” Paul hissed in my ear. “It’s Lucy!”

  Ignoring groans and complaints from the already crowded van, Lucy dragged her cart into the van and parked her ample behind on the seat next to Paul while Dandy joyfully gave the old lady a hero’s welcome. Twisting in my seat, I could see Paul smoldering next to the window. But Lucy rummaged in her cart and handed him something wrapped in a plastic bread bag. “Got somethin’ for ya, Paul,” she said. “Little thank-ya present for takin’ such go
od care of Dandy. Share ’em with your maw.”

  Paul handed me the bag and I peeked inside.

  Big, fat blueberries.

  Paul was sullen the whole trip. I told myself I’d find a time at the picnic when we could talk through his feelings about having to share Dandy. But when we pulled into the parking lot at Sunset Bridge Meadow, I saw we had a bigger problem than Lucy showing up. Another group was using the picnic shelter.

  Bikers.

  At least fifteen Harleys filled the lot, all leather and chrome.

  My heart sank . . . and then I saw Harry Bentley’s car at the end of the row of bikes—Oh, hallelujah—and Harry himself over at the rustic shelter talking to one of the bikers. “Hang on, ladies,”

  I said, climbing out. “Don’t get out yet.”

  Yeah, right. I was only halfway across the meadow when I realized all the ladies in Moby Van were right behind me, including Paul holding on to Dandy’s leash. And then the SouledOut van pulled into the lot, followed by the Baxters’ minivan.

  Mr. Bentley was mopping his brown dome with a big handkerchief, surrounded by a dozen or more muscular white dudes in red kerchiefs, sporting a variety of beards, earrings, and leather vests. “I told these fellows you have a permit for this picnic grove, Gabby.” Underneath Mr. B’s tone I heard, “I sure hope you have one! ”

  By now we were surrounded by a swarm of Manna House residents and a handful of staff, volunteers, and kids. “Uh, sure, right here.” I pulled out the permit that had been faxed to me on Friday—a concession because we were a social service agency— and handed it to the guy Harry had been talking to.

  Mr. Leather Pants took the permit and grunted as he looked it over. “Manna House . . . is that like ‘manna from heaven’ from the Bible?”