Who Do I Lean On?

by Neta Jackson

  “Humph. Wash your hands at that sink back there and get you both a clean apron and hairnet. I’ll be back in five.” Estelle took me by the elbow and propelled me toward my office, shutting the door behind us. “Sit,” she ordered, plopping into my desk chair.

  I sat in the extra folding chair. “What’s this about?”

  Estelle shook her head. “Don’t know yet. But Harry’s trying to find out. Because if this Fagan person is who we think he is, Philip has got himself in a heap o’ trouble.”

  “But who is he?”

  “Rogue cop, got himself indicted by Internal Affairs of the police department.” Estelle shook her head and clucked her tongue. “From what Harry’s told me, you don’t want to mess with Matty Fagan.”

  chapter 25

  What Estelle said didn’t make sense to me. Why would Philip do business with some cop who was being indicted by the Chicago Police Department?

  Had to be some other guy named Fagan.

  But I felt uneasy the rest of the day. In spite of everything, Philip was my sons’ dad and I didn’t want them to suffer any more drama than they had already. I pulled out one of my “desperate Gabby” prayers and kept it going all afternoon: “Please, God, don’t let Philip get mixed up in any mess with this Fagan character— for P.J. and Paul’s sake at least.”

  At three o’clock, I walked to Sunnyside with Tanya and the other shelter moms to pick up our kids since it was the first day, but realized the kids could soon walk back to Manna House as a group in a few days—including Paul. Seemed like a win-win situation to me. Paul could hang out where I worked after school, could even get help with his homework from Carolyn in the afterschool program if he wanted to—and there was always Ping-Pong, board games, and the DVD player when he got done. I made a mental note to mention this when I went for my custody hearing on Friday.

  I poked my head into the rec room when it was time to pick up P.J. and Jermaine at five, but Paul and ten-year-old Keisha were doing battle with the foosball paddles and he waved me off. “Pick me up on your way home! . . . Ha! You just knocked the ball into my goal, Keisha!”

  Fine with me. I’d rather not have Paul along if I had to deal with any mess involving P.J. and Jermaine. I pulled into the parking lot at 4:55 and waited at the designated spot for the boys. P.J. had cross-country practice after school, and Mabel said Jermaine would either be using the library to study or signing up for one of the afterschool clubs.

  Jermaine was the first one to show up, wearing skinny jeans and a Lane Tech T-shirt, his head neatly braided in tiny cornrows with short braids-and-beads hanging down the back of his neck. I waved at him and leaned over to open the front passenger door. “Hi! Get in!”

  Jermaine hesitated and leaned down, peering at me through the open door. “That’s okay, Mrs. Fairbanks. P.J.’s gonna want to sit in front.”

  “It’s fine, Jermaine. You got here first.” I gave the boy a warm smile.

  Somewhat reluctantly, Mabel’s nephew lowered himself into the front seat. He had such big eyes, as pretty as a girl’s. I started to ask if he’d signed up for any clubs when I spotted P.J. coming across the wide front lawn toward the parking lot, walking with a handful of other lanky boys, all wearing baggy shorts with gym bags slung over their shoulders. Good. He was beginning to make some friends. I resisted tapping on the horn, sure that he’d seen the red Subaru. Don’t embarrass him, Gabby, I told myself.

  P.J. stopped a good twenty feet away from the car and stood talking to the other kids. Once his eyes darted our way, but he quickly looked away.

  That rascal. He’s pretending he doesn’t see us. What’s he waiting for?

  I got out of the car and stood with the door open. I was just about to shout, “P.J.! Over here!” when he glanced over his shoulder once more, caught my eye . . . then deliberately turned his back to us, moving slowly in the opposite direction, almost as if he was herding the knot of kids away.

  A shot of anger surged through my body like a lit fuse. I opened my mouth to screech, “P.J. Fairbanks, get over here right now!”—but I shut it again, got back in the car, and turned on the ignition. Enough of this nonsense! Whatever Philip Fairbanks, Jr., thought was going to happen—maybe wait until his buddies got picked up and he could hop in the car unnoticed by anybody that mattered—he had another thing coming.

  Wheeling out of the parking lot, I turned onto Addison and headed east toward the lake. Jermaine stared at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “You just gonna leave P.J. back there?”

  “Mm-hm,” I murmured through gritted teeth. And no, I was not going to go back and get him on a second run.

  “But . . . it’s okay, Mrs. Fairbanks. I don’t mind waitin’.”

  I mind. He’s being rude.” I took a slug from the water bottle “in the cup holder to douse the fuse still sparking in my spirit. “So.” I glanced at Jermaine as I slowed for a red light and put on a smile. “Did you find any clubs you’re interested in?”

  I listened with half a mind as Jermaine told me about signing up for the drama club, though he’d really like to join the jazz ensemble and play keyboard, but designing sets for the school plays sounded like fun. The other half of my mind spun like a top. How was P.J. going to get home? Take the bus? He had money. I’d given both boys five bucks “just in case.” Or walk. Couldn’t be more than a mile and a half, maybe two to our apartment. Would he be safe? It was still light for several more hours, and Addison was a main street . . .

  I dropped Jermaine off at the shelter—Mabel’s car was still parked across the street—and asked him to send Paul out. I left the car running, my resolve starting to waver. Maybe I should go back. Maybe leaving him standing there was enough to teach him not to mess with me . . . when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the caller ID.

  “Mom!” P.J. shouted in my ear. “You just drove off and left me! How am I s’posed to get home?” He must have borrowed another kid’s cell.

  My resolve resumed its backbone. “You figure it out, kiddo.” I flipped the phone closed just as Paul ran down the Manna House steps and hopped into the backseat.

  “Where’s P.J.?” Paul leaned forward to peer into the front seat.

  “Thought you went to pick him up.”

  I second-guessed myself the whole time I put together the ham-burger roll-ups—a kid-friendly recipe Jodi had given me—for supper. Was I doing the right thing? What if P.J. didn’t get home soon? I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for him!

  I had just sent Paul outside with the garbage and taken the hamburger-filled pastries out of the oven when I heard banging out in the front hallway and a muffled voice yelling, “Let me in!” What in the world—was there something wrong with the buzzer?

  I ran down the hall and opened the door a crack. P.J.! “Thank You, Jesus!” I breathed and flung the door wider.

  That’s when I saw two figures out in the foyer. P.J. and Philip.

  Oh no, P.J.! You didn’t . . .

  I crossed the hall and pulled open the glass-paneled door. “Hey! What’s with the banging? Did you try the buzzer?”

  “Been punchin’ it for five minutes. Why didn’t you answer it?”

  “But it didn’t—” Before I had a chance to finish, P.J. brushed past me and stomped into the apartment, followed by the slamming of his bedroom door.

  Philip—suit coat off, tie loosened—frowned at me. “What’s the meaning of this, Gabrielle? P.J. called me at the office, said you left him standing in the parking lot and he didn’t have a ride home from school. Called me wanting me to pick him up!”

  I stepped into the foyer, letting the door close behind me. I folded my arms and lifted my chin. “Guess he forgot to tell you I was there waiting for him, and he refused to get in the car.”

  “He said he was just talking to his friends and you drove off!”

  “No, he was talking to his friends so he wouldn’t have to get in the car. Because he didn’t want to be seen with another kid I was taking home.”

/>   Philip snorted. “Who? That wuss you invited to the boys’ birthday party?”

  It was all I could do not to haul off and slap him. “Wuss? Where do you get off insulting Jermaine that way! He’s Mabel’s nephew, and we agreed to share rides taking the boys to and from school. P.J. was very rude to Mabel and Jermaine when she drove them this morning. I wasn’t going to let him get away with it again!”

  “Good grief. Give the kid a break, Gabby. It was the first day of school. He’s the new kid, trying to make a good impression.”

  “All the freshmen are new. Besides, that doesn’t excuse being rude.”

  It was like Philip hadn’t heard me. “He said he didn’t have any lunch either.”

  I snorted. “He forgot it.”

  “And why did he have to pound on the door? Can’t get into his own house?”

  “He has a key. Must’ve forgotten that too.” I rolled my eyes. “Just . . . leave, Philip.”

  Philip ran his hand through his hair in that boyish way I used to find endearing. But I was angry—angry that P.J. had called his dad and dragged him into this. So much for the “tough love” lesson I was trying to teach the kid.

  “Fine.” Philip pointed a finger at me. “But a judge may have second thoughts about giving you custody when he hears you left your own kid high and dry on the first day of school.”

  A long finger of ice down my spine froze me to the spot as Philip pulled open the outer door and hustled down the steps to his car. He was threatening me?

  Shaken, I turned the door handle and pushed on the inside foyer door. It had clicked shut. I fished in the pocket of my jeans for the key . . . no key. Dang! I kicked the door—and winced, realizing I only had sandals on. I eyed the buzzer—was it working or not? I pressed the button under the mailbox that said “Fairbanks” and heard . . . nothing.

  Paul finally heard me banging on the foyer door and let me in. “Why didn’t you ring the buzzer?” he griped, following me back to the kitchen. “I’m hungry. Is supper ready?”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak, just flopped hamburger roll-ups on three plates and sent him to get P.J. for supper. I decided to say nothing to P.J. about his behavior until we’d both cooled off a little and got some food under our belts.

  But my “talk” with P.J. later that evening didn’t go too well. I made it clear that his rude behavior about riding with Jermaine was unacceptable, though I got a halfhearted shrug when I asked if he understood. Finally I told him that if he conducted himself decently with our current plan for the rest of the week, then we’d talk about him taking the city bus.

  It wasn’t just P.J.’s sullen demeanor during our talk; the kid was fourteen, after all. Not even the fact that he’d referred to Jermaine as a “wuss” at the picnic—though I told him he’d be grounded for a week if I ever heard him use insulting labels like that to refer to anybody, and I didn’t care if his father had said it first.

  What really rattled me were his parting words as I left his bedroom. “Why can’t I live with Dad? He wouldn’t make me ride with some loser like Jermaine. Don’t know why you brought us to Chicago anyway. If you and Dad aren’t gonna get it together, Paul and I oughta at least get some say about where we’re going to live!”

  chapter 26

  I woke early the next morning . . . with P.J.’s last words ringing loudly in my ears. I burrowed my face into the pillow, fighting back tears. Oh, God, I really don’t know what to do. I’m trying to trust You with my kids, but I’m so scared I’ll lose them again . . .

  I was still feeling rattled when I got to work. It was Wednesday—Nurse Day—and I had to thread my way through a dozen or more residents in the dining room waiting to see Delores Enriquez, the county hospital nurse who donated her time one morning a week to take care of basic medical problems. Locking myself into my broom-closet office, I tried to shut out the noisy chatter outside and get to work. But my talk with P.J. ate away at me, like a big slug of Drano corroding my insides.

  I stared at the cursor blinking from the computer screen as P.J.’s words mocked me. Why can’t I live with Dad? If you and Dad aren’t gonna get it together . . .

  “Oh, God,” I moaned, leaning my elbows on the desk and pressing my fingers against my skull. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to lose my kids!” Had P.J. told his dad he wanted to live with him? Philip hadn’t said anything last night . . . except that threat about telling the judge I’d “abandoned” my kid in the parking lot on his first day of high school.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid . . .

  Lee Boyer had assured me my custody petition was a slam dunk. But what if it wasn’t? What if Philip challenged it? What if the judge gave the boys a choice where they wanted to live? What if . . . what if P.J. said he wanted to go back to Virginia and live with Nana and Grandad, so he could continue going to George Washington Prep with all his old friends? Would the judge let him?

  Nausea swept over me and I pulled the wastebasket within upchuck distance. The feeling passed, but now all my nerves felt as if they were going to jump out of my skin. I paced back and forth in the tiny office—five steps this way, five steps back—running a hand through my snarly curls. I should’ve just ignored P.J.’s snit and made the best of it, waited it out. Standing up for Jermaine isn’t worth starting a landslide that might take my kids away from me.

  I immediately winced at my selfish thought and sank back into my desk chair. “Oh, God,” I moaned again. “I need some help here. I feel like I’m going crazy!”

  Come to Me . . .

  I made myself sit still. Those were the words that kept coming to me when I’d started reading the gospel of Matthew, even before Philip kicked me out. That’s what Jesus said. “Come to Me . . . and I will give you rest.”

  I sat quietly for a few minutes. What did it mean to “come to God and find rest” when I was on the verge of being a nervous wreck? I needed someone to pray with me. That’s what a prayer partner was for, wasn’t it? I picked up the phone and dialed Jodi Baxter’s number—and got her voice mail. Of course. School had started and she was teaching a room full of squirrelly third graders at Bethune Elementary.

  Well, I could pray with Estelle. I opened my office door and peeked outside. Estelle usually came in early on Wednesday to help Delores with sign-ups and teach her knitting group. But . . . no Estelle. Only Precious and Diane-of-the-Big-Afro behind the kitchen counter, banging a few pots and pans. I slipped up to the counter. “Where’s Estelle?”

  Precious pulled a plastic container from the refrigerator and plopped it on the counter. “What do I know? Mabel just said Estelle had an emergency doctor’s appointment—eye doc or something—and could I throw some food together for the lunch crew. Huh. How come I always end up coverin’ lunch when Estelle don’t show up? Don’t nobody blame me if it’s Leftover Surprise today.”

  Emergency doctor’s appointment? Eye doctor? For herself or Harry?

  Well, okay. Guess I needed to “get my own prayers on,” as Precious would say—when she was in a better mood anyway. But I had to get out of my office. Felt as if the walls were closing in on me. And I had an idea how to stop my mind from spinning like a Tilt-A-Whirl and get focused.

  Five minutes later I was sitting in my red Subaru, parked— hallelujah—under a leafy locust tree along the side street around the corner from Manna House, windows open to a slight breeze, listening to the gospel CD Josh Baxter had given me:

  . . . The earth all around me is sinking sand On Christ the Solid Rock I stand When I need a shelter, when I need a friend I go to the Rock . . .

  Listening to the CD and spending some time praying helped calm my spirit enough that I was able to get through the day. I even worked up the courage to step into Mabel’s office at one point and ask, “How’d it go this morning?”

  The director gave me a little smile. “Okay. Good, actually. P.J. got in the car and said, ‘Hi, Miss Turner. Hi, Jermaine.’ Didn’t say anything the rest of the way, but we’ll take what we can get, right
? Oh—he also said, ‘Thanks’ when he got out.”

  My spirit hiked up a notch. That was more than I expected out of P.J., given our bum talk the night before. And he did get into the car when I drove into the school parking lot at five that afternoon, sliding into the front seat and turning on the radio full blast. We waited five minutes for Jermaine, who climbed wordlessly into the back. The radio filled the car, negating the need for any conversation and I let it alone.

  But I did call Jodi that evening and asked her to pray with me about the whole Jermaine-P.J.-ride-to-school-live-with-me-or-Philip-custody-hearing-coming-up stew mushing around in my spirit. “Sheesh,” she said. “I’m the same way, Gabby. I let the what-ifs get me all in a panic, when nothing has happened yet. Remember that verse we talked about? ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart—’”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it taped on the kitchen cupboard. It’s that part about ‘lean not on your own understanding’ I need to work on.”

  She sighed. “Me too.” But she prayed over the phone, thanking God “that Gabby can trust You to make her paths straight like the verses in Proverbs promise.”

  “Thanks, Jodi,” I said when she’d finished. “By the way, Estelle didn’t come to work today. Do you know anything about an emergency eye doctor’s appointment?” I figured Jodi might know since Estelle and her housemate, Stu, lived on the second floor of the Baxter’s two-flat.

  “Really? No, but come to think of it, I haven’t seen her this evening. I’ll run upstairs and ask Stu what’s up and call you back.”

  Jodi called back in ten minutes. “Stu doesn’t know much either—but it’s not Estelle. It’s Harry. Stu says he called Estelle this morning before she was even out of bed, like six or something, and the next thing she knew, Estelle was throwing her clothes on and muttering, ‘I told that man to get himself to the eye specialist, but did he go? No, the stubborn old goat’—or something like that.”