Who Do I Lean On?

by Neta Jackson

  “Really?” That was curious.

  “Yeah. Why is she always in that park? I mean, it’s not that close to Manna House. Doesn’t she stay at the shelter too?”

  “Sometimes. Usually when the weather’s bad. Maybe that park is where she’s used to hanging out. That’s where I first met her, you know.” “Met” being a rather loose term for how I’d run into her cart sticking out from under a bush, smack-dab in the rain, me crashing onto the muddy ground and ending up with a bloody foot . . .

  “Yeah, I know. But when I saw her and Dandy this weekend, I went right down the elevator and ran outside to see Dandy—but I couldn’t find them. It was like they just disappeared . . .” I heard a sniffle in the darkness. “. . . or didn’t want me to know they were there.”

  chapter 32

  True to his word, P.J. left the apartment fifteen minutes earlier the next morning to catch the bus that would take him to Lane Tech. He even remembered to take his lunch. Well, good for him. He wants to make this work. I tried not to think too much about the reason he’d rather take the bus than get a ride. His attitude would work itself out if I didn’t make a big honking deal about it.

  I hoped.

  Mabel seemed a little put out now that she had to take Jermaine to school and pick him up, though she agreed that if P.J. didn’t want to ride together, it was for the best.

  I drove Paul to Sunnyside, reviewing the plan we’d made for him to walk Sammy and Keisha back to Manna House after school. He seemed upbeat, in spite of his “doggy mood” the night before. “What about Trina and Rufino?” he wanted to know. “I could walk them, since they have to go back to the shelter too.”

  “Yes, but they’re still pretty little, you know.” Trina was in second grade and Rufino just starting first. Their mother, Cordelia Soto, had been at the shelter for a couple of months, but was hoping to move in with her brother in the Little Village neighborhood, home to many Mexican and other Spanish-speaking Americans—which would mean having to change schools. A lot of upheaval for little ones. “Their mom wants to walk with them for a while.”

  Much to my relief, frankly. It was one thing for Paul to walk back to the shelter with Sammy and Keisha, who were older. But round up and keep four kids out of the street? Two of whom were only six and seven? That was a lot of responsibility for a twelve-year-old.

  I thought the shelter would be a bit quieter with the kids at school, but Angela rolled her eyes as I came in. “The day has barely started and already Sarge had to throw two women out who started a fight,” she muttered, pushing the sign in/out book at me.

  I signed in. “Over what?”

  “Who knows? Somebody dissin’ somebody over something.”

  “It wasn’t Naomi Jackson, I hope.” If Naomi was still here, it meant the young girl had managed to stay off the street—and off drugs—for five whole days so far.

  “No, a couple of cats who came in over the weekend. I think I remember the one named Alisha from before.”

  I snorted. “Right. Bet it was Chris and Alisha. Figures.” The two women had been on the bed list at least twice since my sojourn at Manna House—streetwise prostitutes who tended to show up whenever there was a crackdown on the “business” by the cops. But they always seemed to kick up dust, staying out past curfew or breaking some other shelter rule, then raising a ruckus when they got tossed out. They were usually told they had to stay away at least thirty days before trying again.

  “Well, at least they won’t be back for another month.” I gave Angela a thumbs-up and pushed through the double doors into Shepherd’s Fold, hoping there would be some fresh coffee in the carafes . . . and then stopped. Naomi Jackson was curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs in the big room, arms wrapped around her knees, head down, her shoulders shaking. Tawny was crouched by her side, saying, “Hey, hey. What’s wrong, girl?” but getting no response.

  I walked over and touched Tawny on the arm. “Thanks, Tawny. I’ll talk to her.”

  At my voice, Naomi jerked her head up, her face wet, her nose running, eyes accusing. “How come you ain’t been around?!”

  I sat down on the arm of the overstuffed chair. “Because I don’t work on the weekend, Naomi. What’s wrong?”

  She wiped her face on her T-shirt. “Nothin’ . . . I mean, ever’thing. You don’t know what it’s like . . .”

  That was true. I didn’t. “But you’re still here. That’s a good thing.”

  “I dunno,” she said dully. “Dunno if I can make it. That Sarge! See, one of my homegirls—name Alisha—was here, an’ felt sorry for me, was gonna give me a joint to help calm my nerves . . . but that Sarge yelled bloody murder an’ threw her out.” Naomi sniffed. “She was jus’ tryin’ to help me.”

  “Oh, Naomi. You don’t need that kind of help.” I was sure of that, but what kind of help did she need? “Who’s your case manager? Are you going to see her today?”

  Naomi shrugged. “That Cooper lady—but I don’t got an appointment till tomorrow.” She looked up at me hopefully. “Can I hang out with you today?”

  I was taken aback. I had a couple of proposals for new activities I wanted to work on before the weekly staff meeting at ten, but . . . oh, why not. “I’ve got work to do, but if you want to hang out in my office, that’s fine with me. You got a book to read or something?”

  Naomi’s weepy eyes actually got bright. “For real? Don’t read much, but I like to draw sometimes . . . you got some paper an’ stuff ?”

  “Paper and stuff ” I could manage. I headed for my office with Naomi on my heels. I wished I didn’t feel so ignorant about how to help someone like this girl. Now Tawny . . . that girl was going to make it, in spite of her circumstances. But Naomi?

  Maybe I should ask in staff meeting what kind of training I’d need to become a case manager . . . Huh! Like I needed something else to do!

  It felt good to be back into the normal swing of things now that school had started—if “normal” could be used to describe a job where the clientele included prostitutes, older teens abandoned by DCFS, women trying to kick drug addictions, even the occasional professional with a college degree . . . Where three or four different languages or dialects peppered mealtimes, and the “décor” in my broom-closet office included a couple dozen stuffed-animal dogs donated by the people of Chicago . . . Where a retired female army sergeant ruled the roost at night, and Estelle Williams—soul-food cook extraordinaire and the love of my friend Harry’s life—ruled the kitchen by day.

  Yes, Estelle was back, banging pots and pans with her usual abandon. Which meant Harry must be doing better.

  To top off my “normal” day, Paul showed up at the shelter with his two charges right on time after school and even asked Carolyn for some help with his Algebra. And P.J. showed up at home before supper without getting lost or mugged.

  But the coup de grâce was the call from the bank Tuesday morning, saying my mortgage loan had been approved. I was so excited, I did a Snoopy-dance in the dining room outside my office—to the snickers of several residents who’d come downstairs to “nuke” their coffee and fulfill chore duty by washing sheets from the bunkrooms.

  “Normal” took a sharp right turn on Tuesday afternoon, however, when a couple of Sunnyside parents got wind of the afterschool program Carolyn was doing at the shelter, and they showed up in Mabel’s office wanting to know if the program was open to the neighborhood.

  After taking their names and saying we’d have to run the possibility by the Manna House board, I heard loud “music” coming from the lower level as I headed back to my office. Following the sound to the rec room, I stuck my head in the door to see Jermaine Turner’s fingers flying over his electronic keyboard and Paul drumming with two drumsticks on an upended plastic bucket to the adoring audience of Dessa and Bam-Bam, Manna House’s youngest residents.

  “Mom!” Paul jumped up. “Look who’s here! Jermaine doesn’t have anything going on after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so he’s gonna come here.
Isn’t that cool?—Oh! Can you bring my keyboard to work with you Thursday? We wanna work on some music together.”

  Philip didn’t call on Monday or Tuesday about changing the boys’ schedule. But just in case, I tried to think it through as I breaded some fish to fry for supper Tuesday night. Did we even have any other options? Sunday through Thursday were school nights, and they wouldn’t give Philip any more time with P.J. I was reluctant to suggest Saturday evening through Sunday evening, because then they’d miss church and the boys seemed to be enjoying SouledOut—once they got there anyway. And most of the complaining about having to get up on Sunday morning wasn’t any worse than having to get up and go to school.

  Holding a spatula in one hand, I stared at the kitchen wall calendar. Maybe I could offer to let the boys stay longer Saturday evening on the weekends P.J. had cross-country meets. Which were . . . ?

  I was looking at the schedule of cross-country meets when I heard the front door slam and P.J. hollering down the hallway toward the back of the apartment. “I’m home!” A few moments later he appeared in the kitchen. “Supper ready? I’m starving! Coach worked us real hard today because we’re hosting our division meet tomorrow after school. All the freshmen and varsity teams are running.” P.J. grabbed a fork and speared a hunk of watermelon I’d planned to serve as a fruit salad, stuffing it into his mouth. “Can you come?” he asked with his mouth full, melon juice squirting six different ways.

  I’d just noticed the midweek “Lane Tech Invitational” on the schedule. “If I can. What time?”

  My oldest speared another hunk of watermelon and shrugged. “I dunno, four o’clock I think. Hey! I’m gonna call Dad, see if he can come too.”

  I almost told P.J. his father probably couldn’t since it was a workday, not wanting the boy to be disappointed. But I bit my tongue and served up the golden-brown catfish, some plain rice, a heap of hot peas, and the rest of the watermelon while P.J. was on the phone. By the time I’d corralled Paul and got him to the kitchen table, P.J. was off the phone, a grin on his face. “Yeah, he’s coming.”

  “Coming where?” Paul asked. “Can I come too?”

  I almost forgot to pray a blessing on our supper. Well! This ought to be interesting. The whole family . . .

  Paul and I drove around behind the high school and found a parking space on the backstreet that ran alongside the Chicago River as we’d been instructed. The street was filling rapidly with cars pulling in between an assortment of buses from other schools. An early-morning thunderstorm had given way to a cool fall day, neither hot nor cold, the air clean and fresh. An open field lay between the backstreet and the narrow river, which was hidden in a low channel and flanked by a thick wall of trees.

  We followed the general drift of parents and siblings across the field, passing numerous canopies set up by each school. Lanky teenage boys and girls in all shapes and sizes and school colors swarmed everywhere. I tried to read the names of the schools on the sweatshirts and athletic tank tops as groups of runners warmed up. Loyola Academy . . . Whitney Young . . . Payton Prep . . . Latin School . . . Von Stueben . . . Lakeview . . .

  “Oh my goodness,” I muttered, “we’ll never find him.”

  But somehow P.J. found us, running toward us in his silky green shorts and gold tank top. “Hey! You made it. Girls race first. My race is second.” P.J. punched Paul playfully on the shoulder. “Wanna race me, squirt?”

  Paul shrugged him off and peeled paper off a stick of gum.

  “I didn’t know there’d be so many people here! How’d you find us?”

  P.J. snickered. “Your hair, Mom. I just told my teammates to look for Little Orphan Annie, and they pointed you out.”

  Figures. It was great to see P.J. in such a good mood. Had he grown a couple of inches since last night? Why did he look so tall and muscular all of a sudden? Like a high school athlete instead of a kid. He twisted his head around, his eyes darting here and there at the crowd of spectators. “Have you seen Dad?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. But if he said he’d be here, I’m sure he will.”

  “Well, just look for my number . . . 29! See ya!” P.J. ran off, rejoining the sea of green-and-gold doing warm-ups.

  The girls from the different schools soon lined up, the gun went off, and their teammates cheered them on as the pack started around the field, angled onto the path alongside the river, and then disappeared into the wooded area at the far end. For P.J.’s sake, I was glad his race wasn’t first. Maybe Philip would still get there in time.

  Three times around the course, I was told. The first of the girl runners were just coming out of the woods across the finish line when I heard . . .

  “There you are.”

  I turned at Philip’s familiar voice. He was smiling. Gosh, he looked so . . . fine. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead, complementing the casual tweed sport coat he was wearing over an open-necked white shirt, khaki Dockers, and the ever-present aviator sunglasses.

  “Hey, Dad!”

  “Hey yourself.” He knuckled Paul’s head. “Where’s P.J.?”

  “He’s over there warming up with the Lane Tech team. Number 29.” I kept my voice neutral. “He’ll be glad you came.”

  “Yeah, well, traffic was a hitch as usual. What’s the schedule?”

  “His race is next. See?”

  The Lane Tech boys’ team was lining up with the teams from the other schools—four runners from each school—and a few moments later the starting gun cut the air. “I see P.J.!” Paul yelled. “Go 29!”

  We kept them in sight for about two minutes, and then they swung through the stand of trees at the end of the field and disappeared. It would be several minutes before the first runners came around the course and off again on the second leg. But the crowd of parents and fans faded from my awareness, and I was acutely conscious of Philip’s presence, his familiar height and maleness, even that slight whiff of the Armani shaving lotion he liked. The one I’d given him for his last birthday.

  “Uh . . .” I needed to fill the silence. “You wanted to talk about changing the boys’ schedule?”

  He didn’t reply, but patted his back pocket, then pulled out his wallet and removed a five. “Paul! Go get us some Cokes, will you? Anything.”

  “Cool!” Paul took the money and ran off to look for a vendor.

  Philip took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his coat pocket. “Guess I was thinking about the same schedule, just twenty-four hours later. Saturday evening until Sunday evening. Except . . .”

  I was all set to give my objections about church, but caught myself. “Except what?”

  “I . . . well, I go out of town sometimes, might be hard to get back right at six on Saturday night.”

  “Oh, sure. If you’re having a good run at the card tables, why in the world would you want to come home in time to be with your sons?” I turned my head away.

  I expected a comeback to my sarcasm, but he said nothing for a moment or two, and when he did, he actually sounded regretful. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s . . . it’s not like that, Gabby.”

  I turned back, feeling sparks behind my eyes. “Then what is it like, Philip?”

  The crowd around us started yelling. The string of runners came out of the woods, around the field, and disappeared again. We cheered and waved at P.J., but he was concentrating on his run.

  As P.J. disappeared from sight once more, Philip shoved his hands in his pants pockets and hunched his shoulders. “I told you. I’m in a jam. Trying to work my way out of it. But I was able to get a loan . . . I just need time.”

  The sparks sizzled and died. I stood there, looking at the man who’d been my husband for almost sixteen years. And suddenly I felt afraid—not for me, but for him. A jumble of scenarios rushed to the front of my brain. The night he was late picking up the boys . . . the phone call where he’d called out Fagan’s name . . . Estelle’s alarm when she heard it . . . the things Harry Bentley had said about Matty Fag
an . . .

  Impulsively I put my hand on Philip’s arm. “This man you borrowed money from . . .” I knew I was jumping off a cliff here. This was the first time he’d mentioned that he’d gotten a loan, and how would I know it was a person and not a bank or credit union? But I plunged on. “Is his name Matty Fagan?”

  Philip looked at me sharply. Bull’s-eye. He stiffened and pulled his arm away from my hand. “It’s really none of your business, Gabrielle.”

  “Philip! Listen to me.” I was pleading now. “I don’t know how you know him, or how much he loaned you, but Matty Fagan is a rogue cop who’s been indicted by Internal Affairs for misconduct, fraud, shaking down pimps and drug dealers, selling drugs and weapons back on the street—you name it!”

  Philip frowned. “How do you know anything about Matty Fagan? Who’s been telling you a lot of scary stuff ? He came recommended.”

  “He used to be part of the same police task force with Harry Bentley! Didn’t you know Harry is a retired cop? You can find out yourself by calling the Chicago Police Department. But he’s dangerous, Philip. If you can’t pay him back . . . I don’t know, but I’ve heard stories. I’m afraid for you. Please—”

  “Here are the Cokes!” Paul pushed in between us, juggling three cans of pop. “All the guy had was root beer and cream soda. Hope that’s okay—hey, look! Some of the first runners are coming in! Do you see P.J.? Look for number 29!”

  chapter 33

  We never did decide on a workable change in the visitation schedule. Philip got tight-lipped and left soon after congratulating P.J. on a good run, even though the team from Whitney Young won the boys’ race. Paul and I hung around for two more races until P.J.’s coach released the Lane Tech teams, but the unfinished conversation about Matty Fagan weighed heavily on my spirit all the way home.