by Neta Jackson
Josh and Edesa were at the six-flat when we got back from the meet, trying to finish up the sanding and wall prep on the first-floor apartment, while Gracie toddled around banging a wooden stir stick on buckets, ladders, and windowsills to test their percussive qualities.
“Let me take her.” I laughed, picking up the hefty toddler, who immediately went for my hair. “Ouch! Let go, Gracie . . . Anyway, she can eat supper with us. How about you guys?”
“Oh, Sister Gabby!” Edesa sighed gratefully, looking cute as a bug with her corkscrew curls tied up in a bandana. “That would be bueno . . . but do not worry about us. We can eat something later.”
“It’s not a worry. Look at all the work you’re doing! Will we be ready to paint on Saturday? We need a trip to Home Depot.”
“Sí! We could go Friday night. We already picked up some color strips.”
“Sounds good! . . . Oh, wait.” I’d promised Lee I’d go out with him Friday. “Uh, no, can’t do it Friday. How about tomorrow night?”
By now Gracie was squealing to be put down, so I whisked her across the hall to our apartment and let her bang on some pots and pans while I fried ground beef and chopped lettuce, onions, and tomatoes for a quick taco meal. “Mom!” Paul groused from the dining room table, where he was reluctantly tackling his algebra. “Does Gracie have to bang on those pans?”
I poked my head around the door. “Hey, if you add Gracie’s drumming to your jazz duo, you’d practically have a band.”
Paul made a face. “Not funny. Just don’t forget my keyboard tomorrow.”
I called Josh and Edesa to join us when I had the taco makings on the makeshift dining room table—I really needed to go furniture shopping!—and it was fun having spur-of-the-moment guests. As the boys teased Gracie, who was trying to mimic everything they did, I suddenly realized that living in the same building would make sharing meals like this easy to do.
For a moment the loneliness I lived with every day evaporated just a little.
“Are you okay, mi amiga?” Edesa asked, helping me clear the table afterward.
I nodded, but realized it wasn’t true. After making sure the boys were out of earshot, I spilled my worry about Philip. “At first I was just upset about his gambling. But I think he’s gotten desperate about this debt hanging over his head. Not sure why he can’t just get a bank loan and pay it back the regular way, but I think he’s trying to take a shortcut, some shady loan shark. I tried to warn him, but—”
“Oh, Gabby.” Edesa pulled me into a chair and held my hands across the small kitchen table. “We need to pray for him. You did a good thing to try to warn Philip, but now you must leave him in God’s hands.” Squeezing her eyes shut, the young black woman began praying in Spanish, and then translating for my sake.
Leave him in God’s hands . . . Put Philip in God’s hands . . .
It felt strange to pray for Philip that way. But it felt good too.
It was hard to be angry with someone I was praying for.
Lee called the next day to ask what time he should pick me up on Friday night and to tell me we finally had a closing date. “That’s two weeks from today!” I squealed. “Maybe by then we’ll have the apartments painted and our first House of Hope residents can move in that weekend!” I grabbed the calendar and wrote “Moving Day!” on the last Saturday in September.
Lee was quiet a moment. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Gabby. I just don’t want you getting in over your head or getting hurt.”
I closed my eyes, imagining the look in his gray eyes. Gentle, concerned. “I know. I appreciate that, Lee. It’s just . . . sometimes you have to take risks to do something important. This is something I really want to do.”
“Yeah, well, that’s my Gabby. Just don’t get so focused on saving the world that you don’t save some time for me.”
When we hung up I felt all a-jumble. Did he really say “my Gabby”? Those words made me feel warm and delicious, like eating sweet cinnamon rolls right out of the oven. At the same time I felt annoyed. Did he want me to drop everything that was meaningful to me just to spend time with him?
That had an echo of Philip to it.
Or maybe I was being oversensitive.
I shook off my annoyance and decided to work on a letter to the remaining tenants, explaining that I was the new owner, that I would not be renewing any leases, and if anyone wanted to move before their lease was up, to talk to me and we would work something out. That was being reasonable, wasn’t it?
I remembered to bring Paul’s keyboard to work with me on Thursday, and he and Jermaine had a “jam session” after school. I wasn’t a huge jazz fan, but I had to admit they were pretty good for a couple of kids. A few of the residents complained about the noise and Carolyn had a hard time keeping Sammy and Keisha focused on their work in the schoolroom, so I had to insist that the boys close the door to the rec room and turn down the volume.
“Maybe we need to add music appreciation to the afterschool program,” Carolyn said wryly, as she dragged the kids back upstairs—but I could tell she was more amused than upset.
I had borrowed the sample color strips from Josh and Edesa, and before leaving Manna House on Thursday I sat down with Precious and Tanya to choose paint for the first-floor apartment. Tanya was mesmerized by the shades of greens and blues, yellows and reds, turquoise and melon colors, leaning toward the brightest colors at the ends of the strips. “Uh, remember, Tanya,” I cautioned, “a little color goes a long way on a wall.”
The young mother finally chose “Strawberry Red” for one wall of her bedroom with a pale tint version of the same color for the other walls, and agreed to white for the window trim after I suggested she could paint her bedroom furniture black if she wanted. Precious chose a “Goldenrod” yellow for her bedroom with something called “Green Tea” for trim. I insisted on ivory for the long windowless hallway to lighten it up, but agreed on a couple of blue shades for the bathroom, an orangey “Melon” for the kitchen, and some pretty greens and ivory for the living and dining rooms.
But I felt wrung out at the end of our paint-color session. Was I going to have to go through this with the rest of the apartments and their new residents?
At the hardware store that evening, I left Josh and Edesa to pick out their own colors for the third-floor apartment, while I piled my cart full of the paint for the first floor. I saw Josh and Edesa arguing at one point and realized their different cultural backgrounds—not to mention the whole male-female thing— were probably clashing no less than me with Precious and Tanya. Chuckling, I pushed my overloaded cart to the paint mixing area. For some reason it made me feel better.
Until the clerk rang up both carts full of paint, that is. I had no idea it would cost so much! Oh, Lord, help! I silently sent up a heavenly SOS as I handed over my credit card. Maybe this is dumb to paint before closing on the six-flat—but I’m stepping out in faith here, believing this House of Hope has Your blessing. You know Josh and Edesa are hoping to move sooner rather than later, and the same with Precious and Tanya. But—I gulped as the clerk handed me the twenty-inch long register tape—I know I have a bad habit of running ahead of You, Lord . . .
We stuffed the paint cans, thinner, brushes, rollers, and metal paint trays into the Subaru, leaving hardly any room for Edesa to squeeze into the backseat while Josh and I climbed into the front. Then we reversed the process when we got to the six-flat, unloading it all into the first-floor apartment. But I picked up my prayer again when I finally collapsed into bed.
. . . So if I’m wrong here, God, I’m asking for a little mercy. Please, just get us through the closing without any major pitfalls!
I finally got to attend one of Edesa’s Bad Girls of the Bible studies Friday morning. About seven residents, including some of the younger ones like Aida, Tawny, and Naomi, had pulled chairs into a circle in Shepherd’s Fold and were listening as Edesa read verses from the Bible about Michal, the daughter of King Saul and wife of the future King David, when I
slipped into a chair off to the side. I’d always heard David the shepherd boy, the giant-killer, the psalmist, and second king of Israel taught in glowing terms. But, Edesa said, the author of this study—Liz Curtis Higgs—had a different take when it came to Michal. She was crazy in love with the popular young man, but to David, she was mostly a political move, a way to make Daddy Saul happy.
I listened as Edesa summarized the story that was only vaguely familiar—the story of Michal wasn’t exactly Sunday school material— how she helped David escape when her daddy was trying to kill him . . . how King Daddy had declared her marriage null and void and given her to another guy . . . how years later David, now the king, had demanded her back . . . and finally, how she’d watched him worshiping God and dancing with joy as he brought the Ark of God back to Jerusalem—and despised him for acting like a fool.
“So that makes her a ‘bad girl’?” Tawny spluttered. “Who can blame her? He treated her pretty bad.”
Ditto that, I thought. Pretty Boy David reminded me a lot of a certain man in my life who looked like a good catch at first, but wasn’t exactly Mr. Charming at home. Not lately, anyhow.
The conversation got pretty hot, but Edesa was able to make a few points from the story. “Sí, we agree, mi amigas, Michal had good reason to feel abandoned and hurt—but she had let the hombres in her life define her, rather than leaning on God to lift her above her circumstances. And she had developed a critical spirit, which not only caused her to ridicule David but to reject the God he was worshiping.”
Humph. The analogy to Philip broke down at this point, because the proper Philip Fairbanks was definitely not a worshiper, dancing or otherwise. But I squirmed a little at Edesa’s comment that Michal had let the men in her life define her. The failure of my teenage marriage to Damien Spencer—my “Romeo” church youth group leader—had sent me running away from God. Then marriage to suave and sophisticated Philip Fairbanks had made me decide God was irrelevant to our good life.
Only when the bottom fell out of my life did I realize God wanted to put His arms around me and pick me up . . .
For some reason I started to weep—silently, hoping the women sitting in the circle wouldn’t notice. But a few moments later I felt a pair of slender arms slide around me from behind. “Oh, Miss Gabby! What’s wrong? You can’t cry. You gotta be strong so I don’t cry . . .”
I wept all the harder. I knew that voice.
Naomi Jackson.
chapter 34
After Philip picked up the boys Friday evening, I felt a little guilty skipping out with Lee, leaving the young married Baxters still doing the final prep on the walls for the “paint party” the next day. But I was so glad to be whisked away in Lee’s Prius—away from homeless girls like Naomi Jackson, barely out of their teens and already wasted by drugs . . . away from reminders of my own current marriage mess . . . away from a three-story building that would soon be my financial responsibility . . .
“You okay, Gabby?” Lee glanced over at me as he drove down Lake Shore Drive into the city. “You’re kind of quiet.”
“Mm, I’m fine.” I leaned my head back on the seat rest, closed my eyes, and let the wind from the open windows whip my auburn curls into a welcome frenzy. “Just blowing the cobwebs out.”
I heard him chuckle. “Know what you mean. I had several clients this week that made me seriously consider burning my law license.”
We rode down the Drive in comfortable silence except for the country-western music sniveling from the radio speakers. The September evening was perfect, the air balmy, the sky overhead mottled with clouds outlined in brilliant pinks and oranges from the setting sun somewhere beyond the city, the choppy lake to our left dotted with sailboats making the most of the offshore breeze. I wished we could just keep driving . . .
But when Lee finally turned off the Drive and pulled into an underground parking garage, I stuck my fingers into my hair trying to detangle my wind-whipped curls. “Ouch,” I groaned, jerking at another snarl. “Now I’m paying for my wild life.”
“Don’t worry.” Lee grinned, coming around to open my car door and help me out. “No one but you knows about those snarls. It still looks the same.”
“Oh, thanks. With friends like you, who needs a mother?”
He laughed. “Hey, I like the tousled look.”
I hustled to keep up with Lee, even though he had me by the hand as we climbed the stairs out of the subterranean garage. He’d told me to dress “nice but comfy” so I’d worn a flowered peasant skirt, tank top and light sweater, and flat sling-backs. “Where are we going anyway?”
“Ah. Wait and see.”
We ended topside at Chicago’s new Millennium Park, eating at the Park Grill, which was a lot fancier than the name implied. We started with a yummy garlic and tomato hummus, dipping baby artichoke leaves, grape tomatoes, and pita bread, followed by a chilled melon gazpacho soup to die for. I wasn’t sure I had room for the main course, but ordered the rich, cheesy fettuccine while Lee had the cedar-planked lake trout.
“No, no, absolutely don’t have room for dessert,” I protested an hour later, so Lee paid the bill and we wandered outside to look at the Cloud Gate sculpture—otherwise known as “The Bean” because of its shape—created by its artist to reflect the sky and lights of the city. Daylight had disappeared, but the city skyline was brilliant, creating its own stunning architectural design against the night sky.
Funny thing, it suddenly made me wonder what the Celestial City in heaven might look like. I’d never tried to imagine it before, but it had to be at least as beautiful as this night . . . only more so! A million lights sparkling like diamonds? The streets full of people singing and dancing? An atmosphere of excitement and joy and expectancy because King Jesus was in town?
I almost blurted out my thoughts. Almost. Would Lee think I was weird to say I was starting to sense God everywhere? He never mentioned God or anything spiritual. So I just breathed, “It’s beautiful,” as we walked hand-in-hand along the promenade.
“So are you,” Lee murmured, slipping an arm around my waist and pulling me closer.
I let my head rest on his shoulder as we walked, but when we came to the Crown Fountain with its two rectangular towers projecting the faces of people who spouted water out of their mouths into a shallow pool, I couldn’t resist slipping off my shoes and wading into the pool. “Come on in, silly!”
“Who, me silly? Only when I’m with you.” Lee tugged off his boots and socks and rolled up his pant legs, and we splashed in the pool, along with twenty or so others waiting for the spouting mouths—at which time half of the waders ran under the streams of water, laughing as they got soaking wet. Lee pulled me over to the stone benches, murmuring, “We’re too old and smart to get a soaking at ten at night, right? Here, use my sock to dry your feet”—which made me laugh so hard I nearly fell off the bench back into the wading pool.
The Prius pulled up in front of the six-flat about eleven. “Guess Josh and Edesa aren’t pulling an all-nighter,” I murmured, glancing at the dark windows of both the first-and third-floor apartments. “They’ve done a lot of work, though. We’re planning to paint tomorrow.” What now? Should I get out? Let him walk me to the door?
Dating was awkward after you’d been married for fifteen years.
Lee came around to my side of the car, opened the door, and we walked up the sidewalk together. “It’s still early,” he said as I fumbled in my shoulder bag for the house key. “You got any coffee? Beer? A nice red wine? Dry socks?”
“Just coffee and dry socks.” I grinned, pulling out my keys. He wasn’t being very subtle. I was tempted to extend our pleasant evening . . . what would a cup of coffee hurt?
But I knew good and well coffee wasn’t what Lee had in mind. He’d been attentive and affectionate all evening—holding hands, walking with his arm around me, kissing me in the middle of the wading pool. Taking our relationship to the next level . . . which was what, exactly?
Im
pulsively I rose on my tiptoes and brushed his cheek with my lips. “Good night, Lee.”
“Gabby, wait.” He grabbed my arm as I pushed open the foyer door. “I’d like to come in. The boys are gone tonight, right? What’s the problem?”
I turned my head away, blinking to hold back sudden tears. Yes, the boys were gone. Friday nights always yawned empty. Why not fill the house and my bed with someone who loved me? It wasn’t like I was still married—well, technically, yes, but not really. Not “two shall be one” married . . .
That was the problem. Lee and I weren’t “two shall be one” married either.
“I’m sorry, Lee. I . . . can’t. Please . . .” I pulled my arm away and let the foyer door wheeze shut between us, leaving him on the steps outside. My hands were shaking so badly, I could hardly fit my key into the inner door. By the time I finally got inside my apartment, tears were sliding down my face.
I didn’t sleep well, waking up early with the top sheet knotted around me as if I’d been wrestling it all night. Ugh. I’d forgotten to brush my teeth before falling into bed and could taste my bad breath. Swishing my mouth with mouthwash, I stared in the bathroom mirror at the bags under my eyes. So where did it get you, Gabby, being a self-righteous prude? Another lonely night in the single bed I’d brought from my parents’ home in North Dakota, that’s what.
But as I put on the coffee, I noticed the index card I’d taped to the cupboard with the verse from Proverbs I’d been memorizing, paraphrased to make it personal. “I will trust in the Lord with all my heart,” I murmured, reading the card, “and will not lean on my own understanding. In everything I do and say, I will acknowledge that I’m following God, and He will show me which path to take.”
I sighed, poured the first cup of coffee that dripped into the pot, and took it to the window seat in the little sunroom at the front of the apartment. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the trees along the parkway, birds flitted here and there chirping a welcome to the day . . . and gradually the pity party I’d been having all night began to dissipate like the dew on the patch of grass outside.