by Neta Jackson
The stranger’s eyes flickered. “Who are you? You here to see someone?”
“Uh, no. Not exactly. I have an appointment to see an apartment here tomorrow. I was checking to be sure I had the right address.” And what business is it of yours? she felt like adding.
“Who’s moving? I didn’t know someone was moving.”
“Do you live here?” Maybe she was the first-floor people.
The young woman ignored her question. “Who’s moving?” she repeated. Her eyes darted from Kat to the door and back again. She seemed awfully nervous.
“Not exactly moving. Second floor. They’re going on a business trip. I—several of us—are subleasing their apartment for the summer.”
“Oh.” The woman seemed visibly relieved. “Okay. ’Scuse me, I need to leave something.” She moved to the mailboxes, took a pencil and folded piece of paper out of her shoulder bag, scribbled something at the bottom of what looked like a note, then stuck it through the slot in one of the boxes. Pulling the outside door open again, the young woman hustled down the steps and was gone.
As the door wheezed shut, Kat edged back toward the mailboxes and peered at the name on the one in question. Douglass.
Curious, Kat went outside to the sidewalk and looked both ways. Halfway down the block she could see the woman running, hair flying.
Kat stared after her. What in the world was that about?
Chapter 15
Avis popped open the trunk of her Camry and lifted out several plastic grocery bags but had to set them on the curb to close the trunk. She wished Peter were home to give her a hand, but he had a board meeting at the Manna House Women’s Shelter, then was going back to the office—another Saturday—and wouldn’t be home till suppertime. If only they lived on the first floor! As it was, she’d have to make at least two trips up to the third floor.
But she had to smile as she relayed the grocery bags up the steps and into the foyer. The petunias, phlox, and alyssum she’d planted that morning in the beds on either side of the steps looked so cheerful! Ditto the geraniums and trailing vines in the cement pots. Even if it did mean she got a late start to the grocery store and had to wait in a checkout line ten people deep.
Unlocking the inner door to the stairwell, she propped it open with her foot and grabbed two bulging bags in each hand . . . and hesitated. Had the mail come? Well, she’d check when she came down for the second load.
The phone was ringing when she got inside their third-floor apartment. Dumping the bags on the kitchen table, she caught the caller ID. Software Symphony. “Hi, Peter. I’m here, just got back with the groceries.”
“Oh, okay. I called awhile ago, didn’t get an answer.”
“I had my cell.”
“I know, but didn’t want to talk while you were out. Got a minute?”
“Uhh . . . I’ve still got more groceries down in the foyer. Some frozen stuff. I better not leave them. Can I call you back?”
There was a slight pause. “Sure. Talk to you in a few minutes.”
Avis winced. Peter didn’t sound good. Oh, Lord, what now? He’d been moody ever since that call from Jack Griffin last Wednesday, even though the two men had had a long phone call the next day, and the offer wasn’t completely off the table.
She was halfway down the carpeted stairway when she met Louise Candy coming up, mail in her teeth, Avis’s grocery bags hanging from each hand. “Um, hi,” her neighbor said, voice muffled. The middle-aged white woman with the garish fake tan set the bags on the landing and rescued the letters from her mouth. “Saw your groceries on my way in, thought I’d bring them up.”
A bit taken aback, Avis nodded. “You didn’t have to do that. But thanks. Nice of you.” She’d wanted to pick up the mail . . . but guessed it could wait till later. She needed to get the frozen stuff into the freezer and call Peter back anyway. Picking up the bags, she turned to go back up the stairs.
“By the way,” Louise called after her, “thanks for finding someone to sublet our condo. You know, those students from that Christian college or seminary or whatever. We figure if you and your husband recommend them, they gotta be all right.”
“I—” Avis pinched her mouth. She wanted to say it was Peter, not her, and they couldn’t exactly recommend them, but that might come out wrong. Still, she needed to say something to correct the assumptions. “Actually, we only just met them ourselves. They were visiting our church and asked about a place to rent for the summer. Please make your own determination if they’re suitable. We don’t have anything invested in them renting from you.” All of which was true.
“Oh, sure. I know. I talked to one of the girls on the phone, Kat Somebody—funny name, isn’t it?—and they’re coming by tomorrow afternoon. Sure would be nice if it worked out, though, ’cause now they want Ted in Costa Rica right after Memorial Day, and I’d like to be able to go with him.”
“Oh. Well, hope it works out.”
Avis started once more up the stairs with the grocery bags, but Louise called after her again. “Hey. The flowers out front look nice. Did you do that?”
Avis kept going. “Uh-huh. Glad you like it.” And finally made it inside her door.
She felt a little guilty about Louise Candy as she made room in the freezer for the Styrofoam tray of chicken breasts, a bag of precooked shrimp, and two bags of frozen green beans. They’d been building neighbors for, what, going on two years now, and they had never done much more than chit-chat in the hallway, except for the rare condo meetings when they needed to make decisions about the building, like replacing the roof or getting the furnace cleaned before winter. Same with the family on first. They all had their own lives, like cars in different lanes on the expressway, not even having to stop at the same stoplight.
Still, the woman seemed to be reaching out. Avis decided she’d make more of an effort to get to know Louise when the Candys got back from Costa Rica, invite her up for coffee or something.
If she and Peter weren’t in South Africa or somewhere by then.
Peter! He was waiting for her to call back. Punching Redial, she cradled the kitchen phone between her shoulder and her ear as it rang, figuring she could put away the rest of the groceries as they talked.
“Avis. Glad you called back. But I’ve got a Com Ed guy here I need to talk to in a few minutes. Will you be home for a while?”
“Peter. Just tell me what’s going on. Then we can talk more later, okay?”
She heard him sigh on the other end. “Okay. It’s Carl Hickman. He had an accident today in the mailroom. Tripped over something or slipped—we’re still investigating—and hit his head on the corner of a counter. Split it wide open. Knocked him out for about five minutes, and there was a lot of blood. But when the paramedics came, he was in a lot of pain, seems like he injured his neck too.”
“Oh no, not Carl!” Carl Hickman was Florida’s husband. One of Peter’s top employees, rising from the ranks of mail clerk up to general manager. “Where is he? What hospital? Does Florida know?”
“They took him to St. Francis, and yeah, she’s up there with him now. But, Avis . . .” She heard her husband suck in a deep breath and blow it out. “It’s not just Carl. If he’s out for a long time, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t have anyone who can replace him, no one with his experience, and—Oh. I gotta talk to this inspector Com Ed sent out. Something about the electrical wiring. See you when I get home.”
The phone went dead. Avis realized she was standing in the middle of the kitchen still holding the same package of pasta she’d taken out of the grocery bag when she first called Peter back.
She dropped the package on the table and went hunting for her purse and jacket. This wasn’t just any employee. It was Carl Hickman. She needed to get up to the hospital to be with Florida.
A gentle rain had settled in when Avis drove her car out of the hospital parking garage two hours later. Her newly planted flowers would love it, anyway. And the news wasn’t all bad about Carl.
The gash in his head had required twenty-four stitches, but the doctor said head wounds tended to bleed a lot but weren’t necessarily serious. They were more concerned about the neck spasm that prevented Carl from turning his head even a little, and they wanted to keep him overnight to check for possible concussion as well.
As for Florida, once she knew Carl wasn’t going straight to heaven, she began fussing. What was she going to do with him underfoot, lying around the house? He better get better quick and get back to work. Avis had to chuckle at her friend. Those two had been through hell and high water and made it to the other side—with Jesus, no less—so she was sure they’d make it through this.
She parked the Camry out front—they only had one space in the three-car garage in back, and Peter’s Lexus was newer than her car, so they figured it was safer there—and dashed through the rain into the foyer. Oh, the mail. She dug out her keys and unlocked their box, but it was empty. Peter must be home.
Her husband was sitting in his recliner, eyes closed. “Hi, baby,” she said, unloading her purse and damp jacket on a chair. “You okay?”
He reached out a hand and she took it, leaning over to kiss him on the forehead. But he pulled her down until she was half sitting on the arm of the recliner and half in his lap. Relaxing into his embrace, she snuggled her head on his shoulder.
“Got your message,” he murmured. “Glad you went up to see Carl. How’s he doing? Florida all right?”
“Mm-hm. Hopefully Carl will be too. But you didn’t answer my question. Are you okay?”
He sighed. “Yeah. I guess. It’s just . . . strange. I hadn’t even verbalized this thought in my head until today, when Carl got hurt. But in the back of my mind, guess I’ve been thinking that if the sale of the business falls through, well, one alternative would be to keep the business, put Carl in charge for a few months, and just take a leave. Still do the mission trip thing. Isn’t Mark Smith doing some teaching at KwaZulu-Natal University in Durban? I’m sure they have Internet and cell phone connections. I could keep in touch with what’s going on at Software Symphony if needed. But . . . now this.”
Avis didn’t respond, but her mind tumbled. What was with Peter? It was as if he’d decided he was going to do this mission trip thing no matter what!
Okay, Avis, don’t get bent out of shape, she told herself. He admitted it was an idea in the back of his mind that he hadn’t really put into words until now. And he’s telling me—“confessing,” as it were.
Her spirit softened. “Honey, we really have to trust God with this. We’re still asking God what we should do. If we’re supposed to go to South Africa, God’s going to make it possible, right? And right now our concern is for Carl. His family can’t afford for him to be off work, though I know you’ll do right by him while he’s laid up.”
He sighed again. “Sure, sure. But . . . I just don’t know how I’m going to manage if he’s out very long. Carl’s a key player, been with me the longest.”
“Well, let’s not imagine the worst. Our heavenly Father knows . . .” And Avis slid right into a prayer, asking God for healing for Carl, comfort for Florida and the rest of the Hickman family, wisdom for Peter, and guidance for both of them in the decisions facing their future. “. . . In the mighty name of Jesus. Amen.”
She didn’t know about Peter, but she felt better giving it all to God. Tilting her head back, she kissed Peter on the cheek, catching a faint whiff of his aftershave, and pushed herself off his lap—an awkward dance since she had to wiggle off the recliner sideways as well. “Guess I’ll start some supper . . . Oh. Did you get the mail?”
“Mm. On the lamp table.”
Avis picked up the clump of mail and sorted through it. A business magazine, Com Ed bill, pack of local coupons, junk mail addressed to “Resident,” two catalogs . . . wait. What was this? A sheet of lined school paper folded in thirds was stuck between the two catalogs, half crumpled. School paper? She smoothed it out and opened the folds. “Mom . . .”
Rochelle’s handwriting. Suddenly light headed, she groped for the closest chair and sat down.
“Avis? What is it?”
She licked her lips. “Rochelle . . . she left us a note.”
Peter put the recliner’s footrest down with a thump and was at her side. Leaning over her shoulder, they silently read the handwriting together.
Mom, thanks for the Mother’s Day message. Sorry I couldn’t answer. Phone on the fritz. Just want you to know Conny and I are okay. Maybe we can meet up somewhere. Conny asks about you. Love, R.
P.S. Flowers look nice.
Chapter 16
Avis tossed and turned all night. Half the time her heart was singing. Thank You, Jesus, that Rochelle and Conny are all right! And Thank You, Jesus, Rochelle got in touch with me! Peter had said, “See? They’re all right. She’ll come around soon enough.” But the rest of the night, she felt like punching the pillow. Rochelle’s phone was “on the fritz”? Humph. Probably shut off again for nonpayment. And dangling the hope they could meet up somewhere? How was she supposed to do that if there was no way to get in contact with her daughter?
One look in the mirror the following morning—eyes puffy, black silk hair wrap all askew, hair twists sticking out at odd angles and coming undone—and Avis was tempted to stay home from Sunday worship. What she needed was time alone with the Lord, to pour out her heart’s concerns about her daughter and grandson, to hear from God how to handle her frustration and seek guidance on what to do next.
Worship . . . worship would be good. But she didn’t feel like making small talk with people she only saw once or twice a week. Or getting sucked into pouring out her guts, either, to those perceptive few—her Yada Yada sisters in particular—who would guess right away that something was wrong and would hover around her like a flock of biddy hens.
But Avis had never played hooky from church. Not once in her adult life. Even on trips to see Charette and her family or to attend an education conference, she always found a church to visit. Sunday was the Lord’s day, and the Bible said not to neglect meeting together with other believers “as some do,” didn’t it?
She went to church. But Peter wanted to go early to pray with the elders again, which was the excuse Avis needed to drive her own car and slip in just as worship was starting. And she was glad she’d come when Florida got up to share about Carl’s accident. Avis and Peter, the Baxters, and several others gathered around her at the front of the church to pray for his speedy recovery and protection for the family.
Pastor Clark preached that morning, taking his text from Matthew 18, about Jesus’ promise that if two agree about anything they ask God for, He would do it. And where two or three gather in His name, Jesus promised to be present among them. “Do we believe this, church? Jesus seemed to be saying that praying in unity, agreeing together what we should be praying for, is important. So how do we do that?” Pastor Clark scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Hm. I sure would like one of those new BMWs . . . Maybe I’ll ask Brother Bentley over there to ‘agree’ with me and pray about it, too, so I’ll be sure to get it!”
Avis saw the retired cop duck his head. Uneasy laughter rippled around the room.
Pastor Clark raised his eyebrows. “Did I step on some toes? Be honest now. But, saints, think about this: the first requirement for praying in unity, for coming to agreement, is that our prayers need to line up with the Word of God!”
Amens bounced from every corner of the room. It was a good message . . . but Avis managed to slip out during the benediction, telling Peter in a whisper that she’d pick up some Chinese takeout for lunch and would meet him at home.
Her cell phone rang while she was waiting at Yuen’s Chinese Kitchen on Clark Street for the lunch combination of egg rolls, Szechuan Chicken, and shrimp fried rice.
“Avis Douglass!” Jodi Baxter’s voice blasted her ear. Avis quickly lowered the volume. “What’s with you today? You came in late and left early—and I didn’t even get to hug your neck. Are
you okay?”
“Hi, Jodi. Yes, I’m fine. Just . . . needing some space today.”
“Uh-huh. Either you and Peter had a big fight or you’re upset about Rochelle. Which is it?”
“Number 16! Order number 16!” shrilled a voice behind the pick-up counter.
“Look, Jodi, I can’t talk now. I’m at Yuen’s and they just called my—”
“Wait! Are you coming to Yada Yada tonight? We’re meeting at the Garfields’. Tell you what. I’ll pick you up and we can drive over together.”
“Um . . . sure.”
“Okay, I’ll pick you up at four thirty.”
Avis slipped the phone into her purse and took the paper bag the clerk handed her. Yada Yada tonight. Part of her didn’t feel like going anywhere . . . but she’d missed the last meeting, and Pastor Clark had just preached about the importance of praying together in the name of Jesus. Yes, maybe that’s exactly what she needed to get a breakthrough in the walls she was up against. If she had some alone time this afternoon, she might be ready to share her heart with them and unleash their prayers.
As Avis pulled out of the small parking lot onto Clark Street, she saw the four Crista students walking down the sidewalk, almost to the tiny strip mall she’d just left. Glancing in her side mirror, she saw them head for Yuen’s. She shivered. That was close. She was in no mood for the Kat girl’s hyper enthusiasm about everything. What were they doing walking this way anyway? The El was—
Ohhh, right. They have an appointment to see the Candys’ apartment this afternoon. Suddenly the likelihood of the four students living beneath her for the next few months loomed like an ominous cloud on the horizon. She pushed her speed up. She wanted to get home and lock the door and pretend she wasn’t home.