by Neta Jackson
“Had an appointment today, took a cab over to Weiss Memorial.” He leaned forward to spoon the hot soup into his mouth, dribbling some on the arm of the leather recliner. Frustrated, he dropped his spoon and swiped at the spill with a paper napkin. “Doc has to read it, I guess. Maybe he’ll call tomorrow. But the pain is better—except for my ribs. Supposed to take deep breaths with that thing”—Philip pointed to the plastic spirometer they’d given him in the hospital—“but the ribs . . . uh-uh.”
I retrieved the spoon. “And the meeting with the county board yesterday? You didn’t try to go, I hope.” I knew I was pushing it, asking questions that were none of my business. But, hey, bringing the soup should give me some leverage for snooping.
“Said I’d be there, so you bet I showed up. If Henry thinks he’s getting rid of me, he’s got another think coming.” Philip managed a couple of spoonfuls of soup without spilling, then muttered, almost to himself, “But probably a mistake. I was a distraction, looking like this. Did everybody a favor by leaving early.”
He leaned back in the recliner, the soup only half gone. After a long minute he spoke again. “Henry called later. Said he salvaged the deal, no thanks to me. Told me to keep my butt at home.”
“I’m sorry, Philip.” I was too. Seemed like Henry Fenchel was kicking Philip while he was down. Though I had to admit his partner had good reason to be upset, the way Philip had been “playing loose” with the accounts.
“Ha! I win!” Will laughed. The card players broke up. “The soup’s good, Mrs. Fairbanks. Thanks.” The young man turned his full attention to the bowl on the coffee table while P.J. put the cards away and Paul wandered over to the bank of curved, floor-to-ceiling glass windows along the outside wall. No one had pulled the drapes, so the ribbon of lights along Lake Shore Drive splayed out below, like a rippling border on the edge of Lake Michigan, which lay beyond the lights like a thick, dark blanket.
“Hey, Mom, come here!” Paul called. “I think I see Lucy and Dandy in the park.”
I joined my youngest at the window, trying not to give in to the queasy feeling in my stomach as I looked downward where he pointed. The narrow park below, which lay between Richmond Towers and Lake Shore Drive, was lit by sporadic streetlights along its jogging paths, as well as the lights falling from the luxury buildings and the bright lights from the Drive. Still, the distance from the high-rise along with the shadows from trees and bushes made it difficult to identify the half-dozen people walking the paths, a few with dogs. But one lone figure sat on a bench across from Richmond Towers. Couldn’t make out the person’s features from above, but the wire cart parked at the end of the bench and the light-colored dog cavorting nearby gave her away.
I gave Paul a squeeze. “Think you’re right.”
“Who’s Lucy and Dandy?” Will had joined us at the window.
“Homeless ol’ bag lady,” P.J. snorted from the couch. “She spies on us.”
“Dandy’s my grandma’s dog,” Paul added. “Or was.”
“A friend of mine,” I murmured.
“Yeah! She’s the one who found my dad when he got beat up.”
Oversharing, Paul.
Will laughed. “Whoa. Sounds like a story there. I’d like to meet her.”
But when we looked again, the bench was empty.
chapter 10
The topic of Lucy had always been a bone-in-the-craw as far as Philip was concerned. Glancing uneasily toward the recliner, I saw he was dozing. “Maybe another time, Will. I think we better go. Come on, boys. Philip? Philip, we’re leaving.”
Philip shook himself awake and, to my surprise, asked if the boys could sleep over this Friday night as usual, though I’d have to bring them. “If they get too bored, I’ll send them home in a taxi,” he said.
P.J. looked at me. “Uh, I dunno, Dad. I’ve still got cross country meets. City championships are this Saturday, and regionals the following week. After that”—he shrugged—“depends on whether we qualify for sectionals and state.”
“I can come, Dad,” Paul chirped. “I’ll bring a movie and we can make popcorn.”
I was encouraged. If Philip was feeling good enough to have the boys on his own, he must be feeling better. “We’ll see what we can work out about getting P.J. to his meet. But you might want to wait till you know what the doctor says about your CAT scan. Call me when you get the results, okay?”
Will left at the same time we did and we rode down the elevator together. I was tempted to ask if he’d seen either of the two suspicious characters around when he came this time, but figured he would’ve mentioned it if he had. One of them might’ve been arrested last Sunday with that Fagan person—Mr. B had said there were two guys who’d cornered Philip in that alley—so maybe they only worked in pairs. If so, Philip might be safe from another attack.
Wished I knew for sure.
We waved good-bye to Will as we climbed into our respective cars. “Hope your grandmother gets better soon,” I called after him.
“Oh yeah. I think she’s coming home this weekend. She’s bossing everybody on the floor. I’m sure the nurses will be glad to discharge her!” He laughed and climbed into the old Ford. “See ya around!”
The next few days flew by too quickly. Besides working with Carolyn on a proposal for expanding the afterschool program and trying to line up my weekend getaway for the Manna House ladies—I did find a good-sized retreat house for rent near Devil’s Lake State Park in Wisconsin—I made up a list of folks to invite to the house blessing at the House of Hope this weekend. The list got kind of long: House of Hope residents, which was ten of us right there, Manna House staff and volunteers, board members, plus friends who’d been supportive.
I finally threw myself on Mabel’s mercy. “Help! I don’t want to leave anybody out who’s involved in the House of Hope, but I’ve got too many. And I can’t invite the residents here at Manna House—where would I stop? Except Lucy. I’d like to invite her, but I haven’t seen her all week.”
Mabel looked at me, completely unruffled. “Let me see your list.”
I handed it over. She took a pen and started circling names. “You don’t have to invite the whole board. Invite Peter Douglass and his wife—he’s board chair. And why do you need all these names under Yada Yada?”
I tried to explain that the prayer group Edesa and Estelle and Jodi Baxter were part of had been praying for me and the House of Hope. “Peter Douglass’s wife, Avis, is part of it too.”
“Fine. They can represent the group.” My boss crossed out and circled and crossed out, then handed back the list. “Your idea for starting with a potluck is nice, but it’s a little late to organize a big party, don’t you think? Why don’t you have a meal with the people living in the House of Hope, and the rest of us will show up afterward for the house blessing.”
Amazing. The whole thing suddenly seemed manageable. I wanted to kiss her. “Did I ever tell you I want to be just like you when I grow up?”
The director waved me out the door. “Get on the phone and make your calls. I’ve got work to do.” And wonder of wonders, she didn’t call me back two seconds later with her usual, “Oh, and one more thing, Gabby . . .”
There was one more person I thought about inviting to the house blessing. After all, he’d been the one who found the building in the first place, had helped me rent an apartment there so I could get my sons back, then walked me through the process of buying the building even though he had doubts about the wisdom of such a large purchase. He’d even gone along with my giddy desire to fly a kite to celebrate when I’d signed the purchase contract.
Lee Boyer. My Legal Aid lawyer.
But I hadn’t heard from Lee since the day we’d faced each other outside Philip’s hospital room. Not since he’d blurted, “I love you, Gabby. Don’t you know that?” Not since I’d had to leave him standing there and go back into that room to sit with the man who’d rejected me and kicked me out. I knew I couldn’t turn my back on Philip. Not right
then. Not when the father of my sons was broken and hurting and needed me most.
But maybe Lee didn’t mean it when he’d said I had to choose: “Now or never.” Maybe he regretted speaking so recklessly. Maybe he was waiting . . . hoping to hear from me.
We could still be friends. Couldn’t we?
When I got back to my office, I shut the door, took a deep breath, and picked up the phone.
Disappointed that I didn’t get a response from Lee to my invitation— his voice mail had picked up and I’d had to leave a message—I almost forgot that I’d asked Philip to call me with the results of his CAT scan. But when I hadn’t heard by Friday afternoon, I finally called the penthouse. “Oh yeah, sorry I didn’t call,” he said. “The doctor thinks I might have a small tear in my spleen that’s gotten infected, so I had to go back for another blood test. He wants to try treating it with antibiotics, see if it heals on its own. But I’m doing okay. Boys coming?”
I drove both boys to Philip’s apartment that evening, along with a deep-dish pizza we picked up from Giordano’s and a rented copy of the last Star Wars movie. Josh Baxter had offered to pick up P.J. in the morning and get him over to Lane Tech in time to catch the team bus. When I told Philip, he said, “That the same kid who loaned me his bathrobe?”
“Not exactly a kid. He’s married and has a little girl.”
“Yeah, I know who he is.” Philip scratched his chin with his good hand. “Guess I owe him a thing or two.”
I was sure Josh wasn’t thinking Philip owed him anything, but I didn’t say as much. I was eager to get back to the six-flat and put my head together with Florida, Tanya, and Edesa about our house blessing the next day. But when I let myself into my apartment, the light was blinking on the answering machine. With a strange flutter of excitement, I pressed the button.
“Gabby, I’m glad to hear from you”—Lee!—“and I’d be honored to attend the open house Saturday night. See you at seven thirty.”
I sank down onto the floor, right there beside the telephone table. Lee was coming. Oh help! I wanted so much to see him— but what kind of message was I giving him by inviting him? This was a man who’d said he loved me, but couldn’t understand why I didn’t drop everything and go away with him in the middle of a family crisis. And it was obvious he didn’t share my journey back to faith—we’d talked about it that night in the hospital.
Still, I didn’t realize how much I would miss his comforting presence in my life.
He’d called it an “open house.” Maybe he had no idea what a house blessing was. No big deal . . . but I wondered what other people would think when he showed up. I’d told Jodi Baxter about our confrontation in the hospital and cried on her shoulder about how confusing it all was. She’d encouraged me that I’d done the right thing and prayed that God would give me wisdom to sort through my natural feelings and be able to make wise decisions. Estelle had probably figured out what happened, even if I hadn’t told her the details—she always seemed to be able to read me like a book. I could count on getting a few looks from her tomorrow night, if not outright questions.
Well, he was coming. And I was glad. It didn’t have to mean anything, did it? It would’ve been a slight to leave him out, since he’d been so instrumental in getting the building in the first place. That’s all I needed to say.
But I knew if I was honest, that wasn’t “all.”
Saturday was a full day. After Josh deposited P.J. at the high school early that morning, he and I visited each of the original tenants still in the building when ownership changed hands. First stop was apartment 2A, the scene of all the yelling Tuesday evening. The young woman who opened the door was as olive-skinned and dark-eyed as the young man who’d left in a huff, her thick, tousled hair gathered into a haphazard knot at the back of her head. Bassi was the name on the lease. Hers? Sounded Italian. When she saw us, she shrugged and opened the door for us to come in.
Boxes littered the front room. “Sì, I’m getting out of here,” she said, her voice flat. “You gave us a letter saying we could move out before our lease was up, right? Well, I’m leaving that no-good jerk, going back to la mia famiglia. As soon as he’s tired of that puttanella he’s been seeing behind my back, he’ll show up and sweet-talk me into letting him come back. But he stepped out on me one too many times. I’m through.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss, uh . . .” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“Zia Bassi. Actually, it’s Fabrizia Bassi, but I go by Zia.”
I smiled. “Pretty name.” I felt sorry for her, because I knew what it felt like to be abandoned by the one who was supposed to love you.
“—anything we can do?” Josh was saying kindly. “When are you planning to leave? Do you need help with the move?”
I looked at him, wide-eyed. Letting tenants leave early with no penalty was one thing. Helping them move was beyond our resources. Moving trucks could be expensive!
And then I realized he meant actual physical help. Like carrying boxes down the stairs. That was so like Josh. What a prince.
Well, our little talk about rules and responsibilities wasn’t needed here. Zia said she planned to be out by the following weekend. We wished her well and moved across the hall and knocked on 2B. I looked at the names on the lease. Freddie and Bertha Hill. I had only a vague memory of a middle-aged white couple and two or three younger adults—their grown children? relatives?— going in and out of that apartment. I’d heard them from time to time—heavy footsteps in the hallway over my head, occasional noisy music, loud conversations—but nothing to complain about. We got no answer to our knocks.
Next stop, 3B, across from Josh and Edesa’s apartment. Maddox Campbell, a friendly Jamaican man I’d met earlier, came to the door, his “dreads” tucked into a roomy knitted cap in green, yellow, and black layers—Jamaican flag colors. “Ah ha! De poodle lady!” he teased—a reference to my curly hair. “And de new neighbors ’cross de hall wit dat cute baybee.” He shook hands with Josh. “What mi can do you for?”
I felt almost silly handing Mr. Campbell the sheet of paper on which I’d printed out the rules for the building—which included a number of obvious things such as proper use of the trash and recycling bins. The tall, thin man frowned. “You tink we be cause of dese problems?”
“No, no, Mr. Campbell. There have been a few complaints about the other tenants, so we decided to just give this list to everyone. Josh Baxter, here, is our new property manager, so if you have any problems in your apartment, you contact him, all right?”
Maddox Campbell’s face relaxed into a wide smile, showing good teeth. “Ah, den. Irie, mon.”
Maddox Cambell was a likable guy. Almost wished he didn’t have to move. I hoped he’d be able to find a good living situation, but decided not to ask how the search was going. Didn’t want to pressure the guy. Besides, the day was slipping away and I was expecting a conference call with my two sisters at noon, not to mention I had to cook something for our potluck tonight and clean my apartment if I was going to host all those folks for the house blessing!
P.J. took a city bus after the cross country team got back and was home by five o’clock. “We came in second, Mom!” he crowed, dumping his duffel bag and leaving a trail of sweaty green-and-gold sportswear on his way to the shower.
“Congrats!” I yelled through the bathroom door. “But I just cleaned that bathroom and it better be clean when you come out—and hang up your wet towel too!” Boys.
But Paul still hadn’t showed when Tanya and Sammy tromped in at quarter to six, carrying a hot dish for our in-house potluck. Was Philip waiting for me to pick him up? I thought he was going to send Paul home by taxi. I’d better check.
Sammy scurried to the front window to watch for Paul, and I grabbed the phone as I followed Tanya down the long hall to the dining room. I lifted a corner of aluminum foil on Tanya’s dish. “Smells yummy. What is it?”
“Mac-an-cheese, of course.” The young mom looked at me scornfully. “Can
’t have a potluck without mac-an-cheese. Kids hardly eat anything else. What’d you make?”
“Scalloped potatoes and ham and a fruit salad—where’re Precious and Sabrina?”
“She tol’ me to tell you she’d be a few minutes late. Sabrina, she snuck out to see that deadbeat dude who knocked her up an’ Precious be havin’ a cow.”
“Paul’s back!” Sammy yelled, clear from the front of the house. “Some other guys are with him!”
I hustled down the hall toward the front door, a sense of foreboding growing in my gut. On the way, I passed little Gracie Baxter, toddling as fast as her tiny legs would go, followed by Edesa carrying a hot dish. “Just put it on the dining room table!” I called over my shoulder as I darted into the foyer—only to run into Estelle Williams, Harry Bentley, and his grandson, DaShawn, standing on the other side of the glass-paneled door.
Ohmigosh. I’d forgotten to tell Estelle we’d changed the potluck to be for House of Hope residents only! And here she was, big as life, dressed in a shimmery caftan and headdress, carrying a big pot—probably her famous greens or something. Even Harry had on a suit and tie, his hands full with a large Tupperware container.
I pulled open the door and put on a smile. “Come in, come in. You guys look ready to party! Take that on back to the dining room . . . Hi, DaShawn! Sammy’s in the sunroom. You’re looking good, Mr. B . . .”
But my smile faded as the trio passed me and another trio appeared, framed in the doorway of the outer door.
Paul. And Philip. And Will Nissan.
chapter 11
As Paul pushed the outer door open and led the trio inside the foyer, I heard footsteps thudding down the stairs. Josh Baxter loomed up beside me. “Hey there, Paul. Hi, Mr. Fairbanks. Good to see you out and about. And who’s this?” He thrust a hand out toward Will Nissan. “I’m Josh Baxter. Live up on third. You all here for the potluck?” He laughed. “Save me from being the lone male in a pack of females—oh, except for Paul and P.J. of course.” He gave Paul a teasing poke with his elbow.