by Neta Jackson
“But that’s good news, Gabby. They’ll be with family. Cordelia’s been here over three months. She lost her job, then her apartment, and hasn’t been able to find another job. We’re not set up for long-term shelter, as you well know.”
“I know.” I made a face. “I’m being selfish. The bad news is, that puts Shawanda and her kids next on the list for the House of Hope.”
The Manna House director made a tent with her fingers, letting my words hang in the air a few moments. I could feel a lecture coming.
“Gabby. You know as well as I do a lot of different women come through that front door. Some are cooperative and likable, some need a whole lot of help, and some, I admit, are a pain in the you-know-what. But every woman has God-given potential within her, some just need more help than others to develop that potential. Including Shawanda. She’s prickly—but she’s managed to not get kicked out of the shelter. The important thing is to be clear about the rules and expectations.”
I suddenly had a brilliant idea. “We made a list of house rules last week. But that was basically for the current tenants. Maybe you could come to our next house meeting and help us create an appropriate list for the House of Hope.”
Mabel turned to her computer and called up her calendar. “Which is . . . ?”
“Tonight. We’re changing to Wednesday next week though.”
“Tonight! I’m not sure I can on such short notice. Unless— could I bring Jermaine with me? Let him hang out with Paul for an hour?”
“I’m sure Paul would love it.” P.J. might be another story. It was one thing to include Mabel’s nephew in a large group, like the house blessing, where P.J. could ignore him. Another to leave the three boys alone together, especially since P.J. had been less than friendly to the kid he’d labeled a sissy. Even though P.J. and Jermaine were both freshmen at Lane Tech, it was Paul and Jermaine who had developed a friendship around their love for creating music.
But having Mabel come to our house meeting would be a big help. I couldn’t let P.J.’s attitude toward Jermaine dictate what happened. And he’d been warned.
“Thanks, Mabel. Guess I better talk to Celia, see if she’s willing to share an apartment with Shawanda.” Though what we were going to do if she didn’t want to, I had no idea. And I still had to double-check with Josh. “See you at eight thirty, okay?”
I brought Paul’s keyboard home from the shelter, where he’d been keeping it so he could practice after school, figuring there was a good chance he and Jermaine would want to do music. But P.J. threw a fit. “Don’t tell me I’m gonna have to listen to the Dorky Duo play their stupid music for a whole hour! How am I s’posed to get my homework done with that racket?”
“You can hole up in my bedroom in the back, and I’ll tell them to keep the volume down. Plug yourself into your iPod. Besides, it’s only an hour, P.J.”
“Why does Ms. Turner have to bring him anyway? You let me stay home by myself, and he’s the same age I am.” P.J. snorted. “The big baby.”
I’d wondered the same thing, but Mabel was protective of her nephew, who’d once tried to commit suicide because of all the torment he got from other kids. If bringing him with her made her feel better, I wasn’t going to question it.
Mabel and Jermaine were a few minutes late that evening, so I waited till they arrived, left the boys with popcorn and soft drinks at opposite ends of the apartment, and hustled up to the third floor after Mabel. Edesa was still trying to put Gracie to sleep and Josh was on the phone—“My grandparents,” he mouthed to us when he opened the door, phone cradled between shoulder and ear—so we started without them. Tanya said things had been a lot quieter since Zia Bassi had kicked her boyfriend out. I reported that Celia Jones had applied for that apartment when Zia moved, and she and her granddaughter would probably be sharing it with Shawanda Dixon and her two kids.
“Celia and Shawanda!” Precious scowled. “Thought maybe Tanya or me could move in there. Each havin’ our own apartment, like you said at first, ’fore the Baby Baxters moved in.”
I saw Mabel hide a smile at the tag Precious had bestowed on the younger Baxters before she said, “I’m sure that would be nice. Except the board drew up some guidelines for residence in the House of Hope and determined at least three persons need to occupy a three-bedroom since we’re asking the city for subsidized rent.”
“Well then. Me an’ Sabrina gonna be three people when she drop that baby.” Precious was working up quite a snit.
Tanya looked hurt. “I thought you an’ me decided we liked the idea of sharin’ an apartment. Good for Sabrina to have the baby in her room an’ all that. Ain’t you happy with how things been goin’?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s not that.” Precious scowled again as Josh and Edesa joined us in the front room, and kept scowling as we brought the young couple up to speed. But when we mentioned Shawanda as a probable resident, she popped in again. “Okay, that’s what stickin’ me in the butt. That Shawanda—she ’bout as easy to get along with as one o’ them pit bulls. Miss Celia and Keisha? They be fine. But Bam-Bam an’ Dessa gonna be runnin’ they itty-bitty legs off over our heads an’ Shawanda ain’t gonna do a thang. Can’t tell her nothin’ ’bout carin’ for them kids or she up in your face havin’ a screamin’ fit.”
“Which is why it’s important to have rules for living here at the House of Hope,” Mabel said. “This isn’t a personality contest, but we can have clear expectations for cooperation and reasonable behavior. So let’s talk. Some of the best rules come from the residents themselves. Gabby, you said you’d already come up with some basic rules last week. Let’s start there and fill them out . . . do you want to take notes?”
I was so grateful Mabel had come to the house meeting. She had much more experience than I had setting rules and limits for the residents at Manna House—and yet she had a heart of compassion for even difficult cases like Shawanda. And how often had she been willing to bend those rules for me during my sojourn as a resident at Manna House? She’d treated me like a person, not just another homeless blight on society. And it was obvious she wanted us to treat Shawanda that way too.
By the end of the hour, we had a decent list of rules and expectations, which I planned to type up and have in hand when I talked to Shawanda tomorrow. “But what we gonna do when somebody breaks one o’ them rules?” Tanya wanted to know. She might just as well have said “Shawanda” as “somebody.”
Josh nodded. “Right. We still need to talk about the process we follow when someone has a complaint or something happens we didn’t anticipate.”
Edesa giggled. “ ‘Process.’ That’s such a white-guy word, Josh.”
He made a face. “So? I am a white guy, if you haven’t noticed.”
The rest of us cracked up. Even got a smile from Mabel. “Next time,” she said. “I’ll be glad to come the next few weeks until you all feel the House of Hope is on solid ground. Then maybe I could meet with you all on a monthly basis.” Heads were nodding all around. “Edesa, why don’t you wrap up this discussion with a prayer for God’s wisdom and guidance? We don’t want to be like that foolish man in the Bible who built his house on loose sand. There’s only one foundation that will sustain the House of Hope—and that’s Christ the Solid Rock.”
For some reason, Mabel’s comment at the meeting burrowed into my mind and dug up the old gospel hymn we used to sing at Minot Evangelical Church when I was growing up: On Christ the solid Rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand . . . The song played around in my head all night, even though the only words I could actually remember were in the refrain. I’d have to look it up in a hymnal.
I was curious. Was that old hymn the inspiration for the more recent gospel song that had sustained me again and again the past few months? The CD was in my car, so on the way to work the next morning I punched the Play button and the familiar words filled the car.
Where do I go . . . when the storms of life are raging?
Who do I talk to . . . when
nobody wants to listen?
Who do I lean on . . . when there’s no foundation stable?
And then the “answer” boomed out at me:
I go to the Rock—I know that He’s able, I go to the Rock!
By this time, I was bouncing in my seat and thumping the steering wheel as I sang along with the gospel beat.
I go to the Rock of my salvation!
Go to the Stone that the builders rejected!
Run to the Mountain and the Mountain stands by me-e-e!
The female driver in the car next to me at a stoplight looked at me strangely. But I didn’t care. Because all of a sudden, there it was, and I hollered it out:
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—
Beeeep! Beeeep! The guy behind me was leaning on his horn to tell me the light had changed. I waved an “Excuse me!” at him but I was grinning. How about that! Both gospel songs used the phrase “On Christ the Solid Rock I stand . . .” Hm. As soon as I got to work, I was going to make a little sign and tape it to my computer. Usually when the phrase of a song imprinted itself on my brain, God had a purpose for putting it there.
Something told me I was going to need it.
As far as I could tell, the boys had managed to coexist in our apartment without incident last evening. Maybe my strategy of not making too big a deal of the whole situation—continuing to include Jermaine in our lives in a normal way but not expecting P.J. to be his best friend—was paying off. But the difference in personality between Paul and P.J. often perplexed me. Paul was easygoing, outgoing, friendly, easy to love—not to mention his hair and complexion took after my natural reddish curls and freckles— while P.J. had the dark good looks of his father and some of his surly attitudes too. I had to be careful not to play favorites, to give P.J. as much unconditional love as I gave Paul.
Help me know how to love my boys, dear God, I prayed, threading my way through the usual Wednesday morning here-to-see-the-nurse crowd in the dining room and shutting my office door on the hubbub. I reached for my Bible. And I could use some help with my attitude when I talk to Shawanda today. Help me to see the God-given potential You see in her, Lord.
When I finally felt fortified with some Bible reading and prayer, I settled down to my first task: typing up the list of rules and expectations we’d come up with at the house meeting last night. Printing out a “Letter of Understanding” that would need to be signed by each resident, I pulled open my office door to go find Shawanda— and ran smack dab into Lucy Tucker, nearly knocking her down.
“Hey!” she growled. “You always got ta be in such a hurry, Fuzz Top?” A couple of raspy coughs punctuated her fuss.
The scarf tied around her head—one of my mother’s, given as a memento—was damp, as was the sweater she had pulled over several other layers of clothing. The weeklong on-again, off-again October drizzle must have started up again. “Hi, Lucy. I’m glad to see you too.” I grinned at her. “Hope you’re here to check out that cough. You don’t want to get bronchitis again like last spring.”
Lucy glared at me. “Don’ remember askin’ you ta be my mother. I’m twice as old as you, missy, and still livin’ an’ breathin’ ta tell about it.”
I had no idea how old Lucy was in actual years, but I came back at her. “You can’t be twice as old as me. I’m turning forty on Friday.”
The old woman looked me up and down. “Humph. Forty, eh? Ya still wet behind th’ ears.” She shouldered past me into my office. “What I come for is to fill up my bucket with more dog food. Gotta put some fat on Dandy, get him ready for winter.”
That alarmed me. “Lucy, you’re not planning on you and Dandy spending the winter outside, are you?” What had I been thinking, giving my mother’s dog to an elderly bag lady who dragged all her worldly possessions around in a wire cart and spent more time on the streets than in a shelter? “You need—”
Lucy hummed loudly as she filled her plastic bucket from one of the twenty-five-pound bags of dog food that had been donated to the shelter after Dandy’s heroic routing of a nighttime burglar. Fine. She wasn’t going to listen to me. I flounced out the door and resumed my original errand to hunt up Shawanda.
But one of these days—soon—we needed to have a sit-down about how Lucy and Dandy were going to survive this winter.
chapter 15
I found Shawanda sprawled in a beanbag chair in the playroom on the main floor, idly leafing through a magazine and chewing gum while two-year-old Bam-Bam pulled toys off the shelves, scattering the pieces of Legos and puzzles, then moving on to the next shelf. Three-year-old Dessa was tugging on her mother’s leg, whining about something, and being ignored.
Gotta help me here, Lord. “Shawanda? Got a minute?”
The young black woman, her long legs encased in skinny jeans, hair gelled and coiled tight to her head, shrugged. “Sure. Whatchu want?”
I tested my weight on one of the small wooden tables and sat while I explained the concept of second-stage housing, then said we might have space in a shared apartment for her and her kids.
The magazine slipped to the floor and her face perked up. “For real? Ya mean me an’ the kids can get outta this dump into a real apartment? Who else be in the apartment?”
“Celia Jones and her granddau—”
“Well then, that’s cool. Celia’s all right. So when can we move in?”
“First of next month, if all goes well. You would need to fill out an application, because the House of Hope partners with the city, which would subsidize your rent. And you would still work with your case manager here at Manna House on finishing your GED and—”
“GED! That schoolin’ be such a joke. What I want is daycare for these babies so I can get me a job. How’m I s’posed ta find a job with these two hangin’ ’round my neck all day?” A wail erupted from across the room. “Bam-Bam! Quit hittin’ on your sister. Don’t make me come over there.” Shawanda balled her fist in a threatening gesture, then turned back to me and wiggled her shoulders in a little joy-dance. “Oh yeah. I’ll be glad to get out from under all the rules they got in this place. Gotta sign out ever’ time I leave, gotta be in by eight at night, gotta do those dumb chores. What a load of—”
“Shawanda!” My voice was sharper than I intended, so I took a deep breath, then continued. “You need to understand that the House of Hope is affiliated with Manna House and we also have rules. Here.” I handed her the sheet I’d typed up from our meeting last night. “Look that over. If you can sign this agreement to abide by these rules and expectations, then let’s talk. If not—well, there are others waiting in line for the House of Hope.”
I managed to get out the door without giving Shawanda a real piece of my mind. Who did the girl think she was? Frankly, I hoped she’d read the rules and flip off the opportunity. Good riddance.
But back in my office, Mabel’s compassionate words fought with my attitude. “Every woman has God-given potential within her, some just need more help than others to develop that potential. Including Shawanda.”
I groaned and put my head in my hands. Okay, Lord. I’m going to have to trust You with this one. If she signs the agreement—well, guess we’ll take her and hold her to it. But if Shawanda has some God-given potential You want developed at the House of Hope, You’re going to have to reveal it, because it sure isn’t obvious to me!
Opening my eyes, I saw the card on which I’d written the phrase from those gospel songs: “On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand!” I smiled ruefully. Guess we’d find out soon enough whether the House of Hope was being built on “sinking sand” or Solid Rock.
The drizzles stopped and the sun came out Thursday. “Looks like it’s going to be a nice weekend for my birthday,” I told the boys, who had the TV on when the weather guy popped up on the evening news. “Almost sixty degrees on Saturday! Hey, we haven’t ridden the bike trai
l along Lake Michigan yet. This might be our last chance before winter. Whaddya say?”
“Uh, Mom, hello. The cross country team has regional meets this Saturday. I told you.” P.J. rolled his eyes. “Besides, you left your bike in Virginia, remember?”
“Aren’t we staying with Dad Friday night and Saturday?” Paul added.
I made a face. “Details. I could probably borrow a bike from Edesa. She and Josh have bikes in the basement. What time will your regionals be over? If you’re done by, say, two o’clock, I’ll ask your dad if I can borrow you a couple hours early. Or we could go Sunday afternoon. Come on . . . let’s do it!”
P.J. shrugged. “I guess. If I’m not pooped after running all morning.”
Paul pulled a puppy-dog face. “It doesn’t seem right to leave you tomorrow night on your birthday, Mom. Maybe we should skip going to Dad’s this weekend.”
I tousled his chestnut head, which insisted on curling even though it was cut short. “Aw, that’s sweet of you, hon. But the actual day isn’t that important. How about if we declare the whole weekend ‘Mom’s birthday’? That way you have to be extra nice to me for three whole days!” I laughed as I headed back toward the kitchen. “Starting tomorrow morning—better yet, starting tonight. Which means you guys get to do the dishes.”
“Use paper plates, then!” P.J. yelled after me.
“Can’t!” I hollered back. “We’re having chili!”
But as cheerful as I tried to be about the boys going to their dad’s on Friday, I dreaded spending my birthday evening alone. If things hadn’t changed between Lee and me, he’d probably take me out to a fancy restaurant and we’d have a great time talking and laughing.