by Neta Jackson
Lucy frowned. “Kinda lost track.”
“Well, your birthdate then.”
Lucy pursed her lips. Finally she said, “November three, nineteen hunnerd an’ twenty-something . . . um, slips my mind right now. Twenty-six, I think.” My ears perked up. Did she actually give a birth date? I quickly figured in my head. If Lucy hadn’t just pulled a date out of the air, that made her eighty years old. Or would, on November third, which was . . .
Oh my goodness! Lucy’s birthday is next Friday!
I was so amazed at this bit of information that I didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the intake process—blood pressure, temp, and more questions about her general health, raising Lucy’s aggravation—though they didn’t try to put her on the scale because of her injured foot. But I stuck with her when they took her for x-rays, then we waited in the small examining room for the results.
My cell phone rang as the minutes ticked by. Estelle Williams. She knew I was at the clinic with Lucy—was something wrong? I went out into the hallway to take the call.
“Thought you’d want to know,” Estelle said. “Just got a call from Harry. The jury came back with a verdict. Guilty! Matty Fagan’s goin’ away for a long time.”
“Oh, Estelle! That’s such good news. I want to hear all about it—but I just saw one of the radiologists go into Lucy’s room. Talk to you later!”
I closed the phone. Hallelujah! Couldn’t wait to tell Philip. But I hustled back into the small room in time to hear the youngish doctor say, “. . . a severe sprain.” A week on crutches, six weeks with an air cast, and maybe six months for the ankle to fully heal. “Too bad you didn’t break it,” he joked. “Might’ve healed faster.”
Oh great. Real funny.
Lucy’s foot was expertly wrapped and she was given a prescription for pain meds and a pair of crutches to be returned when she came back in a week. We practiced with the crutches down one of the hospital’s wide hallways, though Lucy kept muttering, “How’m I ’sposed to pull my cart around if I gotta hol’ on to these things with both hands?”
She wasn’t the only one with questions about how she was going to manage. Once we got back to Manna House about four thirty and got Lucy resettled in Shepherd’s Fold with her foot elevated, Mabel called an emergency staff meeting. Not many of us were around at that time of day, but Estelle had just finished her sewing class, and she, Angela, and I crowded into Mabel’s office.
“What Lucy needs is a nursing home!” Angela was adamant. “She’s in her seventies, for heaven’s sake! She can’t live out on the street like this.”
“Seventy-nine to be exact,” I put in. “Her birthday’s Friday.”
“See? My point exactly!”
“I don’t think a nursing home will take her, because she’s theoretically ambulatory,” Mabel pointed out. “I guess she could stay here for a week or so if she’ll use the service elevator. Do we have room on the bed list, Angela?”
Angela shook her head. “Full up. Several came in over the weekend while we were on our Fall Getaway—which was great, by the way. Sorry you missed the staff meeting this morning, Gabby. They had to rely on a report from me, and I’m sure I don’t know the half of it. You and Edesa did most of the planning.”
“Yes, we want to hear Gabby’s report,” Mabel said impatiently, “but right now we need to decide what to do about Lucy. Estelle? Any ideas?”
Estelle shook her head. “Wish I could take care of her. Home care for the elderly is what I’m trained for, but that’s presuming the elderly person has a home.” She wagged her head. “Can’t take her in at my place. Stu and I live on the second floor.”
My place? I thought. I’m on the first floor. But I’d have to kick P.J. out of his room, which didn’t seem a good idea at this point. No, my family life was complicated enough as it was. Even the empty apartment at the House of Hope—empty for another five days, that is—was on the second floor. And no elevator.
I sighed. “Well, I can solve one problem. I’ll keep Dandy until Lucy’s off those crutches. If she stays here, I can bring him to work with me like I did before. That ought to keep her somewhat happy, anyway.”
We finally decided Lucy could stay at Manna House, on a couch in Shepherd’s Fold if need be, and give her the first bed that became available. Estelle would take her on as a “patient” in addition to her other work at the shelter, and Delores could give her weekly checkups between clinic visits. Lucy’s precious wire cart would stay under lock and key in Mabel’s office. Dandy would stay with me.
“Oh, one more thing,” I said, stealing Mabel’s usual line. Angela and Estelle both snickered. Guess I wasn’t the only one she used it on. Grinning, I said, “Found out today that Lucy’s birthday is next Friday. What do you say we plan a surprise party for her? I mean, a really big surprise party. It may be the first birthday party she’s had since she ran away from home as a teenager.”
The others thought that was a great idea.
“Banana cake,” I added. “Her birthday cake has to be banana. She says it’s her favorite.”
But I was in the car an hour later on the way to Richmond Towers with Philip’s leather bag—after taking Paul and Dandy home—when something I’d said in Mabel’s office niggled at my brain.
“. . . since she ran away from home as a teenager.”
Where had I heard that recently? Not from Lucy. Somebody else . . .
chapter 25
A flicker of anxiety took over my thoughts as I pulled into a Visitor parking space alongside Richmond Towers. My eyes swept the park between the Towers and Lake Shore Drive. Was one of those thugs still lurking around? How would I feel if I were Philip, still living here after being attacked so viciously in the pedestrian tunnel, the one I could see from my parking space?
I’d be terrified.
So why did he come back here last night?
Well, duh, Gabby. You weren’t about to let him stay at your apartment after this weekend. What else could he do?
Taking a deep breath, I grabbed Philip’s bag, locked my car, and hustled into the building through the revolving doors. “Hola, Señor Gomez!” I called out, using the little Spanish I knew, to the square-built man who used to be the night doorman when I lived here at Richmond Towers “How is the wife and family?”
“Buenos tardes, Señora Fairbanks. Muy bueno, gracias. Oh, do you want me to let you in?” the man said, seeing me head for the security door into the elevator bank.
I shook my head and waved my security key card. “I still have my key—just don’t tell Mr. Martin.” I laughed and gave a head jerk in the direction of the building manager’s office. “But would you call up to the penthouse and let Mr. Fairbanks know I’m coming?”
Mr. Gomez chuckled as I disappeared into the elevator foyer. Rising steadily upward to the thirty-second floor—a height I tried not to think about—I realized I missed seeing Mr. Bentley there in the lobby as Top Dog Doorman in his blue uniform and cap. The towering glass building with its luxury penthouse had always made me nervous from day one when we’d moved in early last spring— but Harry Bentley, my “first best friend” in Chicago, had been down to earth, a comforting presence who seemed to bring sanity into my discombobulated existence during the months I’d lived here.
And Mr. B had stood by me even when my husband kicked me out, though at the time I had no idea the doorman was a retired cop involved in all sorts of dangerous intrigues within the Chicago Police Department. Or that he was raising a grandson he’d only recently discovered existed. Or that my fellow staffer at Manna House would fall in love with the man.
I smiled to myself as the elevator door dinged open on 32. “Thank You, God, for Harry Bentley,” I murmured, “for bringing that beautiful man into my life—” My smile faded and I added, “And please don’t let Estelle throw that man away! He’s the best thing that ever happened to her!”
Philip opened the door before I even had time to ring the doorbell. “Gabby—Gomez rang me, said you
were on the way up.” He seemed distracted, even upset, hardly noticed when I handed him his leather overnight bag. “Do you have a minute? I need to talk to you.”
I’d intended to stay awhile because I wanted to hear from him how the weekend had gone—but something told me whatever Philip needed to talk to me about wasn’t P.J.’s cross country meet or his visit to SouledOut Community Church. Was I going to regret this?
Still, I followed him as he led the way through the gallery into the living room. Even though Philip’s hair was growing back, I still wasn’t used to how short it was. And the jagged scar still visible in his scalp and the cast on his broken arm had certainly taken the edge off his polished look. At least the facial bruises had faded and he didn’t look so scary.
But it wasn’t only the change in his appearance. Other things, too, left me not quite knowing how to react. Ever since the accident, he’d started calling me Gabby again instead of Gabrielle, the familiar over the formal, the endearing rather than the distant. And then there was the elegant dining room set that fit so beautifully in the penthouse. He’d given it up. For me.
It all made me feel a bit off balance, a feeling that stayed with me as I settled on one end of the L-shaped couch and glanced at the wraparound glass windows overlooking Lake Michigan. The view was still breathtaking, provided I didn’t get too close and look down. Philip didn’t sit, but paced, running a hand over the dark stubble on his head.
“Philip? What’s wrong?”
“This.” He picked up a business envelope from an end table and handed it to me. Then he sank onto the other section of the couch, head in his hands.
I looked at the return address: Macromber, Fitz, and Morgan. Sounded like a legal firm. I pulled out a single sheet of paper, unfolded it, and scanned the letter. My eyes widened. “Matty Fagan is suing you for breach of contract? But I just heard today— a few hours ago, in fact—that Fagan’s been found guilty of all the charges that Internal Affairs brought against him. I mean, Mr. B told me the man was charged with fraud, intimidation, assault, illegal distribution of weapons and controlled substances—and that’s before he got caught threatening you with a pistol in that alley! He was a rogue cop, Philip! And now he’s on his way to prison. How can he sue you?”
Philip threw out his hands. “I don’t know. I guess because I signed a loan and took his money and haven’t repaid it. This was mailed”—he looked at the postmark—“last Friday.”
“Humph. That money was probably drug money he lifted off some drug dealers anyway.”
“Oh, great. Thanks a lot. Now I’m implicated in how he got the money?”
“You couldn’t have known that! You thought he was legit—right?”
Philip slumped back against the cushions. “I just wanted the money quickly, didn’t want to know where it came from.” He shook his head slowly. “I’ve been a fool, Gabby. Unfortunately, that’s not all.” Philip picked up another envelope and handed it to me. “This came last week. Fenchel’s making good on his threat too. You heard him—the time you took me to the office right after I got out of the hospital. He’s suing me too.”
I didn’t even look at the letter. “Oh, Philip. I’m so sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say. We sat in silence for several minutes on opposite sides of the L-shaped couch.
Then Philip sighed. “My back’s against the wall, Gabby. It’s my fault, I know. The gambling—I never meant for it to get out of control. It was fun. I was good at cards. It was no big deal—you know, you lose some, you win some. You come out about even. But I kept raising the stakes, just for the thrill of it, and then I lost a big one. At first I didn’t worry, I’d just keep playing and win big. But I didn’t. Still couldn’t quit, just got more desperate. Kept digging myself deeper into a hole. Maxed out my own bank accounts, decided to borrow from the business.” He shook his head. “Didn’t think I was really doing anything wrong. After all, half the business belongs to me, right? And besides, once I won, I’d pay everything back. No big deal . . .”
He sank into another silence. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say, though Philip hadn’t been this honest with me since I didn’t know how long. Months. Maybe years. I didn’t want to break the spell.
He made a funny sound in his throat, almost a bitter laugh. “Huh. Actually felt some hope yesterday after talking with Harry Bentley. Have to admit, I misjudged the man. Hard to think of him as anything but the doorman downstairs. But as you know, the guy saved my butt a few weeks ago—at least saved me from getting my knees shot out. Still . . .” He fell into that silence again, as if he wasn’t quite aware that he’d quit talking, as if his thoughts had taken over the conversation.
“You said you felt some hope yesterday?” I prodded.
“Right. Bentley gave me a ride home from the Baxters. We’d been there all afternoon, the boys wanted to . . . anyway, he came all the way up to the penthouse with me. I think he was taking that threat from Fagan’s people seriously—I noticed he was wearing his service revolver under his coat. When we got up here, he said he wanted to talk to me about something, so I said okay. But he kind of surprised me, started talking about himself, how things got real tough in the police force and he started drinking. The drinking got so bad, he lost his wife, lost his kid, almost got tossed from the force. Finally admitted to himself he was an alcoholic—an addict, you know. What saved his hide—those are his words”—Philip let slip a small smile—“was going to AA, admitting he had a problem, and having someone hold him accountable.”
Harry, an alcoholic? I’d never seen him drink anything stronger than a soda. But if that’s why he lost his family, that would explain why he didn’t even know he had a grandson till recently.
“Said he almost fell off the wagon not long ago—guess he’s had some serious problems with his eyes and he was scared.”
Harry was telling Philip this? Of course I knew about his eye problems, but Estelle never said anything about Harry drinking.
“I guess he still goes to AA meetings from time to time, but he said he ended up telling ‘the brothers’ in his men’s group—his words again—when he was tempted to turn back to the bottle. I think Denny Baxter is one of the guys in this Bible study, or whatever it is. He said they prayed with him about it and held him accountable, just like his AA sponsor.”
Philip took a deep breath and blew it out. “Anyway, he said he was telling me all this to say he knows an addict when he sees one. He got pretty blunt, told me as far as he’s concerned, I’m a gambling addict and I need to go to Gamblers Anonymous. And he’d be my sponsor if I wanted one.”
Now my mouth fell open. I could hardly believe what I was hearing! With everything Harry Bentley knew about my jerk husband, about how he’d treated me, about his annoying arrogance and selfish ambition . . . Harry had offered to be Philip’s sponsor if he’d go to Gamblers Anonymous?
Philip looked at me sideways, obviously embarrassed. “I don’t think your Mr. Bentley said that because he’s fond of me—though he’s been decent enough whenever we’ve been in the same room. He even played Monopoly with me and the boys yesterday. Vicious player, though. Still, I think he talked to me and made that offer because he cares about you. And the boys.”
I had to blink quickly to keep the tears back. Finally found my voice. “You said you felt hopeful after talking to Harry?”
My husband nodded. “Yeah. Guess . . . guess it sounded like a place to start, going to GA or whatever they call it. And when Bentley said he was willing to put himself on the line by being my sponsor, someone I could talk to, well, crazy as it sounds, I felt hopeful for the first time since this whole mess started to unravel.” He shook his head. “But . . .”
Silence swallowed his words again.
“But, what?”
He didn’t answer.
“Philip?”
Philip finally looked at me, his eyes tortured. He pointed to the two envelopes laying on the couch cushions between us. “That was yesterday—before I got
those. I don’t know what I’m going to do, Gabby. They’ll ruin me.”
chapter 26
An awkward silence stretched between us, filled only by the ticking of the heirloom clock in the corner. What could I say? I certainly didn’t have any answers. Part of me felt bad for him—it was hard to see him hurting so much—and part of me felt vindicated. Served him right. He’d screwed up my life and my plans—now his life was screwed up. But everything I thought of saying—“You’re the one who got yourself into this mess!” or “It’ll work out somehow, Philip”—sounded either unkind or pathetic.
The grandfather clock chimed six times. I stood up and reached for my jacket. “Philip, I’m so sorry this is happening. And unfortunately, I’ve got to go. I still have to make supper for the boys. Do you have anything to eat? You should eat.”
Philip was still leaning forward, forearms on his knees, hands clasped, staring at the floor. He didn’t look at me, just nodded. “I know. You need to go. I’m okay. Got some leftovers in the fridge.” His voice was low, barely audible.
“All right. Take care. I’ll, uh, call you tomorrow, okay?”
He nodded.
But when I got to the front door, I hesitated. Philip was crying out for help. True, I didn’t have any answers. But when I had come to the end of my rope and cried out for help, my friends at Manna House had taken my case before the Almighty and prayed on my behalf, even before I knew how to pray.
Couldn’t I do at least that much for Philip?
I turned and went back into the living room. Suddenly I felt a deep well of compassion for this man who had been my husband for sixteen years—some of them good years—and who was still the father of my sons. Reaching out, I touched him on the shoulder. “Philip?”
Startled, his head turned and he looked up at me with those dark eyes, so full of despair.
“I . . . I know this is going to sound super-spiritual or something, but . . . I’d like to pray for you. God has answered some desperate prayers from me and turned things around when I didn’t see any way to go.”