by Neta Jackson
He looked away. I waited, but expected any moment to hear him say, “That’s okay. Thanks, anyway, but I’ll be all right.” But he didn’t say anything. And after a few long moments, he nodded.
He was going to let me pray? I was so surprised, my mouth suddenly felt full of dry cotton. But I sank down on the arm of the couch, swallowed, and took a deep breath. “Dear God . . .” The words came out all hoarse and whispery. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Dear God, Philip is hurting right now. He’s made some big mistakes and now he doesn’t know which way to turn.
Lord, I’m asking You to give him some wisdom—wisdom that comes from You. That verse in Proverbs says that if we trust in You instead of our own understanding about things, You will show us the right path. So I’m praying for Philip right now, that he will trust You to show him the way, and that You will answer our prayer. Amen.”
Only then did I realize I’d left my hand touching his shoulder during the prayer. I withdrew my hand, slid off the arm of the couch, and started once more for the gallery. Behind me I heard him murmur, “Thanks, Gabby,” but without replying I slipped out the front door and closed it behind me.
Dandy wiggled all over when I brought him to work the next morning to spend time with Lucy, so I left the two buddies together and went downstairs, eager to talk to Estelle, who’d come in early to care for any needs Lucy might have. “Heard you and Harry had lunch with Philip and the boys at the Baxters’ on Sunday!” I blurted, leaning on the kitchen counter. I didn’t say so, but I was presuming she hadn’t broken off her engagement with Harry over the weekend if they’d had Sunday dinner together at the Baxters’.
“Mm-hm.” She handed me a potato peeler, a potato, and one of the ugly kitchen hairnets. Estelle believed in putting people to work who wanted to talk to her while she was cooking in the Manna House kitchen. “Harry and I moved Leroy into the nursing home on Saturday, so Jodi figured neither of us had any time to cook. I appreciated it. Sure did.”
“Oh, Estelle! I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask about Leroy yesterday. I was so rattled about getting Lucy to the doctor and finding a place for her to stay while her ankle heals that—”
“Stop, Gabby.” Estelle held up the big knife she was using to chop potatoes. “We all got stuff goin’ on. It’s all right. Leroy’s in a safe place for now. Insurance will pay for a month. Then we’ll have to figure something else out.”
Huh. Maybe I better keep on praying that “something else” wouldn’t mean something foolish like giving Harry his ring back. “Did, um . . . did Harry tell you about his talk with Philip when he drove him back to the penthouse Sunday evening?”
“Mm-hm.” She glared at me. “Are you going to peel that potato or not?”
“Oh, right.” I peeled furiously for thirty seconds. “Did he really offer to be Philip’s sponsor if Philip started going to GA?”
“That’s what he said.” Estelle handed me a couple more potatoes. “But if that’s what you’re concerned about, you should just call Harry and talk to him directly.” Then she eyed me. “How did you know that? Did Philip tell you?”
I nodded. “He said Mr. B talked to him straight about his gambling addiction, just like alcohol or drugs or anything else.”
“Hm. Surprised he told you. Maybe he’s serious about dealing with it.”
“Yeah, surprised me too. He said it made him hopeful—but that lasted about two seconds.” I told her about the letter that had arrived Monday notifying Philip he was being sued by Matty Fagan—loan shark, crook, and felon. “And that’s the second one. His business partner is suing him too. Philip was a basket case last night, Estelle! I had no idea what to say to him. He’s caught like a fly in a spider web. But—I did pray with him.”
Estelle’s chopping knife stopped in midair, a smile spreading on her face. “You go, girl! That’s the only thing goin’ to give that man some hope, if he just give the whole mess to God—including his own messed-up self—and let God work a few miracles.”
She pushed a bag of potatoes across the counter to me, but I pushed it back, along with the peeler. “I need to get back to work. We’re trying to expand the afterschool program, starting next week. Got a few interns from some of the city colleges looking for work. But I’ve only got a week to pull it together.”
I took off the hairnet and started to leave—then turned back. “Oh! Lucy’s birthday. I was thinking—we could do a lunchtime thing on Friday here at Manna House like we sometimes do. But if we did something Friday evening or over the weekend, maybe some other folks would be able to come, we could make it a real big deal. A surprise. But either way, would you be willing to make a banana cake?”
Expanding the afterschool program wasn’t the only thing hanging over my head. Shawanda Dixon and Celia Jones were supposed to move into the House of Hope this weekend, and neither one of them had any household furnishings. I spent the rest of the day sending out urgent e-mails to the list of churches that supported Manna House financially and the many volunteers who cooked suppers and donated supplies, attaching a list of household items ranging from bedroom furniture and bedding to pots and pans and dishes. Hopefully we’d collect the essentials, at least.
For some reason, I’d totally forgotten this was the last day of October—Halloween. Trick-or-treaters were already out in full force when I dragged myself wearily up the steps of the six-flat after work with Paul and Dandy. Tanya and Sammy were set up in the foyer with bags of candy to give out, both of them dressed in black tights, turtlenecks, and construction paper pointy ears to look—sort of—like black cats.
I thought P.J. would be home already now that cross country practice was over, but the apartment was empty. No book bag, no note. Nothing to indicate he’d been home and gone out somewhere. Huh. Should’ve talked about new expectations before this. Well, we’d do it tonight. And maybe it was time to get P.J. a cell phone so I could contact him—something I’d been putting off until it was absolutely necessary.
Paul had just taken Dandy outside for a short run when I realized the light was blinking on the answering machine. Oh, good. Maybe P.J. had left a message. But the caller ID on the handset said Philip Fairbanks. Oh dear. I’d said I’d call him today—but frankly, I still didn’t know what to say. I hoped he wasn’t upset that I hadn’t called yet. Only one way to find out.
I pushed Play. “Hi, Gabby. Just want you to know P.J.’s here. He showed up after school, but I didn’t want you to worry. Will Nissan will bring him home by six. Also, wanted to let you know that I’m giving up the penthouse. Talked to Martin today, should work out. He has some foreign guy—Japanese, I think—doing business in Chicago for a few months who wants to sublet. Guy wants it this weekend. But I also talked to my lawyer today. If I can get the money to pay off my loans, I might be able to avoid these lawsuits. I have an idea, but—well, guess you can pray it works out. All right, talk to you later.” Click.
What? I pushed Play and listened to Philip’s message again. How did P.J. get all the way up to Richmond Towers? Bus or El, probably. He just hadn’t ever done that before. And what was Will Nissan doing there again? He and Philip sure were getting tight. Nice kid, but—
Wait a minute. Will Nissan. He’s the one who said something about someone—his Great-Aunt Cindy, I remembered—running away when she was a teenager! So Lucy wasn’t the only one back then who struck out on her own, before they had shelters like Manna House. I shuddered. Wonder what happened to his great-aunt? At least Lucy survived—but there were probably a lot who didn’t.
I headed down the hall toward the kitchen, my thoughts returning to Philip’s phone message. Well, good riddance to the penthouse. I was surprised Philip kept it as long as he had. He could find a decent one-bedroom for a fraction of what the penthouse cost! Maybe a two-bedroom, since he’d need room for the boys.
I pulled a frozen pizza from the refrigerator. Didn’t feel like cooking tonight. Besides, I was gone all weekend and didn’t have time to shop. Well, I’d tell Philip
he was making a good decision to cut his expenses. A step in the right direction. But what did he mean about avoiding the lawsuits if he could pay off the loans? Where would he get the money to—?
The house phone was ringing at the other end of the apartment. I sprinted back down the hall and snatched it up. “Gabby here.”
“Hey. How’s my favorite redhead? You sound out of breath.”
My heart tripped a beat and I leaned weakly against the wall. Lee Boyer. “I really need an extension in the kitchen, that’s what. Um, how are you?”
“Missing you. But I’m wondering if I could fix that. Are you free Friday evening? I found a new Thai restaurant I’d like to try, but I don’t like eating out alone. Don’t like eating alone, period.”
My mouth went dry. A night out with Lee sounded like so much fun. But we hadn’t talked about where things stood with “us” since he’d walked away from our relationship that day in the hospital after Philip got hurt. Now he was acting as if it never happened.
“Gabby? You there?”
“Oh. I’m sorry, Lee, just . . . checking my calendar.” I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to think about the upcoming weekend. First weekend in November . . . Lucy’s birthday, which we haven’t planned yet . . . Shawanda and Celia moving in . . . and seems like there’s something else. I scooted down the hall and eyeballed the wall calendar in the kitchen. I’d written HOH potluck on Saturday evening. Oh, right. We’d decided to have a House of Hope potluck the first Saturday of each month. “Um, it doesn’t look good, Lee.” Drat. “We’re celebrating Lucy’s birthday on Friday evening, a couple of moms and their kids are moving in on Saturday, and that night we’re having a potluck meal here for the House of Hope residents.”
He barely skipped a beat. “How about Sunday, then? Sounds like you could use some time away from all those high-octane activities. We’ll be low key, I promise.”
Stop being a wimp, Gabby Fairbanks. Be straight with the man. “Uh, Lee. Dinner sounds wonderful. But to tell you the truth, I feel a little awkward going out on a date. Remember what happened at the hospital? You were forcing me to choose between you and Philip at an impossible moment. Then you walked out of my life like a movie rolling the last credits, and now suddenly, here you are again in the middle of the movie, as if nothing ever happened.”
Lee cleared his throat. “Point well taken. What do you say we talk about it—over dinner on Sunday?”
chapter 27
Why I said yes to Lee for Sunday, I wasn’t sure. Except . . . I wanted to. It would be something to look forward to after a busy, work-related weekend. And he agreed to talk. That was important. I was tired of playing games, juggling the relationships in my life like so many slippery balls.
P.J. shrugged when I asked why he’d gone to his father’s place after school. “Just wanted to see if he was okay. You know, those threats and stuff. He’s my dad, Mom! I was glad Will came by to check on him too. Dad shouldn’t be living by himself!” P.J. threw his arms out, his eyes angry. “I just wish—never mind. I got homework to do.” He grabbed his backpack and headed for his bedroom.
I didn’t ask what he wished. Was pretty sure I knew, and I didn’t want to get into a discussion about his dad and me—though I wondered if he’d been as worried about me after his dad kicked me out and took the boys to Virginia. But I shook off the thought and followed P.J. to his room. “Okay, I understand. You were worried about your dad. But I was worried about you. I didn’t know where you were. So let’s get this straight. Cross country’s over. Lacrosse doesn’t start till spring. We need to come up with a new afterschool plan. You want to try out for basketball? A school club?”
He shrugged again. “Not really. Can we talk about this later? I got, you know, work to do.” He dumped out his schoolbooks and flopped on the bed.
I waited one second . . . two. “All right. But for now you’ve got two options. Either come right home from school and call me when you get here, or call me to let me know your plans and where you’ll be. Agreed?”
P.J. rolled his eyes. “Call you? How am I supposed to—?” And then he must have seen me grinning. Because he jumped up and threw his arms around my neck. “Mom! Are you really going to get me a cell phone? Awriiiight!”
Well, I thought, as I headed for the kitchen, that hug was worth the price of a cell phone. Maybe I’d get an extension for the house phone while I was at it, so I didn’t have to keep running down the hall to the phone table by the front door—like now, because the phone was ringing. Again.
“Hi, Mrs. Fairbanks. It’s Josh. I was wondering—”
“My mother-in-law isn’t here, Josh.”
“Your who? Oh, right. I get it.” Josh Baxter laughed nervously. “All right, start over. Hi, Miss Gabby. Josh here. I was wondering if you’d like to come up to 2A and see how the work’s coming along. To tell you the truth, I could use some help painting, and I was wondering if there’s any chance we could put everyone to work tomorrow evening instead of having our household meeting.”
“I think that’s a great idea, Josh. We’ve all got the evening carved out of our schedules anyway. There are a few things we need to talk about, but I think we can put in a couple hours of painting and do that too. Do you want to call Precious and Tanya, or should I?”
I shanghaied both my sons to our “painting party” Wednesday evening, telling them they needed to get their homework done before supper—sweetening the deal by presenting P.J. with the promised cell phone. Pregnant Sabrina was only too happy to babysit Gracie Baxter instead of painting, as long as she could put the toddler to bed in their apartment on the first floor and not have to haul her big tummy up to the third. However, Tanya’s Sammy was not willing to be “babysat” while everyone else was having fun and begged Josh to let him help paint too.
Hm. An eight-year-old with a paintbrush? I left that one to Josh to figure out.
Josh had already painted the three bedrooms and the kitchen—nice, basic colors such as Eggshell, Robin’s Egg Blue, and Summer Mist. We decided to work from six thirty to nine, and then the adults would take a half hour for “household business.” At six thirty Josh had everything ready to go, putting all three boys to work on the long hallway, Precious and me on the living room, and Edesa and Tanya in the bathroom while he worked on trim.
We didn’t get done by nine o’clock, but we stopped anyway and sent the boys to get themselves a snack and off to bed. “Thanks a lot, everyone,” Josh said after we’d washed our brushes and rollers, tapped the lids closed on the cans of paint, and settled on the floor of the freshly painted living room in 2A. “I ought to be able to get most of the rest done before Saturday. I can finish the trim after the new ladies move in.”
I’d told Mabel not to come to our meeting tonight since we were going to paint, but I suggested we ask her to come back next week since we’d have new residents, just to go over the partnership with Manna House, which was handling the social services for House of Hope residents, as well as to reiterate the house rules for all concerned. “That way we’re not focusing just on Shawanda and Celia, but making it clear these are the guidelines and rules for everyone.” And, I thought, taking the pressure off me to be the “bad guy.”
“Humph,” Tanya sniffed. “I’m thinkin’ we gonna need to go over them rules at every household meeting. At Manna House, Shawanda was always sayin’, ‘Since when was that a rule?’—like she didn’t know it’d been that way ever since Adam.”
After spending three days with Shawanda at the Fall Getaway, I felt what the young mother needed was a basic daily structure with some free time built in for herself, away from the kids—maybe one evening out each week, plus a couple mornings of preschool for her little ones. I’d already told Celia Jones that I’d meet with her and Shawanda to help work out housekeeping chores, schedules, and basic responsibilities of sharing an apartment—but that didn’t need to be done at a household meeting where everyone else was present.
Next item of business: We’d alre
ady agreed to have a potluck supper on the first Saturday of each month. This time it would also function as a “Welcome to the House of Hope” for Shawanda and Celia. After asking who could bring what, I added, “I know it’s already a busy weekend with the move and all, but I just found out it’s Lucy Tucker’s birthday on Friday. What would you guys think of having a birthday party here Friday night—maybe the first birthday party she’s had for decades. Estelle said she’d make a banana cake.”
“Why not invite her to the potluck and just add the cake?” Tanya wanted to know. “Presto! Party!”
“I know. That makes a lot of sense,” I admitted. “Except that will also be our welcome meal for Shawanda and her babies and Celia and her granddaughter. I’d kind of like to do something special just for Lucy.”
“Sí, I agree.” Edesa smiled at me. “A real surprise, just for Lucy.”
Precious jumped in. “Why not at Manna House, though? She can’t get around that good right now anyway. Take the party to her instead of having it here.”
“Well, sure, we probably could. Except—” Why was I pushing beyond the obvious? It’d be more work to have the party here. “I guess I’d like to do it someplace besides the shelter to . . . I don’t know . . . to make it more personal and homey. She’s been bouncing between the streets and the homeless shelter most of her life. I want more for Lucy—even at this late stage.”
Tanya rolled her eyes. “It’s just a party. Ain’t gonna change Lucy’s lifestyle. Once that ankle heals, she’ll be right back out on the street. But”—she shrugged—“fine. I ain’t got nothin’ else goin’ on Friday night.”
Precious nodded. “Yeah. Makes for a full weekend—but no big deal. I ain’t complainin’. Whatchu want me to do?”
Once we’d decided to throw the party, Precious, Tanya, and Edesa really got into it, brainstorming ideas to make it fun. Who to invite was a little sticky, since we couldn’t invite all the residents at Manna House. We finally decided to ask all the residents to sign a colorful poster card, which could be presented to her the following day, but keep the actual party to staff and their families. Well, Mr. B and DaShawn weren’t exactly Estelle’s family yet, but close enough.