by Neta Jackson
I was half tempted to invite Philip to the party—ha!—since Lucy had played a big role in “upsetting the apple cart” of our lives after that day in the park when I’d tripped over her in the rain and ended up bringing the bedraggled bag lady up to the penthouse. Oh, you are so bad, Gabby, I chastened myself. But it was kind of funny—in a weird, sad way—to remember the look on Philip’s face and the dropped mouths of Henry Fenchel and his snooty wife, Mona, whom Philip had been trying to impress.
But I did call Philip on Thursday morning, just to see how he was doing and to ask if he’d had any luck apartment hunting. I got the answering machine on his house phone. No answer on his cell phone either, so I left a voice mail. Should I be concerned? I decided, nah, he’d probably gone into the office, which he still insisted on doing two or three times a week in spite of Henry’s lawsuit—or maybe to spite Henry because of the lawsuit. I’d try again later.
Which I did after lunch. Still no answer on either phone. Odd. But it was Harry’s phone call that evening that put me over the edge.
“Hey there, Firecracker. Do you happen to know where Philip is? He agreed to go with me to a GA meeting tonight, so I stopped by to pick him up—but Gomez at the desk said he hadn’t seen him. Gomez called the penthouse, but no answer. He’s not answering his cell phone either.”
My heart thudded. “Something’s happened,” I whispered hoarsely. “Do you think we ought to call the police?”
“Maybe, given the threats he’s been getting. But he’d have to be missing a lot longer than twelve hours for the police to take it seriously.”
“I’m scared, Mr. B.”
“Hey, hey, don’t get worried yet. He probably just forgot—or got chicken. He’ll turn up. You’ll see. I’ll ask Gomez to let me into the parking garage, see if his car is there. If not, he’s probably just out somewhere. He’s been driving with that broken arm, hasn’t he?”
But I was worried. This wasn’t like Philip—at least not recently. God, please don’t let Philip be hurt. Protect him, Jesus. You’ve started to do a work in his heart—and he needs You, Lord, whether he knows it or not!
I wandered into P.J.’s room, where my oldest was doing homework on his bed, plugged into his iPod. “P.J.?” I had to raise my voice to get his attention. “P.J.!”
“What?” He pulled the earbuds out and looked at me.
I sat down on the edge of his bed. “Honey, I’m trying to call your dad but haven’t been able to get hold of him. Did he say anything on Monday when you were over there about going somewhere this week?”
P.J. shook his head. “Just that he was going to look for another apartment.”
“Did he say anything else? Did he seem worried about work? You said he talked to his folks over the weekend and seemed upset about something.”
“Yeah, but that was the weekend. He talked to Nana on Tuesday while I was there, and Dad seemed real happy then.”
Philip’s mother had called . . . Philip seemed real happy . . .
I suddenly felt lightheaded, as if a whirlwind had picked me up and spun me around. “Uh, P.J., do you remember whether he talked to Nana before or after he called me to let me know where you were?”
“Why would that matter? But . . . had to be before because he was talking to Nana when I got there and he called you later.” P.J. gave me a funny look. “Is Dad okay?”
“I’m sure he is, honey. Just trying to figure out how to reach him, is all. Sorry I bothered you. You want a snack or anything?”
P.J. shook his head and stuck the earbuds into his ears. I slipped out of his room and closed the door behind me. Something Philip said in his phone message Tuesday niggled at me. Was it still on the machine? Or had I erased it?
I scurried to the house phone and pressed the Play button. Whew. Still there. I listened carefully—there. That part. I replayed it again: “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.”
What idea? Pay off his loans? Get money where?
And suddenly I knew. Marlene Fairbanks probably cashed in some stocks or something and bailed out her son. But I had a bad feeling about it.
Just then the phone rang twelve inches from me, making me jump. I snatched up the handset, glanced at the caller ID, and pressed Talk. “Harry? Is Philip’s car there?”
“No, but—”
“Then I think I know where he might be. I’m sure his mother sent him some money, but I’m guessing he hasn’t used it to pay down his debts.”
“I know.”
“What do you mean, you know?”
“Philip just called me five minutes ago. He’s down at the Horseshoe Casino in Indiana. That much money was just too big a temptation. He’s already lost some of it—so he called, sounding desperate, asking if I’d come drag him out of there before he loses it all.”
Having my suspicion confirmed sent me over the edge. “He’s at the Horseshoe? The spineless jerk! I don’t believe this!”
“Gabby girl, wait. This is good. Yeah, he went to the Horseshoe. But he called me. Don’t you realize what a big deal that is?”
“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know. I guess. But if he realizes what he’s doing, why doesn’t he just leave? He has his car.”
“You gotta understand addiction, Gabby. This is huge. He knows he doesn’t have the willpower to leave on his own, so he did the next best thing. Called for help. I’m on my way to pick up Denny Baxter right now, so one of us can drive his car home. Hang in there, Firecracker. Talk to you later.” Click.
The phone went dead in my ear.
chapter 28
I leaned against the wall, then slid to the floor, my head on my knees. My emotions ricocheted like a steel pinball—from relief that Philip wasn’t lying dead in an alley somewhere, to fury that Marlene Fairbanks would just give her perfect-son-who-can-do-no-wrong a large wad of cash, to disgust that my oh-so-smart-husband would actually go back to the casino, thinking he’d solve his money problems with one big win. And finally, deep, aching disappointment that Philip hadn’t changed after all.
Except . . . Harry said this was good. Said it was huge.
Oh God, I groaned. I’m so confused. Are You really in control here? I’m trying to trust You, Lord, but I don’t see any way out of this mess.
I didn’t even know what to pray next. Maybe I should call Jodi. This was when I needed a prayer partner—someone who knew how to pray—and if Denny was driving down to Indiana with Mr. B to pick up Philip, she had to know something about what was going on.
I picked up the phone—but at least I had the presence of mind to take it into my bedroom before making the call. The boys didn’t need to hear me rehashing what I’d just heard from Harry Bentley. Not yet, anyway.
I woke up before my alarm Friday morning, surprised to see daylight peeking through the slats of my blinds. Ah, yes, thanks to the end of Daylight Saving Time last weekend, the sun now rose an hour earlier, and for a few more weeks before the dark days of winter set in, I could enjoy sunlight in the early morning.
But in spite of dawn’s welcome light, something felt wrong. It took a moment or two before I realized what it was.
I still hadn’t heard back from Harry Bentley.
Throwing back the covers, I shivered in the chilly air until I’d pulled on my cozy fleece robe and stuck my feet in a pair of slipper mocs, then padded out to the kitchen to make coffee. Should I call Harry? It was only ten after six—too early. But had they found Philip at the Horseshoe? Had he gambled away all his mother’s money before Harry and Denny got there? Did he go home with them—or did he have just enough luck by the time they arrived that he’d changed his mind and refused, dying to try his luck again.
Dying is right.
Glancing at the clock once more, I realized I still had half an hour before I had to get the boys up. Coffee in hand, I headed for the sunroom, but on the way down the hall I reali
zed Dandy was whining inside Paul’s bedroom door, so I took him outside briefly to pee, shivering in my robe and slippers. Yi yi yi, it was cold this morning, sun or no sun! What were Lucy and Dandy going to do when it got even colder? I shook away the thought. Couldn’t deal with the Lucy-and-Dandy Problem right now.
Back inside, I curled up on the window seat with my Bible, swathing myself in one of my mother’s afghans while the geriatric furnace in the basement chugged and wheezed, attempting to summon enough heat to bring the apartment to a livable temperature. Dandy settled down on the floor with a sigh, nose on his paws.
Praying with Jodi had helped the night before—but the same troubling questions crowded into my mind again this morning. Philip had told me he was subletting the penthouse and getting a cheaper apartment, but as far as I knew, he hadn’t found anything yet. That Japanese businessman was supposedly taking over the penthouse this weekend—and today was Friday! Which meant Philip would be homeless in twenty-four hours.
Homeless and broke.
Huh. I should be laughing with glee. Talk about poetic justice!
But knowing my husband was on the cusp of finding himself in the same position he’d put me in a few months ago didn’t give me any satisfaction. I felt sad. And angry. Angry and sad.
In spite of what Harry said, Philip taking his mother’s money to the casino seemed like a betrayal of all the promises he’d made in the past few weeks, all the good steps he’d taken, all the positive signs of a changed man—
“How could you, Philip Fairbanks?!” I hissed through gritted teeth. Only after the words were out did I realize I’d spoken aloud. I listened. Whew. No noise from the boys’ bedrooms.
Wasn’t sure why I was so upset. It wasn’t like he’d used my money. And right now, what happened with Philip’s money, or his business, or with those lawsuits, didn’t affect me directly. I had my own bank account—modest, but adequate. My own apartment— not fancy, but nice enough and on the first floor. My own job—not very prestigious or high-paying, but work that was meaningful to me. So why . . . ?
Had I gotten my hopes up? Had I allowed for the possibility that we could maybe one day be a real family again? That my husband would care for me? Hold me and kiss away my tears and fears? Be a real, everyday dad for the boys—not just a weekend father? The four of us, sitting down for supper, sharing chores, planning our summer vacation, just an ordinary family, facing the ups and downs of life together?
At that, tears slid down my face and fell on the cover of my Bible. I wiped off the wet splotches. What were those verses Jodi told me to look up last night? I’d told her this whole situation with Philip made me feel like a lost cat, out in the rain, no place to go, nobody to take me in. Which made no sense, really. Maybe four months ago, when those things were literally true, but not now. And yet . . .
Shelter. She’d told me to look up the word shelter in my concordance at the back of my Bible and see what I found. I still had ten minutes before getting the boys up, so I flipped to the back of the Bible. A few moments later I was in Psalm 61, underlining the words of the psalmist who seemed to know exactly how I felt: “Hear my cry, O God; listen to my prayer . . . as my heart grows faint. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For you have been my refuge . . . I long to dwell in your tent forever and take refuge in the shelter of your wings.”
“Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.” I smiled. That was like the gospel song that had become “my song” the past few months, the one that asked, “Where do I go when the storms of life are raging?” and answered, “I go to the Rock!” Yeah. But then the image changed. The psalmist said he longed to take refuge “in the shelter of your wings.” Nice.
Psalm 91 was next: “He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’ . . . He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.”
Another image of taking shelter under the wings of God. I thought about that, imagining a baby bird snuggling under the wings of its parent while those amazing, resilient feathers kept out the wind and rain and cold. Not an impersonal shelter of boards and nails, but a shelter close to the mama or daddy bird’s beating heart.
As I read and reread these verses, a sense of peace soothed the ruffles in my spirit, even though all the unanswered questions were still there. God had certainly been my shelter in the past few months, in more ways than one. I just needed to flee there again when the storms came. Stay there. Rest there . . .
Oh God, my heart cried. If only Philip could find that shelter too!
I got the boys up, fed, and off to school before I called Harry Bentley, but I got his voice mail. Rats. He was probably taking DaShawn to school. I left a message for him to call me at Manna House ASAP and tried to concentrate on what I had to do that day. Two student interns were coming from one of the city colleges today to observe our bare-bones afterschool program and talk with Carolyn about our proposed expansion and how they could plug in. I was also scheduled to meet with Shawanda Dixon and Celia Jones after lunch to talk about their move into the House of Hope tomorrow, and help them map out a workable arrangement for sharing the apartment, cooking and cleaning responsibilities, and expectations about child care and behavior issues, among other things.
And then there was Lucy’s party—tonight!
It was hard not to call out, “Happy birthday, Lucy!” when I got to work, bringing Dandy with me to spend the day with her. But I pretended it was just an ordinary day, asked how the ankle was coming along, and disappeared downstairs. At least she couldn’t come down to the dining room where Estelle would be making her cake. Hopefully she couldn’t smell the bananas either.
I had invited most of the staff yesterday, swearing them to secrecy. Tanya and Precious were shopping for paper goods, ice cream, and punch, and decorating my apartment. Edesa and Josh were in charge of planning a few games, like a real birthday party.
But in spite of the distractions, I dived for my office phone when it rang. Finally! “Harry! Are you guys back? Did you find Philip? Is he—what’s happening?”
“Whoa. Slow down, Firecracker.” Harry’s calm voice felt like a gentle hand on my shoulder, encouraging me to sit back down. “We found Philip. In fact, he was pacing back and forth in the foyer just outside that big room with all the slot machines. The moment we got there, he handed us a big roll of bills and a stack of chips— asked us to pocket the money and cash in the chips, to get them out of his hands.”
“Chips? What’s that mean? Did he win them?” I knew next to nothing about gambling.
“Don’t think he won anything. You have to buy the poker chips and use them instead of cash. Anyway, he gave us what was left. We cashed them in, found his car, and left right away. I drove Philip’s Lexus—that’s a real nice ride, by the way”—Harry chuckled in my ear—“and Denny drove my RAV4 back. Philip was rattled, Gabby. It was late by the time we got to Richmond Towers, but we saw him up to the penthouse and stayed awhile to talk.”
“Did he tell you he’s subletting the penthouse and has to be out this weekend?”
“Yeah. He needs to pack and get out, so Denny said Philip could stay at their place for a few days, give him some time to look for an apartment. We’re—”
“You’re kidding. He’s going to stay with Jodi and Denny Baxter?”
“Think so. He seemed open to it, for a few days anyway. He got to know them a bit last weekend while you were out of town, you know, kinda broke the ice. I tell ya, Firecracker, now’s a good time to pray. The man’s at the end of his rope—an’ if he don’t hang himself with it, he might just let God use it to pull him outta the hole he’s in.”
Philip and God? I wished. Mr. B sounded a lot more hopeful than I felt.
Harry didn’t seem to notice that I’d gone quiet. “Look, I gotta go. I’m supposed to be gettin’ a few guys together to move his stuff tomorrow. Philip said that kid,
Will Nissan, volunteered to help too. But he’ll need some place to store it till he finds an apartment. Baxters don’t have any room.” The older man’s voice took on a fatherly tone. “Now, don’t get too bent out of shape by this, Firecracker. You probably don’t know, but I fell off the wagon not too long ago, tried to drown one of my problems with a couple hours in a bar. Then I did what I should’ve done in the first place—told my Bible study brothers. See, it’s what you do when you know you can’t do it on your own that counts. Philip called me, remember? Keep that in mind—and keep your chin up.” The line went dead.
I sat at my desk a long time, thinking about Harry’s phone call. My fingers itched to pick up the phone and call Philip myself. Okay, I’d try not to get “bent out of shape,” but as far as I was concerned, he had a lot of explaining to do. He was still stuck at square one with a truckload of debt and two lawsuits hanging over his head. Oh yeah, and a pocketful of money from his mother. So what was he going to do? How was he supposed to be a decent father to his boys while he was tangled up in this mess?
He needed a plan, and he needed it now.
I reached for the phone—but was interrupted by two raps on my office door, followed immediately by Shawanda sticking her head in. “Hey, Miz Gabby. Bam-Bam was fallin’ apart so I put him down for his nap early. Any chance you, me, and Miz Celia could talk now ’stead of after lunch—while he sleepin’? ’Cause when he wake up, I gotta run out, get some female necessaries—”
My hand pulled back from the phone like it was a hot potato. “All right, Shawanda, if that works for Celia too. Meet you in the TV room in five minutes.”