by Neta Jackson
“Gabby? What’s going on?” Oh no! Lee! I’d forgotten to call him again! “You were going to call me and let me know when we could see each other this weekend. If you don’t want to see me, I wish you’d call and tell me, rather than just giving me the silent treatment. So . . . ball’s in your court. But, Gabby”—his voice actually got tender on the answering machine—“let’s not ruin a good thing. You and me.”
I leaned my forehead against the wall. “Oh God,” I groaned, “what am I going to do?”
To my relief, when I finally did call Lee, I got his voice mail. Once again I apologized, told him I hadn’t intentionally not called him, but I was up to my eyeballs dealing with things at Manna House and the House of Hope and, I admitted, with issues surrounding Philip’s recovery. “Please be patient with me, Lee. I don’t mean to ignore you. But I’ve got a lot of things to figure out. Don’t call me right now—but I will call you sometime soon. I promise.”
I felt better after that, being honest with Lee and putting him “on hold” for the time being, rather than setting up expectations and letting him down.
But I got another surprise when Dandy and I got to work on Monday: Cordelia Soto and her kids were back on the bed list. “Dandy!” screeched Trina and Rufino, her first and second graders, like twin trumpets. “Miss Lucy tol’ us you were comin’!”
While the two dark-haired children fell all over the dog, I gave Cordelia a hug and gasped, “What happened? I thought you’d moved back to Little Village, with your brother or something!”
The Latina mother nodded, tears immediately puddling in her dark eyes. “Sí, I did. And mi hermano was good, wanted me to stay. He said la familia ayuda a la familia—you know, family helps family. But he’s got a new girlfriend, Norwegian or something, one of those real blondes with white lashes, ever seen that? Anyway, she was all in my face about crowding the apartment, always saying, ‘Shut up’ to the kids . . .” Cordelia shook her head. “Couldn’t take it anymore, Miss Gabby. I don’t want to stay where I’m not wanted.”
“Well, I want you,” I said firmly. “Let’s go talk.”
“What do you mean?”
I grinned at her. “We’ve got another apartment open at the House of Hope. And just last night we were praying about who God wanted to move in. See? You’re our answer to prayer!”
I started Cordelia on the necessary paperwork the city required, making sure she understood the apartment wasn’t ready yet—a week or two at the most—and then went to check in with Lucy before staff meeting. When I asked how the visit to her sister Maggie’s condo went, she shrugged. “Nice place. Ain’t no room for me there, though. The kid’s livin’ with her—ain’t right to kick him out.”
“Oh, Lucy, don’t worry about that. He’s a college student, he even said he’d like to live near campus. I think he was only living with his grandmother so she wouldn’t be alone. But if you live with her, she won’t be alone! That’s what Maggie wants.”
Lucy just shrugged again. “Can’t have no dogs, neither. Building rules.”
My exasperation level upped a few notches. “Well, you can’t take care of Dandy on the street either. Either way, he’s doing just fine with Paul.” Then my tone softened. “It’ll all work out for the best, Lucy. You’ll see.”
The next time Will and Maggie came to see Lucy, I pulled Will aside. “How did the visit go last week? Any progress in Lucy accepting Maggie’s invitation to move in?”
“I think so.” He grinned. “We invited her for Thanksgiving dinner. By then I hope to have my stuff moved out of the bedroom so she’ll know Nana really wants her to stay—oh! Did you know that the Baxters invited me to hang my socks up at their place till student housing opens up? Soon as Mr. Philip finds a place.” The young man laughed. “Kind of like musical chairs.”
Musical chairs. I smiled at the analogy as he rejoined his grandmother and Lucy. Except, I thought, when God’s providing the music, everyone gets a chair.
Philip called Tuesday night to tell me he’d found an apartment— a two-bedroom with a sun porch that he could use for an office. “I can move in right after Thanksgiving, so I’ll get that stuff out of your basement either Friday or Saturday.”
“I’m glad, Philip—that you found an apartment, I mean. And work? Have you heard anything from your dad?”
“Funny you should ask. No, haven’t heard anything about a Chicago division of the Fairbanks business—but then again, I didn’t expect to. Those wheels will grind slowly, knowing the old codgers who sit on the board.” He snorted a little. “But you know Peter Douglass—guess he’s on the board there at Manna House, and he’s also a good friend of Denny Baxter and Harry Bentley. Anyway, Denny says he’s looking for someone to manage his new products division at Software Symphony. Looking for someone with business experience, not so much software development. Denny said he’d put in a good word for me. What do you think?”
What did I think? I blinked back a few tears. Philip asking me what I thought about a job possibility was like a gully gusher after a long drought—that’s what I thought.
chapter 44
Thanksgiving . . .
When I peeked out the front windows of the sunroom Thursday morning, it looked like just another cloudy day in Chicago with periods of rain. But as the day progressed, the temperature hit the upper fifties and the sun poked through from time to time. Not too bad for the end of November.
I got up early to make the cornbread dressing and stick the turkey in the oven—basted with butter and rosemary and covered with cheesecloth, just like my mother used to season it—and had some quiet time curled up on the window seat with my prayer journal and coffee before the boys got up and House of Hope family guests started to arrive.
We’d agreed to start our progressive dinner around two o’clock, but the front door buzzer was ringing by noon, with the senior Baxters and Josh’s sister, Amanda, arriving, carrying pies and various snacking treats as their contribution to the feast. Philip came with the Baxters and showed up with flowers—brilliant yellow, orange, and rust-colored mums—not just for me, but four bouquets, which he delivered to each household. “Nice touch,” I teased. “Flowers will buy you dinner.”
Celia’s daughter showed up, sober as far as I could tell, and ten-year-old Keisha clung to her mother like an extra appendage, preening like a peacock every time she introduced her to someone else. “This my mama, her name is Cissy.” Cissy seemed embarrassed, but at the same time pleased to be included as part of the family holiday. From what Celia had said, it’d been many years since they’d spent a holiday together.
The only family member who showed up at Shawanda’s request was a cousin . . . male. I gave him a good once-over to make sure he wasn’t her midnight visitor masquerading as a relative, but DeWayne Dixon seemed legit, even brought a couple gallons of fruit punch to go with the molded Jell-O salads and Celia’s homemade dinner rolls that apartment 2A was providing. It was good to see him playing around with Bam-Bam and Dessa, who clung to his legs like leeches and kept demanding piggyback rides.
Precious didn’t have any family in Chicago, so we made an exception and let her invite a girlfriend. “She been more a sister to me than my own family anyway,” Precious had sniffed. “Sabrina been callin’ her Auntie Kim ever since she a baby.”
Tanya had invited an aunt and uncle who were supposed to come on the El from the South Side. When they hadn’t appeared by the time we were ready to start our progressive dinner, Josh and DeWayne Dixon offered to walk to the nearest El stop to see if they’d gotten lost, but Tanya snapped, “Don’t bother. Auntie Mae’s always late to everything. If she and Uncle Dee show up— fine. If they don’t show up—fine. I don’t care.”
I felt bad for Tanya. It was obvious she did care. How could we be the family she so desperately wanted—and needed—for herself and Sammy? Made me realize the House of Hope couldn’t fill all the empty spaces in the lives of our homeless moms. Sending up a quickie prayer—Bring her Auntie Mae
and Uncle Dee today, Jesus! Let her know You care!—I headed for the kitchen to baste the turkey one last time.
My cell phone rang as I pulled the turkey out of the oven. I flipped the phone open. The caller ID said Will Nissan. “Will? What’s up?” I had to stick a finger in my ear to cut out all the noise in the next room.
“Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Fairbanks, but I came to Manna House to pick up Lucy, you know, for Thanksgiving dinner at our place, and she’s not here!”
“What? Are you sure? Maybe she’s up in her room, or . . . or down in the dining room. Maybe she got confused and is having turkey dinner there at Manna House.”
“She’s nowhere in the building. Miss Williams and Mr. Bentley are both here, hosting the dinner for the residents, and they helped me look. Nobody’s seen her today. And another thing—her cart is gone.”
I closed my eyes and groaned. Lucy took off ? Disappeared? Oh God, not now!
“Will, I don’t know what to say. I am so sorry. She probably got scared. Someone from her family showing up after so many years, the whole idea of coming off the streets and living in an actual apartment . . . it’s probably overwhelming to her.”
Will was silent for several moments. Then he said, “Yeah, I know. I just hate . . . hate having to go back to the condo and telling Nana that her sister’s disappeared again. She’s been cooking for two days. It’s going to break her heart.”
“Oh, Will.” My own heart felt like it was breaking for them. But I took a deep breath. “Will, listen to me. Are you listening? Don’t give up. Keep looking for her. I can’t help you look for her right now, but we’ll find her. Or she’ll show up. She always does, eventually. If anything, I know one thing is true. Lucy needs you. She may not know it. But God does. He’s the one who helped you find her, and He’s not going to let you down.”
I was rattled by the news about Lucy, but it was already two thirty and the kids were clamoring to eat. So we all crowded into Celia and Shawanda’s apartment on the second floor to begin our progressive Thanksgiving meal with salad and bread—everyone except big-bellied Sabrina, that is, who refused to climb any stairs.
Holding hands in one big mob that only slightly resembled a circle, Josh welcomed everyone to the First Annual House of Hope Thanksgiving Dinner, joking that he was being allowed to say the blessing on the food, since as the lone adult male living in a building full of females and kids, it was the only time he got a word in edgewise. As the laughter died down, Josh gave thanks to our heavenly Father “. . . for the House of Hope, for the moms and kids, present and future, who will find a home here, and for our families, who give us the support we all need to make it through.”
“Don’t forget the food!” Sammy shouted.
“Amen!” we all added amid laughter and a few teary faces.
After taking the edge off our appetites with Shawanda’s layered Jell-O salads and Celia’s hot rolls with apple butter, Precious herded everybody down to the first floor, where we’d decided to open up both apartments at the same time, since we had the main course dishes—turkey and dressing in my apartment, side dishes in theirs. “Don’t save your paper plates,” Precious admonished. “We got new plates for each course—just like in them fancy buffets, ’cept ours is paper.”
I shanghaied Philip to carve the turkey, and he seemed grateful to have something to do as he wasn’t too comfortable with small talk. He served it elegantly from the beautiful mahogany table, even though our plates were Chinet, not china. The idea was for people to get their turkey and dressing in this apartment, then go across the hall to get their mac-an-cheese and greens. I had just helped Sammy and Keisha with their plates and was ushering them over to the other apartment when we ran into Sabrina standing stock still in the hallway holding her plate and a large plastic cup of fruit punch, staring in horror at a puddle at her feet.
“Ha ha, Sabrina spilled her punch!” Sammy sing-songed and dashed into the open doorway beyond her. Keisha giggled and followed.
“Oh, honey, it’s not a prob—” I started to say. And then I read the expression on her face. “Sabrina! Your water broke?”
The teenage girl nodded frantically. I quickly took her plate of food and cup, set them on the stairs, and guided Sabrina into her own apartment. “It’s going to be fine, honey. Just relax. We have time . . .” I ran into their bathroom, grabbed a towel, spread it on a chair, and helped her sit down. Then I ran back into my apartment. “Precious! Somebody get Precious!” I hollered. “We’re having a baby here!”
Josh and Edesa volunteered to accompany Sabrina and Precious to the hospital, so I gave them my keys to the Subaru, and Grandma Jodi said of course she’d stay with Gracie until they got back home. As Josh and Precious were helping Sabrina down the steps of the six-flat, they passed a bewildered middle-aged black couple who looked as if they’d come to the wrong address.
“Are you Tanya Smith’s aunt and uncle?” I asked from the doorway. When they nodded, I said, “Come in! Come in! We just had a little bit of excitement, that’s all. Baby’s deciding to come into the world on Thanksgiving Day.” I laughed and beckoned them inside. “But I know Tanya will be happy to see you. There’s still plenty of food left.”
It was hard to concentrate on food and guests and cleanup knowing Sabrina was at the hospital having her baby and Lucy was still unaccounted for, but we managed to do justice to the pies the two Baxter families had baked for the party—pumpkin and apple and banana cream and mock mince.
Finally, at seven thirty that evening, we got the call. “Baby boy!” Precious crowed into my ear. “Six pounds, seven ounces. Looks just like me, I think. An’ Sabrina doin’ fine—though she screamed bloody murder pushin’ him out.”
“His name, Precious! What’s his name?”
“Sabrina still deciding. But right now, given the day he picked to make his grand entrance into the world”—she snickered—“we callin’ him Lil’ Turkey.”
Jodi and Denny and their college daughter, Amanda, were the last to leave, waiting until Josh and Edesa finally came home from the hospital. Which meant Philip, who’d come with them, also stayed into the evening, playing video games with the boys and talking to Denny.
When Josh and Edesa came home around nine—Precious was spending the night at the hospital with Sabrina and “Lil’ Turkey”— we all gathered in the Baxter apartment on the third floor to hear a play-by-play recount of the birth. But at one point Philip beckoned me aside. “Mind if I go down to the basement and take a look at the stuff I’ve got stored there? The apartment I’m renting is a lot smaller than the penthouse, and I want to get an idea of what’s going to fit where.”
“No problem. I’ll go with you.” I led him out the Baxters’ back door and down the outside stairs to the basement, pulling the light chains after unlocking the door.
Philip walked among the boxes, desk, chairs, china cabinet, bedroom and living room furniture stacked on wooden pallets, then turned to me. “No way all this is going to fit into the apartment I’ve rented. But maybe you can use some of it here. You should take what you want, Gabby—like the china and china cabinet. The cabinet is really a set with the dining room table. And you’ve got two more apartments to furnish here at the House of Hope, don’t you? Those ladies could probably use anything you don’t want or need.”
I stared at him. Philip was offering some of this expensive furniture and furnishings to homeless moms like Cordelia Soto? “Are you sure, Philip?”
He nodded. “I’ll take my desk and personal stuff, but I certainly don’t need three TVs.” He gently kicked a box marked “Bedroom TV” and grinned, looking like the teasing twenty-five-year-old who’d swept me off my feet that summer beside the Fountain of Three Graces in Montpellier, France.
“I’m sure we can use it somehow . . . though I don’t know about the, um, king-size bed. That won’t fit in these apartments either.” My face suddenly felt aflame. Our marriage bed.
Philip didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then, “Y
ou know what day tomorrow is, don’t you, Gabby?”
I nodded but couldn’t speak. November 24, 1990 . . . our wedding day sixteen years ago. I’d been trying not to think about it.
He stuffed both hands in his pant pockets—gray Dockers with a casual gray-and-black pullover sweater—and leaned against the king-size bed frame. “Feels weird to be moving into my own apartment on our sixteenth anniversary. But . . .” He shrugged. “I’ve accepted that’s how it is right now. Still, I was wondering, would you be willing to go out to dinner with me tomorrow night for our anniversary? After the move, I mean. I’d like that.”
I almost gasped at the bizarre scenario. Six months ago our marriage had crashed and burned . . . I’d ended up in a homeless shelter . . . he’d ended up a casino junkie and victim of a beating by a ruthless loan shark. But here we were, standing in the basement of a vintage Chicago six-flat where I lived and that had become a House of Hope for several homeless moms and their kids, surrounded by the boxes and furniture of our old “penthouse life” together, with plans for him to move into an ordinary apartment where he was going to live . . . asking me to go out to dinner because it was our sixteenth wedding anniversary.
I was close to laughter—or tears. Wasn’t sure which. But I nodded. “Yes. I’d like that.”
chapter 45
I wasn’t scheduled to work at Manna House on Friday because of the holiday weekend, but I did promise Will I’d help him look for Lucy for a while. Another moderate day in Chicago—some clouds, some sunshine, a sprinkle now and then, upper fifties— which meant she could be anywhere.
And this time she was alone, without Dandy. An old bag lady with a yellow dog was easily remembered—but an old bag lady alone tended to be invisible. Realizing she didn’t have Dandy also sapped some of my confidence that she’d show up back at Manna House sooner rather than later. As long as she had the dog, I knew she’d be back to refill her bucket of dog food every week or so from the Hero Dog stash we still had at the shelter.