by Neta Jackson
A quick shower, a long simple dress in royal blue, a quick blow-dry to my damp curls, a touch of mascara and blush, and I finally felt able to present myself to our guests. Philip looked me up and down with a hint of approval. I relaxed. “I apologize for that little snafu.”
Philip’s new partner threw back his head and guffawed. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.”
Philip grinned, as if they shared a private joke.
Whatever. I extended my hand to his wife, who looked like the prototype for white female actors on all the cop shows: blonde hair to the shoulder, “pretty” features, business suit with short skirt, willowy legs, high, pointy heels. “Guess I need to start at the beginning. I’m Gabrielle. Most people call me Gabby. And you are—?”
The woman laid long, limp fingers in my hand, her eyes drifting somewhere past my ear. “Mona. Mona Fenchel,” she murmured. The manicured fingernails fluttered in the air. “Lovely penthouse. Really. Lovely.”
Yeah, and your husband’s going to get an earful on the way home. “Who do they think they are, these Fairbanks? Buying a penthouse along Lake Shore Drive! And they’ve been in Chicago all of one minute. Did you see her when she came in? And what kind of name is Gabby? She’s nothing but a hillbilly from—”
“Well, I’m delighted,” boomed a voice, cutting off my imaginary rant. Mona’s husband, tie loosened, shirt collar unbuttoned, shook my hand firmly. He looked about Philip’s age—forty-one—a little fleshy about the face. “Henry Fenchel. Don’t you worry about your little, heh-heh, snafu.” A wink in Philip’s direction. “These things happen. Homeless people all over the city these days. But they don’t do too bad now that the weather’s warming up. Downright industrious, some of them, selling the Streetwise newspaper on every corner downtown. But others . . .” He shook his head. “You can take them off the street, but you can’t take the street out of them.”
I did my best to smile brightly and be the perfect hostess, whisking the cold salads Camila had prepared to the buffet and rescuing the hot food from the warming oven. I lit candles on the teakwood dining room table, Philip poured wine, and the men chatted. I tried to engage Mona Fenchel in conversation—How long had they been in Chicago? Did they have family here? Would she like more of the beef tips and rice?—but not once did she look me in the eye.
I was relieved when they left. The grandfather clock solemnly bonged out ten chimes as the door closed behind them. The apartment was suddenly silent. I turned and saw Philip standing in the middle of the marble-tiled gallery, hands in his trouser pockets, jacket open, looking at me. “Let’s talk, Gabrielle.”
Uh-oh. Now I was going to get it. I sat on a hassock in the living room and tried once more to explain that I’d thought I had plenty of time, I didn’t know it was about to rain, the old woman seemed sick and had no shelter . . .
But Philip couldn’t get past his bottom line. “You knew I was bringing my new partner and his wife home to dinner. You knew this was important to me!”
I nodded meekly. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Philip.”
But my apology only seemed to trigger a long list of my sins. Did I know how long he’d had to keep them in the den, refreshing their wine glasses while I did my little goody-two-shoes thing? . . . He was lucky Henry Fenchel had a sense of humor, thought the whole thing was amusing . . . But I had certainly offended the wife—something you just don’t do in business partnerships . . .
Again I said I was sorry. And I was. The whole thing was inconsiderate of me, and my good intentions had certainly backfired. I assured Philip I wanted his new business venture to succeed, and I would make it up to him somehow.
But we still went to bed with our backs turned to each other.
As Philip’s steady breathing turned into soft snores, I lay awake staring into the unfriendly darkness, trying not to think about the fact that we were lying prone, thirty-two floors above terra firma, like being levitated by an unseen magician. Instead, I tried to count the days until P.J. and Paul could join us here in Chicago. Mid-April now . . . middle school graduation at the academy near the end of May . . .
But in the darkness, a wrinkled face with alert, darting eyes kept appearing in my mind’s eye.
Lucy.
Did she get to the shelter all right? Was she safe in a bed with actual sheets and blankets? What would happen to her tomorrow? She still needed to see a doctor for that awful cough. Would she go? Would someone take her? Or would she end up back out in the park under the bushes?
I felt a surge of anticipation. Once Philip went to work, I’d get on the phone and try to call the shelter. No. Even better. I’d take a taxi, go to the shelter, and find out for myself.
chapter 3
Daylight filled the muted Vienna shades like a bar of white chocolate. Mmm. Chocolate. My stomach rumbled. Must be time to get up. I flung out an arm . . . and realized Philip’s side of the bed was empty.
What time was it, anyway? I squinted at the red digital numbers on our bedside clock. Eight twenty?! I tumbled out of the king-size bed and into the bathroom. I never slept this late! In fact, I was usually up before Philip, trying to make a decent break-fast and eat together before he left for work—though more often than not, he just took a couple of bites of scrambled eggs, grabbed his coffee and bagel, and dashed out the door after a peck on my cheek.
Gargling a shot of mouthwash and running a brush through my snarly hair, I grabbed my bathrobe from the back of the door and headed down the hall, hoping to find Philip before he was off for the day. But the house—apartment? condo? flat? What in the world did one call this oversize tree house?—was eerily silent. Padding into the living room, I pulled the cord on the floor-to-ceiling drapes. Drat. Cloudy and gray. But up here in the stratosphere, I couldn’t even hear the traffic below. No treetops interrupted the sky. Only other tall, glitzy residential buildings and hotels to my right and left, standing at attention along Lake Shore Drive while life scurried along down below.
In the kitchen, a note was propped on the coffeemaker. “Gabrielle, remember we’ve got a theater date tonight, 7:00. And no bag ladies!” Then he’d added a PS: “Forgot to tell you the maid comes to clean on Fridays, 9 a.m.”
What maid? Every Friday? Good grief, what else did I have to do except clean the house? The stove digital said 8:40. Oh, great. So much for a leisurely cup of coffee. I hopped into the shower and then pulled on a clean pair of white capris and a rose-colored cotton sweater. With an eye on the clock, I made the bed and plumped the shams. No way did I want some girl from Maids R Us thinking I couldn’t even make my own bed.
The intercom chimed while I was drying my hair. I buzzed the security door downstairs, feeling smug that I’d accomplished so much in just twenty minutes. Two minutes later, the doorbell rang. I pulled open the door. “Oh! Camila!”
The round-faced Latina who had prepared our buffet dinner so expertly the night before stood beaming in the hallway, a snug gray cardigan her only wrap. “Buenos días, Señora Fairbanks.” She held a bucket full of cleaning supplies in one hand and a mop in the other.
For some reason I felt like throwing my arms around her and giving her a hug. A familiar face! But I just grinned and let her in. “Please, just call me Gabby. We . . . I . . . uh, I’m not sure what to tell you to do. We only moved in last weekend. There are a lot of boxes still in the spare bedrooms.” I laughed self-consciously. “We haven’t been here long enough to get it dirty yet, but—”
“No problem, Señora Fairbanks. I cleaned for the people who owned the penthouse before you. And”—she hefted the bucket, chuckling—“I brought my own cleaning supplies today. In case yours are still packed. Where would you like me to start?”
“Uh . . .” My mind scrambled. “The kitchen, I guess . . . oh, no, uh, I still need to eat breakfast.” For some reason, I felt my face flush. Camila had probably gotten up at six, eaten breakfast already, and traveled to Richmond Towers from who knows how far away, while the spoiled rich lady barely h
ad her eyes open.
I felt like screaming at my husband. Don’t embarrass me like this!
Camila started in the living room and the den, courteously giving me time to finish in the bathroom and make a fresh pot of coffee. As I perched on a kitchen stool, munching a toasted bagel at the marble counter, she bustled past me toward the bedroom. A moment later I heard her call out, “Oh, no, no, señora, you don’t have to make the bed. I need to wash the sheets on Friday.” I heard the muffled sounds of the bed being stripped.
So much for making the bed. So much for first names, too, I guessed.
I finished my coffee, put my dishes in the dishwasher, and wiped the counter, listening with frustration to Camila’s happy humming coming from the other room. What in the world was I supposed to do with myself while she cleaned? I couldn’t unpack boxes—that would get in her way.
At least back in Virginia, I’d been raising the boys, driving them to school and sports, helping them with homework, and volunteering at the League of Women Voters. And, oh yes, the Petersburg Garden Club, thanks to a membership from my mother-in-law. A weekly cleaning lady seemed justified then . . . especially when I went back to school to complete my credits as a certified therapeutic recreational specialist—much to Philip’s amusement, who thought a CTRS was a fancy name for fun and games.
But it stood me in good stead landing the job as a recreational therapist at the Briarwood Senior Center. Especially when Philip registered Philip Junior at boarding school two years ago. He’d only been eleven, going into sixth grade. And last fall, Paul had joined him, emptying the house of my heart.
At least I’d had my job, something that made me feel useful. Needed. Filled the long days and hours.
Hot tears rose up unbidden, thinking of P.J. and Paul. Oh God, I miss them so much. I grabbed a napkin, dabbed my eyes, and blew my nose. Good grief, they were still just boys, only thirteen and eleven. So what if the Fairbanks males “always” attended George Washington Preparatory Academy? They had Shepherd in them, too, and Shepherds went to school half a mile from home, like everyone else, wearing jeans with holes in the knee, and sporting a tie only at weddings and funerals, if then.
I slid off the stool. I had to get out of here. But go where? Do what? And then I remembered.
Lucy.
That’s it! I was going to find that homeless women’s shelter and see if they’d taken her in. Just inquire how the old lady’s cough was doing. Tell the staff how we’d met in the rain. Laugh about it. Say hello and good-bye.
Grabbing my purse from the coat closet in the gallery, I ran down the hall and poked my head into the master bath, where Camila was scrubbing the shower. “Camila? I’m leaving now. Do you know how long you’ll be? If I’m not back, can you just lock the front door behind you?”
She waved a hand ensconced in a yellow rubber glove. “No problem, Señora Fairbanks! Sí, you go. Everything will be fine.”
Thankfully, Mr. Bentley was on duty again, though he pursed his lips and frowned when I asked if he would call a cab for me and find the address again for that same homeless shelter where he’d sent the bag lady last night.
“Now, what you want to go there for, Mrs. Fairbanks? Have you been to State Street yet? Or”—he glanced outside—“well, guess it’s not the best day to go up the Sears Tower. Clouds too low. But how about North Michigan Avenue? Lots of shopping there.”
I tried to keep impatience out of my voice. “Please, just call a cab, Mr. Bentley. And get that same address, if you would.”
The cab pulled up in front of a brick church squeezed between other two- and three-story buildings. I peered out the window. “Is this it? Where—?”
“This is the address, lady.” The cab driver pointed at the church. “Building burned down a couple of years ago. That one you see there is brand-new. Don’t know why they put in that stained-glass window an’ stuff. The old building hadn’t been used as a church for years, much less this one. You want me to wait?”
I looked at the meter. $7.85. I handed him a ten. “No, thanks.” I got out and stood on the sidewalk. Seemed like it had taken barely five minutes to get here. Must not be that far from Richmond Towers. Maybe I could walk back.
As the taxi pulled away, a stab of doubt weakened my resolve. I didn’t see a sign anywhere saying “Women’s Shelter.” Several broad steps led up to a set of double oak doors, flanked by stained-glass windows on either side. High above the doors, cradled by the peak of the building, the wooden beams of a cross stretched top to bottom and side to side inside a circular stained-glass window.
Not far away I heard the metallic rattle of the elevated train, catching my eye as it passed over the street a couple of blocks away. I craned my neck to see what else was on the block. Most of the buildings seemed to be two- and three-story apartment buildings, though to the right of the church building was a Korean grocery, a Pay-Day Loan, and a twenty-four-hour Laundromat, with apartments above.
A young couple with a baby in a stroller turned the corner by the Laundromat and walked briskly toward me. He was white; she was black. Interesting. That would raise a few eyebrows back in Petersburg. I stepped aside to let them pass, but they stopped.
“Hi.” The young man spoke first. “Can we help you?”
“Oh. Well, yes, maybe you can. I’m looking for a”—How dumb was this going to sound?—“um, a women’s shelter that’s sup-posed to be around here.”
The young black woman laughed as she bent down to pick up the baby from the stroller. “Well, you found it!” She tipped her chin toward the oak doors of the church, cradling the baby on her hip. “Come with us. We’re going in.”
She spoke with a Spanish accent, sounding like the cleaning woman, but Camila had creamy tan skin as I supposed most Hispanic-Americans had. This woman was dark skinned, with loose, black corkscrew ringlets caught back from her forehead by a broad, bright-orange cloth headband. And her whole face seemed to laugh—a wide, bright smile and dancing dark eyes.
“Josh, grab the stroller, will you?” The young mother skipped up the stairs. “Come, niñita, let’s go find Auntie Mabel.” She pulled open one of the oak doors and disappeared inside.
Was Josh the baby’s father? He seemed so fair, sandy hair down around his collar, looking more like a college kid than any-thing else. The mother was definitely black, and the baby . . . hard to tell. Creamy tan skin, dark hair, but loose and curly. Well, daddy or not, Josh obediently folded the little umbrella stroller with a kick to the brace between the wheels, darted up the stairs, and caught the door before it closed, holding it open for me.
I followed, but only as I got to the top step did I see the simple brass plaque beside the doors that said Manna House.
chapter 4
Inside, the stained-glass windows on either side of the double oak doors filled the foyer with prisms of color and light. Large plants standing on the floor softened the large square entryway. In the open doorway of an office to my left, the young mother, still bouncing the baby on her hip, stood talking to an older black woman in a black skirt and soft, lime green sweater.
“Hi, Mabel. We have a guest,” the young man announced.
“Oh, I am sorry. I did not introduce myself!” The younger woman shifted the baby and extended her hand. “My name is Edesa Reyes Baxter”—she dimpled at the young man—“and this is my husband, Josh Baxter. And this is Mabel Turner, the director of Manna House.”
The baby in Edesa’s arms let out a squeal and grabbed her mother’s ear for attention.
“Oh, hush, hush, mi niña.” Edesa Baxter unhooked the baby’s fingers, laughing. “I would not forget you! This is Gracie. God’s miracle gift to Manna House.”
What an odd thing to say, I thought. Wait a minute. Does the baby belong to the couple? Or is she homeless and staying at the shelter? No, that couldn’t be. But why—
My thoughts were interrupted by the director, who shook my hand firmly. “Can we help you in some way, Mrs. . . . ?”
She
must have seen the wedding ring on my left hand. “Gabby Fairbanks. Actually, um, I was looking for an older woman I ran into yesterday. She had a cough and was sitting under a bush in the rain. She said her name was . . . um, her name was—” For some reason, I totally blanked.
“Ah! You must mean Lucy.” Mabel smiled. “So you’re the mysterious person who sent her here by taxi. I think she’s still here. Josh, would you check to see whether she signed out?”
Josh Baxter sauntered over to the receptionist’s cubicle on the other side of the foyer—a glass-enclosed cubby with an open window into the foyer, and a wide ledge on which lay a big notebook. Suddenly I felt foolish. What in the world was I doing here? I half hoped the old woman had signed herself out. If she was here, what would I say? How are you? . . . Fine. . . . How’s your cough? . . . Fine. Or worse. Whatever. And then our “conversation” would be over.
Oh, suck it up, I told myself. I was here now. Might as well just do it. I smiled, trying to look self-confident. “That would be nice. I was just concerned about her. Uh, do you have many women staying here?”
Mabel Turner shrugged. “It varies. We have beds for forty-eight residents—but that includes a few with kids, who we try to put in a room together as a family, if possible. Some stay for two weeks or two months. Longer than that, we try to find transitional housing. Sometimes they just disappear back onto the street. Especially when the weather gets warmer.”
Residents. She called them residents. I needed to remember that.
“Lucy didn’t sign out,” Josh called over. “Guess she’s still here.”
“I’ll find her.” Edesa shifted little Gracie to her other hip. “I’ve got fifteen minutes until I lead Bible study. Would you like a tour of Manna House, uh—I’m sorry, I forgot your name already.” She seemed genuinely flustered.
“Gabby. Short for Gabrielle.” I smiled reassuringly. “That’s all right. You’ve got your hands full.” I followed her through the double swinging doors into a large room. “Gracie . . . that’s a pretty name. How old is she?” I was fishing, I knew.