Where Do I Go?

by Neta Jackson

  Could always ask Mr. Bentley. Who else did we know? Camila, the maid? Well, I would, but I didn’t have a phone number for her, only the cleaning service, and I was sure they wouldn’t give out Camila’s personal number.

  Who, then? The Fenchels? I rolled my eyes. If Mona Fenchel were the last person on earth, I wouldn’t ask her where to find a church.

  So that left . . . the people at Manna House. Well, why not? They were familiar with the city. Someone would remember me from yesterday.

  I peeked into the den. Philip was deep in thought, a spread-sheet on his computer screen. I picked up the bedroom extension, dialing the number Mr. Bentley had given me. A bright voice on the other end answered, “Manna House.”

  “Hi. This is Gabby Fairbanks. I visited Manna House yesterday—”

  “Oh, yes, I remember. This is Angela. The receptionist.”

  “Yes, of course.” The Asian-something girl. At least now I knew her name. “Uh, this might sound like a strange request, but we’re new to Chicago, and I’m wondering if you could recommend a church for us. Tomorrow’s Easter, you know.”

  “Well, uh . . .” There was a long pause. “I don’t know where to begin, Mrs. Fairbanks. There are a lot of churches. Depends on what you want, you know, Methodist or Baptist or—”

  “Where do you go, Angela?”

  She giggled. “I go to a Korean-speaking church. I’m sure you’d be welcome, but I don’t know how much you’d get out of it.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. This isn’t going anywhere. I tried not to sound exasperated. “What about Mabel Turner? Or that young couple, the Baxters. Do you know the name of their church?”

  “Mm. Not sure about Ms. Turner. But Josh and Edesa . . . all I know is that some folks from their church are coming here tomorrow night to lead our Sunday Evening Praise. SouledOut something or other.”

  “Coming there?” Well, that was a thought. “In the evening, you said. Well, thanks, Angela . . . oh, what time?”

  “Six o’clock,” she said. I clicked the Off button. Not exactly Easter Sunday morning. But something inside me said, Go.

  Maybe it was time to get the rust off that God connection.

  chapter 7

  To my surprise, Philip got up early the next morning—well, early for a Sunday—and said he was going for a run. “Henry goes to the gym,” he grunted, tying his running shoes. “Might as well take advantage of the jogging path before those thunderheads get serious.” He winked at me. “Send out the hounds if I’m not back in an hour.” The door closed behind him.

  I gave him two minutes to ride the elevator and cross the frontage road to the parkway; then I went to the wall of windows to watch his shiny blue warm-up jacket and matching shorts heading for the underpass. He reappeared moments later, a tiny blue dot, heading south along Foster Avenue Beach.

  Maybe I should go for a walk too. But I had second thoughts when I saw the large thunderclouds piling up over the lake. Breathtaking . . . but I’d had my fill of coming home soggy and chilled to the bone. Besides, it was Easter Sunday and I really should call my mom. She’d been alone two years now since Dad died. That was another thing that made me mad at God. Why a heart attack at seventy-two, for heaven’s sake?! Noble Shepherd had kept working at the carpet store he’d owned for over forty years until “Mama Martha,” as the locals called her, put her foot down and said it was time for them to enjoy some retirement, buy a motor home, take the Alaska Highway, do something before they had to hang it up.

  They never did buy that motor home.

  I sighed and hunted for the cordless. At least my mom was young enough to manage on her own. I was the youngest of three, a “happy accident,” Daddy used to tease—though they hadn’t been very happy with me when I dropped out of college, got engaged to a man I met in France (whom they met for the first time at a lavish Virginia wedding), and settled in that foreign country called The South.

  I finally found the phone in the cushions of the wraparound couch where I’d talked to the boys the day before. At least we were Central time now, same as most of North Dakota. I dialed.

  The phone picked up on the other end. “Hello?”

  “Happy Easter, Mom.”

  “Oh! Happy Easter to you too. I’m so glad you called, honey. I thought about calling you, but didn’t know about the time difference in Alaska.”

  “Mom! It’s Gabby. I’m in Chicago, remember?”

  My mother seemed flustered. “Oh, well, that’s right. You’ll be leaving for church soon, I suppose.”

  Even though that’s exactly what I’d been wanting to do, I felt a tug of irritation. “We just moved here, Mom. Haven’t found a church yet.”

  “Well, sure. But I bet there’re some good Easter services on the TV. How are the boys?”

  That did it. I started to blubber and ended up having a good cry. Nothing like talking to your mama when you’re feeling homesick and missing your kids.

  When I hung up twenty minutes later, I picked up the remote to the plasma TV embedded in the wall and clicked it on. Sure enough, a large choir in white and gold robes was joyously singing, “Christ the Lord is risen today-ay, Ha-ah-ah-ah-ah-le-eh-lu-u-jah!” I got a fresh cup of coffee, tried two or three other channels, and finally settled on the Chicago Community Choir, taped earlier that week, singing Handel’s Messiah. The choir looked like a ten-bean soup packet, all sorts of colors and shapes. The choir wore white blouses and shirts topping black skirts or pants—except for the occasional blue shirt or orange blouse of someone who for-got the dress code. I closed my eyes and just listened as the majestic music took over our living room.

  Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows . . .

  He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised

  for our iniquities. The chastisement of our peace was upon

  Him . . .

  and with His stripes we are healed . . .

  “Whooee. What a run!” Philip’s voice broke into the choral music. “I’m starving. Is breakfast ready?” Flushed and sweaty, my husband stuck his head into the living room. “What’s this?”

  I held up my hand for quiet. I wasn’t ready for Philip to return.

  . . . All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all . . .

  In the background, I could hear stuff being banged around in the kitchen, and minutes later the shower running in the master bath. Well, he could just wait for breakfast or get his own. Why did he expect me to jump up and take care of him? It was Easter Sunday, after all. And right now I was mesmerized by the familiar and yet strangely new words and music . . .

  How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things! . . .

  Humph. My own feet were tucked up under me, pretty much not caring if my husband got any breakfast or not.

  “Bring glad tidings of good things?” Oh well, why not. I reached for the remote, turned down the volume, and pushed myself off the couch. By the time Philip got out of the shower, shaved, and appeared dressed in khakis and a sport shirt, I had batter sizzling in the waffle iron, frozen strawberries thawing in the microwave, and a fresh pot of coffee dripping.

  He grinned and pecked me on the back of the neck. “Smells great. Say, what do you want to do today? I know I’ve been busy all week. What say we take in the Art Museum? Or the Museum of Natural History? Something indoors anyway. Day’s going to get nasty.”

  That kiss on the back of my neck melted all my defenses. I perked up, practically purring. “Do you mind doing Natural History?” After all, I was a North Dakota girl, more at home with animals and geologic formations than great masterpieces. But this was perfect. Spend a quality day with Philip—and then tell him I wanted to attend the Sunday Evening Praise service at the Manna House Shelter for Homeless Women.

  Getting out of the backseat of a taxi in heels and trying to get an umbrella up at the same time took more coordinat
ion than I was born with, but somehow I managed to get up the steps and into the door of Manna House just before a huge flash of lightning and a twin crack of thunder threatened to kill me on the spot.

  Maybe Philip had been right, telling me I was stupid to go out in this storm. After that comment, my courage had faltered and I’d been rather vague about exactly where I was going. “To this church nearby that has an evening service.” Well, the building did look churchy, didn’t it?

  “Mrs. Fairbanks!” Mabel Turner turned away from the group she’d been talking with in the foyer and extended a welcoming hand. “How delightful to see you. I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

  “Gabby, please.” I returned her warm handshake. “Yes. I called Manna House wanting some suggestions of where to attend Easter services, and the receptionist—Angela?—kindly told me about the, uh, service here tonight.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. We have a Sunday Evening Praise service here every week, hosted by different churches. Our residents really enjoy it, and of course guests are more than welcome. Avis! . . . Avis and Peter, I’d like you to meet someone. And bring C.J. with you.”

  Mabel motioned to the attractive African-American couple she’d been talking to earlier, and they approached smiling, along with a sullen-faced black kid, maybe thirteen or fourteen. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure if the youth was a boy or girl. Hair braided tight to the head all over in a unisex style, jeans, sport warm-up jacket, and a heartbreaker face.

  “Gabby, I’d like you to meet Avis and Peter Douglass and”— Mabel pulled the youth into a hug—“this is C.J., my nephew. Say hello, C.J.”

  C.J. mumbled “hello” and shook my hand limply. Okay, nephew. That answered that.

  “And this is Gabrielle Fairbanks, a newcomer to Chicago who stumbled on us by accident . . .” Mabel suddenly looked at me and then burst out laughing. “Oh! That was unintentional. But funny, oh yes, very funny.”

  By this time, Avis and Peter were looking a bit bemused. So I had to explain about tripping over Lucy in the park and coming to the shelter later to see her. We all laughed, and Mabel finally finished her introductions. “Avis comes with the worship team from SouledOut Community Church once a month to lead our Sunday Evening Praise, and Peter is one of our board members. Oh—I think we’d better let Avis go. The praise team looks like they’re about ready to begin. C.J., go sit down.”

  We pushed through the double doors into the multipurpose room, following in Avis’s wake, who excused herself with a whispered, “Nice to meet you, Gabrielle.” The couches and overstuffed chairs had been pushed aside and folding chairs set up, though many of the residents were still milling around, getting coffee from the coffee urn, or chatting loudly in their seats. Several men and women with instruments—an electronic keyboard, saxophone, and two guitars—were looking around as if wondering how to get everyone’s attention.

  Another window-rattling crack of thunder did the trick. “Praise the Lord, sisters—and brothers too!” Avis called out in greeting. “It’s Resurrection Sunday!”

  Several people responded loudly: “That’s right! Hallelujah!”

  “We can’t let the rocks cry out in our place—or in this case, thunder.” Several residents snickered. “If Jesus Christ can sacrifice His own life so that we can live, we can bring Him a sacrifice of praise.”

  Turned out that was the title of the song, but I didn’t know the words, so I just hummed along as best I could. It was hard to make out the words over the saxophone, anyway. I wasn’t alone. Only about half the shelter residents sang along, and many of those were mumbling. Sacrifices of thanksgiving? Sacrifices of joy? Hmm. If the only bed I had was a bunk in a shelter, I might be able to drum up a sacrificial “thanks.” But joy?

  When was the last time I felt joy? A smile tickled the corners of my mouth. Running barefoot in the sand a couple of days ago, sending the gulls fluttering like dancing girls with gauzy white scarves. Yes, that was joy. My prelude to that strange encounter in the park with a metal cart belonging to a bag lady under a bush—

  Lucy. I glanced quickly around the room but didn’t see her. Oh Lord, she’s not out in this storm, is she? No, no, surely not. She’d find shelter somewhere . . . wouldn’t she? But I did see lanky Josh Baxter and his cute wife, Edesa—a poster couple for racially mixed marriage. A white man and woman stood next to them, the woman holding baby Gracie and nuzzling her affectionately as the singing group launched into a new song. Josh’s parents, if I had to take a guess.

  Interesting. Did the Baxter clan go to this SouledOut Community Church too? If so, this church certainly had a mixed group of people. The praise team had both blacks and whites too.

  The next hymn was more familiar. “Up from the grave He arose!” I wasn’t used to singing without a hymnbook, but I’d sung this one many times growing up, and it was also a staple when we made our Easter appearances in Petersburg. The guitars and sax gave it a rather funky flavor, though. Even the tinny piano at my home church in Minot, North Dakota—not to mention the majestic organ at Briarwood Lutheran—seemed more appropriate somehow.

  We finally sat, and the woman who’d seen right through my claim to buddyness with Lucy in the lunch line two days ago—Carolyn, I think Precious had called her—stood up and read from a paperback Bible. “For we died and were buried with Christ by baptism. And just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glorious power of the Father, now we also may live new lives.” She read several more verses, which basically said the same thing in more words, then lifted her head. “That’s from Romans, chapter six. Amen.” And sat down.

  What was her story? I wondered. Pallid skin, middle-aged, thirty pounds too heavy, slicked-back brownish-gray hair worn in a ponytail, but quick on her feet, and she read smartly. Obviously not a high school dropout. But why homeless?

  After the Bible reading, Avis Douglass gave what she called a short devotional on the meaning of “new life.” She was certainly an attractive black woman—hair swept up into a sculpted French roll, black pantsuit, silk blouse, very professional looking. Her husband wasn’t bad either. Salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, dark gray flannels, black open-necked shirt. I caught him eyeing his wife with a little smile.

  “Jesus didn’t rise from the dead just to prove He was God,” Avis was saying. “There was one reason, and one reason only, that Jesus came to earth, went to the cross, and rose from the dead—and that was to take the death penalty for our sins, so that we might have new life. New life for me, new life for you.”

  Oh sure, I thought. Easy for you to say. You have a good-looking husband, probably have a good job. You seem happy. But what about all these women here? No man, no family to take them in, no home . . . not much hope of a new life here.

  I was startled by my thoughts. Good grief. Who was I to pit this Avis Douglass person against these women? Look at me . . . Philip and I lived on a six-figure income, we just bought a pent-house, I arrived here tonight in a taxi. I didn’t grow up rich, but we weren’t poor either. Never missed a meal in my life. So what in the world was going on?

  Only later, after the service was over, after I met Josh Baxter’s parents—a friendly couple who seemed to kid around with each other and laugh easily, even though they had to be married longer than Philip and me—and after I was back in the taxi alone with my thoughts, did I realize why I had reacted so cynically to Avis’s devotional.

  Even though we had just moved to Chicago, it didn’t feel like a new start or a new adventure or a new opportunity or a “new life” to me.

  In fact, I wasn’t sure I had any kind of life at all.

  chapter 8

  Philip was in the den with the phone to his ear when I came in. I could tell he was talking to his mother. I waved a hand to get his attention. “Boys okay?” I mouthed.

  “Just a sec, Mom.” He looked up with exaggerated patience. “The boys are fine, Gabrielle. Dad took them back to the academy this afternoon”—and then he turned back to the phone, his desk chai
r swiveling so that his back was to me.

  What’s wrong with this picture? I muttered to myself, stalking off to the bedroom. We should be telling the grandparents that our boys are fine—not getting the news from them. And why hasn’t Mrs. Fairbanks talked to me about the boys? . . . though I knew perfectly well the answer to that. Philip’s mother had been less than enthusiastic about his son’s rash decision to marry “that girl from North Dakota.” “It was France,” I overheard her tell a guest on our wedding day. “Men don’t think straight in France. The place is so quixotic, the first girl they meet, they think it’s love.” And her friend had said, “You’d think he would have fallen for a French girl. I love a French accent, don’t you?”

  Well, howdy. I’d barely made it through France with my Trav­elers’ Guide to English/French Phrases. So what? I was the mother of the Fairbanks grandchildren, and that ought to count for something!

  I slammed the bathroom door on “something” and decided I needed a long soak in the tub. Running the water as hot as I could stand it, I found a bottle of bubble bath and shot a stream of golden liquid under the gushing faucet. Sliding under the bubbles until only my head and my knees poked out of the water, I wondered if this was how a crocodile felt, poking its eyes up out of the water and scoping out the territory. My eyes traveled around the room, the marble wall tiles, the glass-enclosed shower, the marble counter with two sinks—and no windows, thank God. I didn’t need any reminders that this crocodile pond was thirty-two floors deep.

  I flicked a bubble that floated past my knees, then another, bursting all that came within fingernail reach. Story of my life . . . bursting bubbles. First there was Damien . . . even now I got goose bumps remembering his dark lashes, lopsided grin, hair falling over his forehead like an Elvis clone. He was top banana of the pep squad at school, and had the same rah-rah attitude at the Minot Evangelical Church youth group. Even the mothers at church loved him, blushing when he paid attention to them. “That color brings out the blue in your eyes, Mrs. Rowling” or “That’s your grandson? You don’t look old enough to be a grandmother, Mrs. Talbot!” Oh, how puffed up I felt when he chose me—a mere junior—to go to his senior banquet. He used to love my curly hair, which I wore long in high school, twining it around his fingers, pulling my head back gently so he could kiss me . . .