by Neta Jackson
I glanced at the clock. Ten past five. “It starts at six?”
“Give or take.” She laughed. “Depends on when the band arrives. Are you coming? We’d love to see you.”
Band? Maybe she just meant the musicians, like last week. “Thanks, Edesa. Maybe I will! But I called to see if Mabel is there. She around?”
“Mm, haven’t seen her, but she usually shows up for Sunday Evening Praise. That woman doesn’t know how to take a whole day off!—oh, must go, Mrs. Fairbanks.” I could hear Gracie screaming in the background. “Precious is waving wildly. Where Josh is, I have no idea. Adiós!”
The phone went dead. But I was already making up my mind. I quickly changed into a black jersey dress, multicolored cinch belt, and dress boots, touched up my makeup, and grabbed my trench coat. “Philip?” I poked my head into the living room. “Mind if I take the car? I’d like to go to church tonight.”
He half turned his head as a batter swung. When the ball sailed out of bounds, he looked my way. “Church? Now?”
No sense beating around the bush. “Actually, it’s a worship service at Manna House. Different churches come in each Sunday evening. A Spanish church tonight. Could be interesting. Would you like to come with me?” Did I really say that? For a nanosecond, I panicked. What if he said yes?
“Honestly, Gabby. Isn’t this a bit much? Good grief, if you want to go to church that bad, I’m sure there are decent churches around Chicago—oh! Oh! Oh! That’s a homer! Go, man! Go!” The action on TV grabbed his eyeballs and let me off the hook.
I crossed to the couch, kissed him on the cheek, and grinned. “I assume that’s a no. Don’t worry, I won’t be late. I have my cell.”
This would be my first time driving in Chicago, but I wasn’t worried. Straight down Sheridan Road . . .
It was just the parking that was bad. I had to park the Lexus two blocks away from the shelter. The dense residential neighborhood, mixed with small businesses and eateries, had few garages, just street parking. Not a problem now, but it might be dark when I started home.
The band must have arrived in good time, because the music was already loud and joyous when I entered the foyer at six fifteen. From the doorway I saw a lively group of young Latinos playing guitars, tambourines, a trombone, and a conga drum. The multipurpose room was packed tonight, and everyone was on their feet, moving and clapping. I didn’t recognize the song—they were singing it in Spanish—but my feet certainly felt like tapping.
To my left, the door to Mabel’s office suddenly opened and she came out, followed by a stocky man in a dark suit and tie, clutching a Bible.
“Oh! Gabby!” Mabel said. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. But I’d like you to meet Reverend Carlos Álvarez, pastor of Iglesia Cristiana Evangélica, who is leading our worship tonight. Reverend Álvarez is a member of our board . . . we were just praying together before he speaks tonight. Reverend Álvarez, this is Mrs. Gabrielle Fairbanks.”
A wide smile showed off two gold teeth hiding among his molars. The pastor tucked his Bible under his arm and took my hand in both of his. “Ah! Señora Fairbanks. I’m delighted to meet you.” Still holding my hand, he turned to Mabel. “So this lovely woman is our prospective program director?”
chapter 14
Prospective program director? My eyes darted to Mabel as the pastor took his leave for the multipurpose room. Did he mean—?
Mabel held me back a moment. “I was going to call you tomorrow morning and ask you to come in for a second meeting.” Her tone was low, confidential. “But since you’re here, can you stay a few minutes after the service? We can talk then, save you a trip.” She smiled, gave me a little squeeze, and left me to find my own seat.
Now I was thoroughly confused. Rev. Álvarez acted like I had the job—or practically. Prospective was the word he’d used. But Mabel said we needed a second meeting. Was that why she hadn’t called?
Precious, standing in the back row with her teenage daughter on one side, was waving at me, pointing to the empty chair next to hers. Josh Baxter was walking back and forth behind the last row, bouncing a wide-awake Gracie in his arms. He nodded hello and smiled as I slipped past him—stepping over the feet of Hannah the Bored, who had confiscated one of the overstuffed chairs pushed against the back wall and was sitting on her tail-bone, feet stuck out, arms crossed, eyes closed—and dumped my shoulder bag and coat on the chair next to Precious.
“Hey ya, Miz Gabby. Ain’t this great?” Precious grinned at me, clapping along to the beat of the band and joining in on the occasional aleluyas that peppered the Spanish gospel song. “One of these days I’m gonna get Miz Edesa to teach me Spanish.”
I nodded and smiled. But my mind was such a jumble, I didn’t really pay much attention to the worship going on around me for the next fifteen minutes. Hardly any of the music was familiar, even the songs sung in English. But when Rev. Álvarez stood to speak and people settled into the odd array of folding chairs, I tried to focus. No sense getting myself stirred up. What was so unusual about two interviews for a job, anyway? Actually, it was usually a good sign when you got called back.
Rev. Álvarez called out something in Spanish as the band put down their instruments. Edesa Baxter, looking very American in her skinny jeans and nubby green sweater over a black tank top, translated. “How many of you have ever been hungry?” Murmurs and nods went around the room. Nearly all the residents held up their hands.
The pastor spoke again, and Edesa translated. “There are many kinds of hunger—hunger for food, hunger for love, hunger for God . . .”
Back and forth they went, first in Spanish, then in English. “Ever notice how what you feed on affects you? . . . If you eat junk food, your body suffers . . . If you’re starved for love, your spirit dies . . . If you don’t feed on God’s Word, your soul shrivels up.” Heads nodded, and a few améns popped around me.
Rev. Álvarez opened his big Bible, then nodded at the band members, who dug into a box and started passing out paperback Bibles. “These Bibles are a gift to you from Iglesia Cristiana Evangélica,” Edesa translated, “so that we can all feed on the Word of God together. Some are in Spanish, some in English. Just say which one you want.”
The teenager I’d seen on the nurse’s visiting day—last name was Menéndez, I remembered that much—eagerly waved her hand until she got one of the Spanish copies. Precious leaned over at me. “You got a Bible, Miz Gabby?” she stage-whispered.
“Uh, at home, sure. Still packed, I’m afraid.” Good excuse, anyway. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure where my Bible was—the one my parents had given me for high school graduation with Gabrielle Shepherd embossed in gold on the leather cover. Still in mint condition, if I could find it. It hadn’t occurred to me I’d need a Bible tonight. Hardly anyone carried their Bible to church back at Briarwood Lutheran. The text was always printed right in the bulletin.
Precious caught the attention of the trombonist, who was still handing out English Bibles, and held up two fingers. She handed one to Sabrina, slouched in the seat beside her, and the other to me. I took the paperback, but my face heated up like a hot flash. Precious was just a bit too zealous looking out for me, as far as I was concerned.
The text was Psalm 103, verses 1 through 5. It took people helping each other or looking it up in the table of contents at least five minutes to find it. But Rev. Álvarez was patient, pointing out something in his Bible and talking quietly in Spanish to Edesa, who nodded eagerly. I sighed. Why don’t they just get on with it?
But Rev. Álvarez never did preach a sermon. What happened next was more like a poetry reading plus prayer meeting plus therapy session. The pastor invited different volunteers to read each verse, after which he said we would turn the verse into a prayer—all of which Edesa translated for us.
“I’m with that.” Precious stood up and read the first verse. “Praise the Lord, O my soul! All my inmost being, praise His holy name!”
The pastor prayed in Spanish, afte
r which Edesa translated: “El Señor, sometimes I have to tell my heavy soul to praise You. Wake up, soul! Pay attention!”
Precious nodded vigorously. “Uh-huh. Got that right. Don’t wait for Sunday to get your praise on!”
Volunteers among the residents were slow in coming, so Mabel Turner read the second verse. “Praise the Lord, O my soul! And forget not all His benefits.”
The pastor lifted his face, eyes tightly shut, visibly moved as he prayed in Spanish. Again Edesa translated: “Oh God, how easy it is to look at all our problems and forget all the good things You have given each and every one of us.”
I squirmed, unsure this would go over with women who had no home, no money, no health care, no—
“Who forgives all your sins—” someone read.
“Oh, Jesucristo! This is the greatest benefit of all! No matter how far we stray from You, You welcome us back and cover our darkest sins with Your blood of forgiveness!”
“—and heals all your diseases,” the same person finished.
Ouch, I thought. Most of these women aren’t the healthiest specimens around. Thanking God for healing might come across a bit hollow.
Señor Dios, our bodies are broken, and we have abused “ them,” Edesa translated as the pastor prayed. “Give us the strength and wisdom to stop our bad habits, to take care of this holy temple where Your Spirit lives. We also ask healing for the diseases in our spirit—resentment, anger, bitterness, pride—which are the cancers of the soul.”
I heard someone weeping . . . and then another.
The reading went on, back and forth, phrase by phrase. The weeping was getting louder. But the pastor pointed to another reader to read the last verse: “Who satisfies your desires with good things, so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s!”
His prayer in Spanish. Then Edesa’s translation: “Oh God, we long to recapture the years stolen from us that we have so easily given to the enemy. Thank You, Dios, for all these benefits, wrapped like gifts at Christmas, just waiting for us to receive them. Amen and amen.”
“Whew. That was quite a service.” I sank into a chair in Mabel Turner’s office. Some of the women were still in the multipurpose room, crying and praying with Pastor Álvarez.
Mabel closed the door and sat down at her desk across from me. “Yes. Pastor Álvarez has led Sunday night service here before, but nothing like this.” She seemed distracted, head averted toward the other room as if listening. But finally she looked back at me. “I’m sure you want to get home. Let’s get to business . . .”
I sat up straight and crossed my ankles. Yes, this was business. She put on a pair of reading glasses and picked up my application. “The board was impressed with your credentials and experience, even though it hasn’t been that many years—”
I flushed. “Yes, I finished my degree just a few years ago.” I bit my lip. Should’ve finished it back in 1990 instead of marrying Philip so quickly—but I’d already plucked that chicken. No point shaving it again.
“Before finalizing the decision, the board would like to follow up on the references you provided, and get a chance to meet you—don’t worry, nothing formal. Actually, you already met Peter Douglass—Avis Douglass’s husband, who was here with her when she preached last Sunday night. And it was serendipity that Pastor Álvarez got to meet you tonight. But there are three other board members—another pastor here in the city, one of our social workers, and the former director, Reverend Liz Handley, who just retired.” She smiled mischievously. “That’s how I got my job.”
My insides sank a little. So I still had to wait for an answer. How long would it take for these “informal meetings”? I’d been hoping—
“The main thing they recommended is that you spend a week just hanging out here at Manna House, getting to know the residents, talking to the staff and volunteers, and developing a sense of what the needs are. Then, if your references don’t turn up a warrant for your arrest or that you’ve got a second job as a call girl”—she said this with a totally straight face—“we’ll include this get-acquainted week in your first week’s pay. So . . .” Mabel looked at me over the top of her reading glasses. “How would you like to start tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow!” I couldn’t help the happy screech. So what if the first week was a trial balloon! “Absolutely—oh.” I suddenly remembered my promise to Philip. “Uh, is it possible to start out part-time?” . . . and ended up explaining the whole tension with Philip starting up his business and wanting me to be “available.” Whatever that means.
Mabel chewed on her pen. “Tell you what. We’ll start at thirty hours and make the hours flexible.” She smiled wryly. “We all work flexible hours anyway, Gabby. Manna House is a twenty-four- hour operation, remember?”
A knock interrupted our laughter. Josh Baxter stuck his head inside the door. “Edesa and I are about ready to leave, Mrs. Turner. Wondered if Mrs. Fairbanks wanted us to walk her to the train.”
“That’d be great.” I gathered my coat and shoulder bag. “Except I drove. Would you mind walking me to my car?”
The prayer meeting had dispersed. The band had packed up and gone home. The couches and chairs had been arranged back into their “conversational groups.” A few of the shelter residents were playing cards, others stood around talking, while some slouched on the couches with unreadable expressions.
Excitement tickled my chest. Tomorrow they would have names. I’d have permission to talk to Carolyn, Tina, the Menéndez girl, and Hannah the Bored.
Gracie had fallen asleep in the stroller, her loose, dark curls peeking out from the blanket as we walked toward my parked car. Edesa was bubbling about the “church service” that evening. “Josh, did you see? I had a chance to pray with Aida, that pobrecita who came in last week. She wouldn’t talk, just cried. But she let me pray for her.”
I was curious. “She seems so young. How did she end up here at the shelter?”
“Don’t know the whole story,” Josh said. “But unfortunately it’s not uncommon. Foster kid, in and out of foster homes, most lasting only a couple of months. But when a foster kid turns eighteen? The state washes its hands. Okay, kid, you’re on your own. Aida literally had no resources, so she ended up at the shelter.”
“Good grief,” I murmured. “So young . . . and then there’s Lucy, who’s got to be in her seventies, at least. Still don’t know her story. By the way, how is she doing at your parents’ house, Josh? Lucy, I mean.”
“Ha.” He snorted. “She stayed two nights and then disappeared . . . what?”
I’d stopped short. The SUV was right where I’d parked it. The silver Lexus gleamed in the arching glow of a streetlight just above. But a beat-up two-door had squeezed into the parking space just behind and pulled up bumper to bumper. In front, an ancient Cadillac had backed up to Philip’s pride and joy, packing it in like the baloney in a sandwich.
“Uh-oh.” Josh walked from front to back of my parked car, as if measuring the inches. I looked around frantically, prepared to run house to house, knocking on doors, until I found the owners and got them to move their cars. But only the flat brick walls, locked doors, and dim windows of apartment buildings on both sides of the street stared back at me.
Josh shook his head. “This car isn’t going anywhere tonight, Mrs. Fairbanks.”
chapter 15
I could not believe this was happening to me! Pounding my fists on the car, I wailed, “I have to drive this car home, or Philip will shoot me!” Tears threatened to spill over, but I kicked the tires instead and muttered a few choice words under my breath, while Edesa and Josh stood there helplessly, letting me make a fool of myself.
Reality finally sank in, and I let the Baxters talk me into riding home with them on the El. “I’m sure the car will be fine till morning,” Josh said as we settled into our seats on the northbound Red Line. “You can come back and get it then. A bit of a hassle, but at least it wasn’t stolen or a window bashed in.”
Oh great. Tha
nks a lot. He has no idea.
I leaned my head against the cool window, eyes closed, dreading the confrontation I knew was ahead of me.
“Gabby?” Edesa’s soft accent tickled my ear. “Your stop is coming up. Would you like us to walk you home and pray together about the car?”
I didn’t answer, letting the squeal-and-clatter of the train wheels fill up the space. I’d give anything for them to walk me home. It was already nine o’clock and dark, and even though Sheridan was a busy street, I’d feel so much better not walking the three blocks to Richmond Towers by myself. But pray? I hadn’t thought about that.
I opened my eyes as the train slowed. “That’s all right. You’ve got the baby and everything. You two need to get on home and get her to bed.” I got up, grabbing a pole in the swaying train with one hand and clutching my shoulder bag with the other.
Josh and Edesa exchanged a glance. The train stopped and the doors slid open. “We’ll come with you,” Josh said, grabbing Gracie’s stroller and helping Edesa, who was holding the sleeping baby, out of her seat. There was no time to protest. Doors open. You get out. People get on. Doors close. No time to diddle around.
Had to admit I was grateful for the company. The night was chilly, but Gracie was wrapped in several layers of blankets in the stroller. As we approached Richmond Towers, I started to thank them, but Josh was already wrestling the stroller through the revolving door. What were they doing? Again I expected to say good-bye in the lobby, but they waited with me as I opened the security door, then we all got on the elevator.
“Really, you guys. I’ll be fine.” I put on a smile.
“Mm,” was all I got out of Edesa.
When the doors slid open on the top floor, they got out with me. Edesa looked around. “Only one door? Yours?” I thought she was making a comment about me living in a pampered pent-house, but her face lit up. “Good! Here we can pray.” She grabbed my hand and one of Josh’s and squeezed her eyes shut. “Jesucristo, we come to You with thanksgiving that no harm was done to Gabby’s car tonight. You are so good! We praise You, Lord and Savior! But we know it will be an inconvenience for her poor husband, who depends on it for work . . .”