Where Do I Go?

by Neta Jackson

  chapter 21

  In a daze, I walked downstairs to the lower level. A couple of the shelter residents were still in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast. I recognized Diane—her big Afro was hard to miss—and waved hello. Carolyn, hairnet askew, ponytail sticking out the back, was wiping down tables. I stood uncertainly in the dining area. Office? What office?

  “Hear you’re movin’ in.” Carolyn grinned at me. “They put you in the broom closet.” She snickered and pointed toward a door standing slightly ajar near the stairway, then squirted disinfectant on yet another table.

  A sheet of orange construction paper was taped to the door. In childish bubble letters, it said Ms. Gabby’s Office. I pushed the door open wider. The room was dark, no window. I pawed around for a light switch and clicked it on . . . and caught my breath. On my left, a lush bouquet of spring flowers—irises, tulips, and daffodils—sat on an ancient wooden desk in the tiny room. (Had it really been a broom closet? Big broom closet. Small office!) Next to the bouquet, a computer monitor blinked at me, hiding a simple laser jet printer. Keyboard and mouse pad were in place, as was a padded office chair pushed into the chair well. A phone (my own phone!), a legal pad, and several pens had been arranged neatly to one side. There was just enough room beside the desk for another chair and . . . that was it.

  “Look behind the door!” Carolyn yelled behind me. “I didn’t help lug that thing in here for nuthin’!”

  I peeked around the door. A beat-up file cabinet with four file drawers stood against the other wall, along with a wastebasket. On top of the file cabinet sat two boxes, one marked “Hanging Files” and the other “File Folders.”

  A lump caught in my throat. Josh Baxter had set up this office for me over the weekend? Not just Josh, either, if he rounded up Carolyn—and probably others—to help him move the stuff in. And the computer . . . I sat down at the desk and manipulated the mouse. Instantly a background of the Chicago skyline at night filled the screen, along with program icons—Microsoft Word, Internet, e-mail, dictionary, streets and maps, even a Bible search icon.

  “Go on, try it out.” Carolyn had leaned into the doorway. “Mr. Josh was here all day Saturday programmin’ that thing. Signed you up for e-mail an’ everything.”

  It was true. When I clicked on e-mail, my name came up, and several e-mails popped into the in-box. My eyes blurred as I read Mabel Turner’s welcome (“We praise God for sending you!”), Josh Baxter’s helpful advice (“Don’t forget to store our e-mail addys in your address list so you can contact us”), and Edesa’s encouragement (“Check out Proverbs 3:5–6”).

  Oh, great. She’s making sure I dig out my Bible.

  I had to laugh at Liz Handley’s e-mail. “Welcome to the broom closet, Gabby Fairbanks! My office was in a broom closet, too, before the place burned down. Hopefully nothing that drastic has to happen before you get a window. ‘Beauty for ashes,’ you know. On behalf of the Manna House board, welcome!”

  I sat at the desk a long time, staring at the delicate bouquet of flowers and sorting through my jumbled feelings. The Manna House staff, and even some of the residents, had been fixing up this office and getting me “operational” this weekend, while I’d been sitting up in my luxury penthouse surrounded by silence, being punished for all my sins. Even though I hadn’t called Mabel to work out my dilemma . . . even though I’d run out on Rev. Handley with no explanation . . . even though I hadn’t called Mabel afterward to explain, like I’d said I would . . . what did they do?

  They gave me flowers.

  It took me close to an hour to get past being blubbery and able to start thinking critically about my new job. I pulled the legal pad close and began to scribble notes. Recreational needs for homeless women were certainly different than for the residents of the retirement center where I’d worked back in Virginia. The elderly needed fun and stimulation to keep their minds and bodies active. But homeless women needed life skills, an expanded vision of what life could be beyond the streets, as well as stimulat-ing activities to fill listless hours.

  I feverishly jotted down every idea that came to me—budgeting, etiquette, cooking, dressing for success, word games, ESL (Tina?), Fun Nights/dancing (Precious?), book club (Carolyn?), making jewelry (other crafts?) . . . I paused, then wrote: literacy? GED classes?

  Finally I put down my pen. Maybe I was getting out of my depth. I was a recreational therapist, not an educator. Still, my title was “Program Director,” not “Recreation.” And a variety of educational classes certainly seemed needed. But . . . I should back up. What did Mabel and the board expect of me? So far, they’d left me on my own to just “get acquainted.” But I needed to set goals, construct a balanced program, find resources . . . Good grief, did I even have a budget?

  I flipped to a new page on the legal pad and wrote: (1) Meet with Mabel! Job description? Responsibilities? Accountability? Bud­get? . . .

  A knock on the door made me jump. A brown face, damp with perspiration beneath a puffy hairnet, peeked in. “Door ain’t locked, you know. You can come out and eat lunch now. We don’t do room service.” Estelle smirked at me and disappeared.

  Sure enough, I heard the clatter of aluminum pans and plastic glasses, and the chatter of women moving through the serving line. I’d been oblivious to time passing. As I came out, Mabel was already sitting at a table with a few of the “day residents” who didn’t have jobs or job prospects. But she stood up and started clapping, urging everyone around her to do the same. “Cheers to our new program director, Gabby Fairbanks!”

  Several of the women clapped or waved. Back in the kitchen, Estelle banged on the bottom of a pot with a metal spoon. My face surely turned beet red, because I could feel my ears burning. “So if you’ve got ideas for activities we need here at Manna House,” Mabel added, “see Gabby.”

  From a corner of the room, a familiar voice growled, “Already told her we didn’t need no shuffleboard or bingo ’round here—hey, Estelle! You got any more of that ‘noodle surprise’ over there?”

  Lucy. Swathed in the usual layers of sweaters, knit tops, and cotton blouses, and a new knit hat in purple yarn jammed on her head. I wanted to laugh. If Lucy was here, it must be raining. Well, good. I wouldn’t have to chase all over the park to find her.

  “Thanks, everybody. I’m excited to join the staff here at Manna House.” I grabbed Mabel in a hug before she could sit down again. “Thanks so much for the flowers,” I whispered in her ear. “You have no idea what they mean to me.” Then I hustled to the counter for my own plate of “noodle surprise” and sat down next to Lucy.

  “Nice hat, Lucy. Looks new.” I meant it. The hat was stylish, with a slightly wavy knitted brim and a clever rose made of yarn on one side. Even on Lucy’s grizzled head, it lent a certain charm.

  “Humph. Estelle made it. Glad ya like it.”

  I glanced across the room at Estelle, still behind the counter. That’s right. The first time I’d met her, Estelle had been knitting. I’d thought it was probably your basic long scarf—every beginner’s first project. But this hat was the cat’s meow. Hmm . . .

  Mabel and I got our meeting, and to my relief, she had already worked on a job description and list of responsibilities. I was happy to see that the list was specific without being limiting: “Assess resident activity needs through questionnaires and personal interviews” . . . “Establish attainable goals for weekly and monthly activities” . . . “Establish budget needs within overall operating bud-get” . . . “Oversee interpersonal interactions during group activities” . . . “Educate residents in resources in the larger community” . . .

  I was so excited about my new job, I was tempted to stay into the evening and meet the women who were usually out during the day, maybe even try a brainstorming session to get their ideas.

  Decided against it. Staying late today probably wasn’t the wisest thing. I still had fences to mend at home and didn’t want to build them higher. Besides, I should probably work on a questionnaire
and talk personally to staff and residents before throwing the discussion wide open.

  As I walked into Richmond Towers at four thirty, I tried to keep Edesa’s psalm that had encouraged me yesterday in focus. “When I am afraid, I will trust in God . . . I trust in God, why do I need to be afraid?” “That’s right, Gabby,” I murmured to myself. “You don’t have to be afraid. You made a mistake, you apologized, what Philip does with it is his problem—”

  “Evening, Mrs. Fairbanks.” Mr. Bentley tipped his cap at me with a wink. “You always talk to yourself like that? I’m thinking you’ve been hanging around our friend the bag lady too often.”

  “Sorry about that, Mr. Bentley. I was thinking out loud . . . but I’ve got good news. I’ve been hired by the Manna House Women’s Shelter as their new program director. I even have an office!” I had to grin. “Used to be a broom closet.”

  He laughed. “Well, congratulations. Have to admit, not too many of the residents of Richmond Towers have such a, uh, colorful job.” He winked again.

  “That’s exactly what I like about it, Mr. Bentley!” I could feel the excitement returning to my voice. “Homeless people on the streets seem so colorless, so . . . gray. Even our friend Lucy—you remember, the bag lady. But at the Manna House shelter, there’s so much”—I searched for words—“so much life, so much color.”

  Even as I said it, I realized how true it was. Not just the multicolored population of staff and residents, but something indefinable I’d felt the first time I’d walked through the double oak doors. And suddenly I knew what it was . . .

  “The color of hope, I guess.”

  chapter 22

  Philip usually got home around six thirty, which gave me a couple of hours to fix supper. I pounced on the two sirloin steaks in the freezer and popped them into the microwave to defrost. Perfect. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” so they say—whoever “they” are. I snickered at the dorky cliché as I mixed a simple olive-oil-and-red-wine-vinegar marinade. “But a good steak dinner can’t hurt—”

  I stopped, holding in midair the fork I was using to tenderize the steaks. Good grief, Mr. Bentley is right. I am talking to myself. I blew a stray curl off my forehead. I needed a dog. Or a cat. Some­thing to talk to.

  My whole chest tightened. No, I needed my children home. With me. And a husband who didn’t shut me out.

  At six forty I heard the key in the front door and tensed. Philip called out from the gallery, “Smells good! What’s for dinner?”

  I slowly let out my breath. Score one for the dorky cliché. I turned and smiled as my husband came into the kitchen, loosening his tie. “Marinated steak,” I said. “Roasted potatoes with garlic and rosemary. And some fresh veggies. Have a good day?”

  “Mm-hm. Got another promising prospect, a smaller job, but this way we won’t be putting all our eggs in one basket.” He leaned his backside against the counter and popped a cherry tomato into his mouth. “You?”

  I blinked. Philip was asking about my day? Like a normal conversation? Had God heard my prayer?—though it hadn’t even been a prayer, just an ache. I took Philip’s cue and relaxed against the counter, too, snagging a strip of raw red pepper from the veggie plate. “Yes, a very good day. In fact, Manna House offered me the job. They even gave me an office.” I didn’t mention it had a former life as a broom closet. “I have a new e-mail to give you, and a work phone number—though my cell is still the best way to reach me.”

  He pursed his lips, as if considering my news, then shrugged. “Okay. Glad it worked out, I guess. Just . . .”

  I touched his arm. “I know. Philip, I’m really sorry about Friday. I’ll try not to let this job interfere with things that are important to you.”

  “Important to us, Gabby. Us! See? That’s what upset me on Friday. You didn’t show for the signing, you showed up late at the restaurant . . . and then you—you flippantly rearranged the name of our company. That hurt.” His voice held an edge. “Are you on my side, or aren’t you?”

  No, no . . . I couldn’t let this conversation slip back into the chasm between us. But I heard something new. He was hurt. Hurt was different than mad. I grasped at it. “I am on your side, Philip. I was incredibly thoughtless. And that’s what I’m sorry for. That I hurt you. Will you forgive me?”

  My words hung in the air between us. Then he nodded. “Yeah, well . . .” He pushed off from the counter. “Do I have time to change before dinner?”

  “Steak will take ten minutes max!” I called after him, turning the oven to Broil. While I waited on the steak, I squeezed my eyes shut. “God,” I whispered, aware I was talking out loud again, but wanting to do more than just a vague “thought prayer.” “God, thank You. For my job. And for Philip forgiving me.” Well, he had, hadn’t he? Not in so many words, but . . . “And, God, please help this to be a new day for us.”

  I woke early the next morning before Philip and wandered into the front room, my mind already spinning with program ideas for Manna House . . . and caught my breath. A stunning sunrise over Lake Michigan filled the wraparound windows. Feathery cirrus clouds flung streamers of brilliant pink fluff across the sky, as though a flamingo were shedding its winter down. Lake Michigan, smooth and glassy, captured a mirror image of the brilliant sky.

  Oh my. Between rainy days and my fear of heights, I’d been keeping the drapes pulled in the front room. But the TV weather-man on the nightly news had said the next several days would be in the low seventies and mostly sunny. I might have to give the view from up here another chance.

  Philip actually ate the eggs I scrambled for him and pecked me on the cheek before heading out the front door. I smiled as I loaded the dishwasher and got ready for my own exit. Maybe things would be different now that the business was getting a toe-hold here in Chicago.

  At the front door I paused. My Bible . . . where was it? I’d been meaning to look up the verses Edesa had put in her e-mail. Most of the boxes had been unpacked. Maybe it was with the books, most of which were in Philip’s den. It took me five minutes to find it, but there it was, with Gabrielle Shepherd stamped in gold letters on the brown leather cover.

  I sniffed—the cover still had a leathery smell—and opened it to the presentation page. “To Gabrielle, our angel . . . on your graduation from high school. Love, Mom and Dad.” On the facing page, my mother had written in her beautiful script: “Only one life, it will soon be past. Only what’s done for Christ will last.”

  I shut the Bible and stuck it in my bag. Didn’t really want to think about Mom’s sweet little proverb right now. Life—at least for me—had turned out to be a little more complicated. After all, it hadn’t been my plan to be divorced after only two years by my sweet-talking-youth-group-leader-supposedly-Christian husband, had it?! And my second marriage to Philip had seemed more hon-est at the time. Just enough religion to keep my foot in the church door, but without all the hypocrisy.

  I hadn’t counted on the big hole in my life, though.

  Forty minutes later, I rang the bell at Manna House—9:00 a.m. on the button—signed my name on the in-and-out log, and smiled a greeting at the handful of residents lounging around the multipurpose room before heading downstairs. I unlocked the broom closet and flipped on the light. Flowers, computer, legal pad—everything was just as I had left it. Too bad about not having a window. The prisms of sunshine coming through the stained glass in the foyer upstairs had been a delightful greeting. But I was soon so absorbed in creating a questionnaire for the board, staff, and volunteers, I wouldn’t have noticed anyway . . .

  Name three activities you think would benefit Manna House residents. (List the resources needed to create those activities.)

  What skills, hobbies, or interests do you have that might be shared with MH residents?

  Would you be willing to conduct an activity (a) once a week; (b) every other week; (c) once a month; (d) a one-time event . . .

  “Hola.” Edesa Baxter peeked into my office, her warm brown skin
a contrast to the chubby latte cheeks of the Latina baby she held in one arm. Gracie rode her foster mother’s hip like she’d been glued on, eyeing me shyly.

  “Hey! Where’s that handsome husband of yours? I want to thank him for setting up this computer for me—” I’d started blabbing before I noticed that Edesa’s usual megawatt smile was missing, and the baby hiccoughed as if she’d been crying. “Um . . . are you okay?”

  Edesa shook the little twists crowning her head. “I think the bebé has an ear infection. She kept tugging on her ear and screamed half the night.” Her own dark eyes puddled. “Josh had to go out in the middle of the night for some infant Tylenol. None of us got much sleep—and he has classes at Circle Campus this morning.”

  “You’re taking Gracie to the doctor today, right?”

  The young mother nodded. “But we cannot go until later this afternoon. We have an appointment with the social worker at one o’clock. Josh is supposed to meet us there.” She hugged the little girl a bit closer. “We need a lot of prayer, Gabby.”

  “Oh, Edesa.” I pulled her into the office, crowded as it was, and shut the door. “Will the father be there?”

  “No, gracias a Dios. But the social worker is going to go over the petition to stop our adoption”—her lip quivered—“and tell us what must happen next. We have to go to court, I think. But . . . I have hope, Gabby. God brought Gracie to us, I believe that.” A glimmer of smile returned. “I have a friend—one of my Yada Yada Prayer Group sisters—who told me, ‘God didn’t bring you this far to leave you, ’Desa.’ ”

  “Of course not.” No way was I going to dump my doubts on her. The courts always ruled in favor of a relative, didn’t they? “I’ll be sure to pray for you this afternoon.”

  At least Edesa didn’t ask me to pray right then. I still wasn’t comfortable praying out loud, especially on the spur of the moment. In fact, I wasn’t sure my connection to the Almighty was all that reliable just yet.