by Neta Jackson
During the next few days, I felt as if I accomplished a lot. I printed my questionnaire and passed out copies to as many staff and volunteers as came in that week, and I sent the rest by e-mail attachment to the board. I even got a few back, though Precious handed hers back blank. “I don’t like forms ya gotta fill out. Too much like public aid.” She rolled her eyes. “Just let me talk atcha, and you write it down.”
I laughed and grabbed a pen. “Fire away.”
“Okay, first, you gonna get a bunch of well-meanin’ stuff from some people, doing cut-an’-paste crafts, which, let me tell ya, it’s just busywork any three-year-old can do. Just ’cause these women ain’t got homes, don’t mean they ain’t got brains too.” She tapped her head, which was braided all over so tight it looked like it must hurt. “An’ those pastors on the board, bless ’em, they probably gonna say we should be havin’ group devotions at six a.m.—or maybe a Bible class from Genesis to Revelation.”
I repressed a smile. The Bible class idea had already come back from Pastor Stevens, whom I hadn’t met yet.
“Nothing wrong with that, I’m just sayin’. But take it from somebody who’s been there—correction, somebody who’s been here—that ya really need to ask the women themselves what kinda things they like ta do. An’ don’t dis ideas like doin’ nails and fixin’ hair—yeah, I heard Hannah harpin’ at you ta let her do nails. But when you been living on the streets, a bit of pamperin’ is pretty nice. Homeless women need ta feel like women, too, ya know.”
I wrote down “Pampering—nails and hair,” feeling duly chastened. I had indeed totally ignored Hannah’s harping about doing nails. In fact, I’d basically been ignoring Hannah in general, because for some reason her bored mannerisms bugged me.
“What about you, Precious? Supervising homework for the kids a few times a week is great, but I know you’ve got more talents hiding under the rug that could perk up the lives of the residents.”
“Hidin’ under what rug? You talkin’ ’bout my hair?” She patted her braided head.
I’m sure the color of my face clashed with my hair. “No, no, it’s only a saying. I meant—”
Precious hooted. “Heh-heh! I’m just messin’ with ya, Miz Gabby. I’ll think about it. Meantime, didn’t you say somethin’ ’bout having a Fun Night where we could do dancin’ an’ stuff ? How ’bout next Friday?”
“Next week? Uh . . . sure. Let me look at the calendar.” I clicked the organizer icon on my computer, and a calendar popped up. “Week from Friday would be . . . oh, that’s Mother’s Day weekend. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a good—”
“And why not?” Precious leaned both hands on my desk. “You think these women have someplace else to go Mother’s Day weekend? Maybe fly to California, visit the grandkids? Huh.” She snorted. “Them that still got their kids—ain’t too many of them here anyway—are the lucky ones. Them that don’t, a Fun Night might be a good way to dull some of the pain doggin’ the holidays.”
I bit my lip. Mother’s Day . . . Last year, even though P.J. had been away at the academy, the school had scheduled a three-day leave for Mother’s Day weekend. But this year, both boys were at the academy, and we were a thousand miles from Virginia. I wouldn’t get to see either of them. Unless . . .
But I didn’t say anything to Precious, just nodded my head and typed in “Fun Night.”
chapter 23
I took Precious McGill’s advice and asked for a gab session with the shelter residents on Thursday evening. This was the first time I’d met some of the women who were out during the day, some of whom had jobs or sold the weekly Streetwise newspaper. Others, I’d been told, spent their days standing in lines at public aid or the Social Security office, or trying to get their names on the long waiting lists for subsidized housing. “ ’Course a little panhandling on the side comes in handy now an’ then,” Precious said with a smirk.
I was disappointed when only a dozen or so showed up in the multipurpose room at seven o’clock, even though Mabel had announced it at both lunch and supper. She must have seen the look on my face. “I’m sorry, Gabby,” she murmured. “We can’t make them come. You’ll just have to make do with the ones who show up.”
“Why? Don’t they want a say in what activities are offered here?” Huh. I’d left my husband to fend for himself that evening, probably using up some of my capital in the “good graces” department. The least these women could do was show up to make it worth my while.
The director shrugged. “Some are just tired, Gabby. They’ve been pounding the pavement all day. And I’ll admit, some don’t care. Food, shelter, clothing—that’s the bottom line. The rest is ‘whatever.’”
Okay, then. Whatever. I pulled some of the furniture into a semicircle, hoping for a cozy chat, but a few of the women—including Hannah the Bored—sat off to the side, arms folded. I was determined to make this work. I introduced myself as the new program director, thanked them for coming, and said I’d like to hear their ideas for activities. “And please say your name when you speak, since I haven’t met several of you. This is a brain-storming session, so all ideas are welcome—”
“What she sayin’?” An old woman with a mouth so puckered it looked as if she’d swallowed her teeth turned to the person beside her and spoke loudly, drowning me out. “Can’t hear a word!”
“Pipe down, Schwartz!” someone muttered, accompanied by several snickers. Mabel hustled over and sat down beside the old lady, patting her on the hand.
“—and I’ll, uh, list them here.” I uncapped a black marker, indicating the pad of newsprint propped on a chair.
Silence yawned. Not even the old woman spoke.
I could feel my underarms getting wet. I should have told Precious to be here. She was so sure this was what I needed to do. Huh.
In desperation I said, “Here are a few ideas to get us started. Carolyn suggested a book club . . .” I wrote it down and under- neath added Fun Night/Dancing, Budgeting Your $, ESL (English as Second Language), Trip to Museum, reading off each one. “We want a variety of activities—some just for fun, others to help with practical skills, even some outings. Obviously, we won’t be able to do everything, but let’s brainstorm.”
It worked. A woman named Kim—slender, light brown skin, soft voice, neatly dressed—suggested “Typing Class.” Hannah the Bored wanted a “Spa Day” (no surprise there). Soon other ideas flew about—“Movie Night” . . . “Can we go see Oprah?” . . . “I like to make jewelry”—and I wrote them all down, in spite of a few arguments among the group. (“Why just ESL? Why not Spanish for gringos?” “Because this is America, stupid, not Mexico.” But I wrote down Spanish for Gringos and got a laugh.)
Kim timidly waved her hand. “Some of us work during the day but need more job skills. Can you do those on the weekend?” A few heads nodded.
Weekends. I’d been hoping to keep my part-time hours to weekdays, when Philip was at work. But her suggestion made sense . . .
By the time we wrapped up at 7:45, I had a pretty good list. “That was, um, interesting,” Mabel deadpanned, offering to drop me off at the Sheridan El Station, even though it was still light outside. “But just so you know, tickets to see the Oprah show may be free, but you can spend a whole day on the phone trying to get a couple . . . let alone enough for a group.”
I laughed. “Really? Drat. That was my favorite suggestion.”
I showered quickly the next morning, eager to get back to work and sort through the ideas I’d been collecting, choosing a good balance of activities to start with and drawing up a possible calendar. Then I’d have a proposal to present to Mabel and could start to work on a budget.
Not bad for my first real week on the job.
As I was toweling my wet hair, Philip poked his head into the bathroom. “Gabby, tell the cleaning woman to be sure to wash the inside of the windows in the front room today. I deliberately specified inside windows on the contract with the cleaning ser-vice, but I don’t think she’s . . . what
?”
I’d stopped toweling when he said “cleaning woman” and grimaced. “Uh, Camila isn’t coming today. It’s Cinco de Mayo—some kind of holiday for the Mexican community. She asked me about it last week. I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
He gaped at me. “What kind of holiday? You agreed? Gabrielle, she only comes once a week! Did you arrange for her to come tomorrow? What if we want to entertain this weekend? The place is a mess!”
“Philip.” I tried to keep impatience out of my voice. “The house looks fine. I thought missing one week wouldn’t matter. Neither of us is here much during the week. If we entertain”—Where did that come from? He hasn’t said anything about entertaining this weekend—“I’ll do whatever needs to be done to be presentable.”
You thought . . . ! Did you remember I’ve already paid a “month ahead?” He withdrew his head, but I heard him cursing in the bedroom. “Stupid Mexicans. They come here wanting jobs and then don’t show up when you need ’em.”
I pressed my lips together and turned on the hair dryer, staying in the bathroom longer than I’d intended to avoid getting into it any further with Philip. What a jerk. Good grief, Camila probably worked longer hours than both of us put together and undoubtedly deserved a day off, holiday or no holiday. Still fussing with my hair, I finally heard the front door slam. Good, he was gone.
But it was obvious some kind of holiday was afoot. As I walked to the El, cars flying green, white, and red flags zipped past, their sound systems blasting Spanish music as young people hung out of the windows, waving and shouting. Now I was curious. I still didn’t know what the holiday was all about. As soon as I got to my office at the shelter, I turned on my computer, called up Google, and typed “Cinco de Mayo” into the search box. Lots of Web sites. I clicked on one, then another.
“Not to be confused with Mexican Independence from Spain on 16 September, 1810” . . . “Cinco de Mayo, the ‘Fifth of May,’ celebrates the victory of the 4,000 Mexican troops over 8,000 French forces in the Battle of Puebla in 1862” . . . “A minor holiday in Mexico, but celebrated in the U.S. by Mexican-Americans with parades and festivals with the same cultural pride as St. Patrick’s Day by the Irish.”
Parades? Shoot! Wish I’d thought of this sooner! It would’ve been neat to take some of the women from the shelter to the parade today. Still browsing, I clicked on a site that said, “Cinco de Mayo Festivities, Chicago 2006.” Wait a minute . . . The parade was on Sunday? Strange. I’d assumed Camila wanted the day off because the festivities were today.
My mind started spinning. If the parade wasn’t until Sunday noon, I might have time to get it together after all! I’d need a car—no, a van. Didn’t Josh Baxter say he used their church van sometimes? Maybe—
Excited, I went hunting for Edesa. I hadn’t seen her since Tuesday, hadn’t even heard how the meeting with the social worker went, but today was Friday, and she usually led the weekly Bible study. Sure enough, the young black woman was pulling chairs into a small circle with the help of Tina, who looked strong enough to pick up one of the overstuffed chairs and heft it over her head single-handedly. The two of them were talking rapidly to each other in Spanish as a few of the shelter residents started to straggle in.
“Edesa, I don’t mean to bother you, but I need to get hold of Josh—” I suddenly realized she had no “papoose.” “Where’s Gracie?”
Edesa made a face. “Sick. Home with Josh. Double ear infection. But at least you’ll be able to find him. ¿Qué pasa?”
Quickly I shared my idea of taking some of the shelter residents to the Cinco de Mayo parade on Sunday, but needing a van. “How about you, Tina? Would you like to go? Maybe you could tell the rest of us what it’s all about.”
The big-boned Latina drew herself up, looked down her nose at me, and muttered something in Spanish. Edesa giggled.
“What?” I looked from one to the other.
Tina thumped her chest. “I am Puerto Rican, not Mexican. It is not my holiday.”
I could feel my ears getting hot, and Edesa laughed right out loud. “Cut Gabby some slack, Tina. She’s new to Chicago. Besides, I know you’d love to go, right?” She gave the larger woman a playful poke in the ribs, then scribbled a number on a scrap of paper. “Here’s our phone number, Gabby. See what Josh says about the van. What a great idea! I’d love to go, too, but . . . well, depends on Gracie.”
I skipped the Bible study to make my call. Thirty minutes later, Josh called me back and said the church van was available, but had I ever driven a fifteen-passenger van? “I could if I have to,” I said. “I learned to drive on my dad’s utility van in North Dakota—he owned a carpet store. But I don’t know Chicago streets. I was hoping you’d drive.” Talk about understatement.
“Can’t promise,” he said. “Gracie’s pretty sick. We plan to lie low this weekend. I could probably get the van down to the shelter, but don’t count on me to be the chauffeur. But for what it’s worth, I think this is a great idea, Gabby. Be sure to take in the festival at Douglas Park after the parade. Lots of great food and bands. In fact, Delores Enriquez’s husband will probably be there with his mariachi band. Don’t miss it!”
Well, so be it. I’d drive if I had to. Maybe I’d take our car on Saturday and practice the route.
By the time Estelle banged on a pot, signaling lunch, the plan was falling into place. Josh Baxter would deliver the van and the keys to the shelter by Sunday morning. The first twelve residents who signed up would get a seat on the van. (I was still hoping for another staff person or volunteer to go along.) We’d leave at eleven, park as close to Douglas Park as we could, take in the parade along Cermak Road, then hang out for the festivities. I even printed out a map that gave me the best route from the shelter.
So far everyone I’d talked to had loved the idea. Even Mabel had given her somewhat dubious blessing to my seat-of-the-pants idea—“As long as you’re back in time for Sunday evening ser-vice,” she’d said. “It’s Pastor Stevens’s church”—and let me announce the outing at lunch. Aida Menéndez was especially excited, jumping up from her chair and throwing her arms around my neck. “Oh, gracias, Señora Fairbanks!”
Tina told me later that Aida’s first foster mother had taken her to the parade when she was five, but the girl hadn’t been to a festival since. “This is muy bueno. She needs to connect with her culture.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon working on my proposal for the first set of activities and a list of resources needed. I was just getting ready to hit the Print button when my “William Tell” ringtone went off. Grabbing the cell out of my purse, I flipped it open. “Hello? Hello?” Only crackling on the other end. Rats! No signal down here. I looked at the caller ID . . . It was Philip.
I called him back on my desk phone. “Philip? Hi, honey. Sorry about that. Couldn’t get a signal on my cell. What’s up?”
“Don’t plan anything for Sunday, Mop Top. We’ve been invited by a new client to go sailing on his new sailboat—a thirty footer! The weather is supposed to be great.” His excitement oozed from the phone—an insidious gunk clogging up every-thing I’d been doing that day. Not Sunday . . . not Sunday!
I felt as if I might need electric paddles to jump-start my heart. “We who?” I squeaked.
“The Fenchels and us, of course. They said we’d need some good windbreakers and boat shoes—”
“But . . . but . . .”
“—and I offered to bring some good wine and cheese, that kind of thing . . . Gabby? You still there?”
“Uh, sorry, Philip. I’ve gotta go. Talk about it later, okay?” I hung up the phone. My head sank into my hands. Why didn’t I just say, “I’m sorry, Philip. I can’t go. I have to work Sunday. Part of my job. I’ve already made a commitment to take—” Oh, sure. After Philip’s rant this morning about Camila taking the day off, he’d just love to hear that I couldn’t go sailing—with his client, no less, which made it “business”—because I’d be taking a vanload of homeless women
to the Cinco de Mayo parade. Not to mention the icy silence I’d had to swim through all last weekend when I didn’t move heaven and earth to be at the contract signing. Did I want to go through that again?
“Argh!” I grabbed fistfuls of my hair with a sudden urge to pull curls out of my head, roots and all.
“Gabby? ¿Qué pasa, amiga?” Edesa slipped into the room behind me and shut the door.
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t even want to repeat the phone call, cementing my dilemma into reality. But I finally told her, hot tears sliding down my face. I grabbed a tissue and blew my nose. “What am I going to do, Edesa?! Go back out there and chirp, ‘Sorry ladies, the outing’s off, I’m going sailing?’ Or tell my husband, ‘Sorry, I’m going to a parade, see you later’?” I didn’t bother to explain the edgy dance Philip and I had been doing around work issues.
Edesa was quiet for a long moment. “Gabby, did you look up the scripture I gave you in the welcome e-mail on Monday?”
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
“Do you have a Bible here?”
I started to shake my head again—then remembered the Bible I’d stuck in my bag a few days ago. “Uh, yes, right here.” I pulled it out.
She paged through it and stopped someplace in the middle. “Here it is. Third chapter of Proverbs, verses five and six. Here. You read it.” She shoved the Bible at me.
“You read it.” I shoved it back. I knew I sounded petulant, but I didn’t feel like reading “Obey your husband” or “Thou shalt not lie” right now.
“Okay.” She picked up my Bible and read with her Spanish accent. “ ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and don’t lean on your own understanding’—”
The words were familiar. Probably one of the verses I’d memorized in Sunday school as a kid.
“—‘In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths.’” Edesa closed the Bible.