by Neta Jackson
Philip just stood there, tight-lipped. Then he said, “Is your mother all right?”
I nodded, hiccoughed, and blew my nose again.
“Good. Then let’s talk about this when you get control of yourself.” He stalked out, then returned. “Did you make any-thing for dinner?”
I shook my head. “I . . . I was going to, but—”
“Never mind.” A moment later I heard him on the phone, ordering something to be delivered.
Philip had been unapologetic when we finally talked over Chinese takeout. “It came up at the last minute, Gabby. Henry tossed me the idea on Friday, and I said I’d think about it. But you didn’t get home till late that night, remember? After I dropped you off at the airport the next morning, I realized it was going to be a long, lonely weekend until you got back on Monday, so, heck, why not? I called Henry; we drove to Indiana and had a great time. Snazzy hotel, great food, a good show . . . If you’d been here, they’d have invited you too.”
“But . . . gambling, Philip? It’s a big racket! People lose money. And it can be terribly addictive, as bad as a . . . a drug addiction or alcohol.”
“Good grief, Gabby. What do you take me for? I didn’t take any more than I could afford to lose—but the fact is . . . I won.” His boyish grin widened. “Seventeen hundred bucks. Not bad for a weekend’s work.”
I’d been floored. What could I say?
The whole fiasco troubled me for days, but I tried to drown my worries at work. Josh Baxter showed up on Tuesday to drop off a packet of ESL materials from his mother and Avis Douglass. I wanted to ask him how Gracie’s adoption process was going, but he seemed to be in a big hurry, so I let it go. I passed the ESL materials on to Tina and told her to look them over. “They’re geared more toward kids than adults, but it’d be a start,” I told her. She nodded, came back to me the next day, and said she’d give it a shot. She seemed both nervous and excited. We set up an ESL class to start the next Tuesday at 5:00 p.m.
I talked Estelle into bringing as much leftover knitting yarn and extra needles as she could muster and encouraged her to teach knitting to women on Wednesday morning while they waited their turn to see the nurse. At least five women took a pair of needles and labored on and off for two hours learning how to “cast on” and do simple “knit and purl” stitches before and after their turn behind the nurse’s room divider. Even Hannah the Bored picked up a pair of needles and tried a few rows—though it was a bit awkward with her long nails. Today they were deco-rated with flourishes and tiny rhinestones. Where did she get money to do that?
But I swear, when I told Estelle that Mr. Bentley had asked for her phone number, the woman deepened at least two shades to raspberry chocolate. But she gave it to me, muttering, “Humph. I need a business card.”
Lucy hadn’t been at the shelter when I got back on Monday, but she showed up again Wednesday morning to see the nurse about her cough and to get something for her “rheumatiz” . . . and signed up for a bed when a thunderstorm cracked overhead, unleashing a torrent of spring rain. The woman was still a mystery to me, but she usually rebuffed my attempts to get her to talk. But I took my lunch tray on Thursday and pulled out a chair at her table. “Mind if I sit?”
“Free country.” She stabbed a forkful of kielbasa, potatoes, and cabbage.
I took a bite. “Mm. This is good.” I was surprised how tasty the stew was. “Wonder what’s in it?”
Lucy gave me her “dumb question” look. “Whatever ya got on hand is what’s in it, missy. Ain’t your ma never made stuff like this? Cabbage, taters . . . some kinda meat if you’re lucky.”
“Hm.” I swallowed my mouthful. “I don’t think so. We kids didn’t like cabbage.”
“Humph.” Lucy shoveled in another mouthful. “That didn’t make no difference at our table. Head o’ cabbage went a long ways. Sometimes that’s all it was. Cabbage soup . . . cabbage stew . . . rice rolled up in cabbage leaves . . . Used to grow the things on our two-bit farm down in Arkansas ’fore the drought drove us out.”
My ears pricked up. Lucy grew up on a farm in Arkansas!
“Drove you out?” I tried to keep my question light, not prying.
Lucy eyed me up and down sideways for half a minute. “Huh. You too young to know anything ’bout the big migration. Where’d you grow up anyway? Chicago? . . . Nah, you just moved here.”
I could hardly contain my excitement. Lucy and I were having an actual conversation! “Yes, from Petersburg, Virginia. My husband’s home. But I grew up my first twenty years in a small town in North Dakota.” I laughed. “Most of the farms around us were wheat and cattle ranches. But not my family. My dad owned a carpet store.”
Lucy just looked at me with her rheumy blue eyes as she chewed on cabbage and sausage. To my disappointment, she didn’t say any more.
As I went back to my office, I tried to put together the bits of information she let drop. A two-bit farm in Arkansas . . . “the drought” drove them out . . . the big migration . . . Lucy was likely in her seventies, at least. Which probably meant her family was hit hard by the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression. But where did the Tuckers “migrate” to? And what brought her to Chicago?
I shrugged, dug out my cell phone, and hustled upstairs where I got better reception. Lunch seemed a good time to catch my mom, and it was already one o’clock.
Philip and I had been civil but distant most of the week. Thursday night I suggested we make plans for our trip to Petersburg for P.J.’s graduation and work out the details for bringing the boys to Chicago. Philip said he’d already made plane reservations for next Wednesday so we could be present for the academy’s award night, as well as the graduation ceremonies the next day.
“Oh. Well, that’s good.” I looked at the computer printout. Return flight was scheduled for Saturday. Drat. I’d been hoping we could return on Friday, but . . . oh, well. At least we’d be with the boys.
“Their bicycles,” I said. “How are we going to get them here? They’ll want them, I’m sure. There are a lot of bike trails along the lakefront. In fact, that’ll be fun if the four of us—”
“Leave them.”
“Leave them?” I was startled.
“Of course. It doesn’t make sense to ship them here when they’ll want to have their bikes on weekends next school year.”
Next school year?” Dismay and panic fought with a familiar “anger. I wanted to scream, “Over my dead body!” But instead I said, “Philip! We moved to Chicago, remember? It’s one thing for the boys to finish out this school year, but we need to find a school for them here in the city. I’m sure there are plenty of good private schools—”
“I already checked it out. The enrollment for most decent schools closed months ago. Besides, Fairbanks males have always gone to George Washington Prep. It’s family tradition.”
I was speechless. When I finally found my voice, it was shaking with anger. “No! I will not be a thousand miles away from my sons for a whole school year! That wasn’t part of the deal! They’re just boys, Philip! They need their parents!” And I need them, my heart cried. I’d never realized how much the boys had filled up the cracks in Philip’s and my marriage . . . until we came to Chicago.
“Oh? If they need their parents so badly, why did you get a job that’s going to take you out of the house during the summer while they’re here? Who’s going to take care of them during the day while we’re both at work? Did you think of that, Gabby?” He snorted. “Of course you didn’t. You never do.”
chapter 29
I woke Friday morning with a ferocious headache. The same headache that started during the fight with Philip the night before. Philip had nailed me. In the past few weeks, my mind had conveniently separated into two tracks, job and family. When I was at work, I got excited about all the possible activities for Manna House residents that summer. I’d also imagined doing all sorts of fun things with the boys once they got here—swimming at the beach, exploring the lakefront bike trails, gettin
g family passes to the museums, taking in the ethnic festivals that went on all summer . . .
I’d stammered, “I—I’m sure I can work something out . . .” but before I could finish my sentence, Philip drove in another nail. “Never mind. I’ve already signed them up for sailing camp the second week of June. You’ll just have to take time off from work until then.” And that was that.
Dragging myself out of bed the next morning, I downed a couple of extra-strength Tylenol and brewed a strong pot of coffee. I stayed at the penthouse long enough to get Camila started on the housecleaning, then ducked past Mr. Bentley in the lobby on my way out the door. The man was too perceptive. One kind word from him, and I’d be blubbering my mascara down to chin level.
I decided to walk the two miles to work. I needed the exercise to help clear my head. The sky was cloudy, the air damp, but at least it wasn’t raining. When was Chicago going to dry off, for heaven’s sake?! No way did I want the boys to arrive and be stuck in the penthouse five days a week, or we’d have mutiny on our hands.
My insides clenched. Rain was the least of my worries. I dreaded the boys getting caught in all the tension Philip and I seemed to generate like static from walking over a wool rug.
At the shelter, I somehow managed to sign in and make it down to my cubbyhole without getting caught in any conversations. Turn on the computer . . . call up e-mail . . . go over Mabel’s staff notes and announcements . . . But all the words on the screen seemed to run together and reformat in my brain: “Fairbanks males have always gone to George Washington Prep. It’s family tradition.”
I grabbed fistfuls of my hair. No, no, NO! I’d go crazy if the boys went back to school in Virginia next fall, leaving their father and me to navigate rough waters alone. It took too much energy trying to keep an even keel when Philip’s “gusts” hit my sails. My life kept tilting off balance like Lester Stone’s sailboat—“heeling up,” he’d called it—and it was my side that kept skimming dangerously close to those choppy waves. One more gust, and I’d be in the drink.
Drowning.
Okay, I needed to get a grip. The Bible I’d set on the back corner of the desk caught my eye. Hadn’t I promised God I’d start reading the thing again if He answered my prayers and helped me get this job? Well, God had kept His end of the bar-gain. I pulled the book toward me. But where to start? Too many times as a girl I’d made a New Year’s resolution to read the Bible straight through and started with Genesis 1, only to get bogged down in Exodus and never get any further.
Suddenly my eye caught something on the computer screen. Mabel’s staff announcements included Edesa Baxter’s topic for her Bible study today: “Isaiah 54—The Barren Woman.” That seemed like a curious topic. But maybe it was as good as any to read today. I could go to the Bible study prepared.
I found Isaiah 54 and began to read—and within moments the tears I’d been holding back all morning flooded over. “Sing, O barren woman,” the chapter started. “. . . burst into song, shout for joy . . . because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband . . .” I groaned. The verses seemed to be talking about me. I had a husband, I had children—but I was the one who felt desolate.
Grabbing a ready supply of tissues, I kept reading through blurry eyes and came to verse six. “The Lord will call you back as if you were a wife deserted and distressed in spirit—a wife who married young, only to be rejected, says your God . . .” The flood of tears spilled over again. Oh, yes, I’d married young—and been rejected. But that was then. I should be over it now. Why did I still feel so . . . so deserted?
I backed up and read the first several verses again, reading and rereading the fourth and fifth verses. “Do not be afraid; you will not suffer shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth, and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood . . .” Except it wasn’t true. Even though I had married again and had thought I’d be living the fairy tale of my dreams, if somebody asked me right now, I still felt afraid. Humiliated. But mostly, I felt . . . alone. Like a widow.
So what in the world did verse five mean? “For your Maker is your husband—the Lord Almighty is His name . . .”
I never did make it to Edesa’s Bible study, because all I could do was sit at my desk behind a closed door . . . and weep.
I ran into Edesa in the line for lunch, Gracie riding her hip. “Gabby!” She gave me a hug. “I thought you weren’t here today.”
“I know. I missed your Bible study.” I gave her a wry smile. “It’s all your fault.”
Her eyebrows went up.
“Yeah. I decided to read your Scripture passage before I came to the Bible study, and . . . well, it touched a few raw nerves.”
Now her eyebrows came together, putting wrinkles of concern into her smooth, brown skin. She lowered her voice. “Do you want to talk about it, Gabriela? Or pray?”
I shook my head. “Not right now, but thanks anyway.”
She smiled. “At least you are reading the Bible, mi amiga. That is good.”
Gracie reached toward me. “Gaaa.”
What a cutie. I leaned close to give her a kiss, and the eight-month- old grabbed a fistful of my hair.
“Ow!” I gently untangled the little girl’s hand from my curls. “Uh, what’s happening with Gracie’s adoption? Any news?”
Edesa instinctively drew the child closer to her body and nuzzled her soft hair. “Sí y no. Next week we go to a hearing about our petition to get guardianship of Gracie. This must hap-pen before we can proceed with the adoption. But now this ex-boyfriend of the mama’s—at least that’s what he claims—says he’s the daddy and wants to take her.”
“But, didn’t you get guardianship when you became her foster parents?”
Sí! Sí! But now they say it is only ‘temporary’ guardian-ship—an emergency, because her mama died of a drug overdose “while she was here at the shelter, and she needed una familia right away. But I know Carmelita wanted me to take care of Gracie, to bring her up! She left us a note! That is how we got custody of her in the first place.”
We had stepped out of the lunch line in order to talk off to the side. “And other people witnessed this note?”
Edesa nodded, eyes determined. “Sí. Many staff members and residents here, they all knew. Reverend Handley, Mabel, and others will have to come to this hearing and testify . . . and even then, the judge will also talk to this man. The social worker at DCFS told us blood family usually has priority.” The young woman’s full lips trembled. “But I know God put Gracie into my arms! It is why Josh and I got married—”
She must have seen my startled look, because she quickly added, “I mean, it is why we got married now instead of waiting longer. Though . . .” She looked away. “Well, it is not so easy.”
I pulled her farther away from the lunch line. “Are you two okay? I mean, you and Josh seem very much in love.”
“Oh, sí, of course I love Josh. It’s not that. It’s just . . .” She sighed. “The apartment es minúsculo! Only two rooms and a bath. And the walls . . . like paper! The familia we are renting from must hear every time we a-choo, not to mention . . .” She rolled her eyes. “They are good friends—one of my Yada Yada sisters—which makes it worse.”
“Oh Edesa.” I wanted to hug her. “Have you looked for a bigger apartment?”
She shook her head. “We have no money. I mean, Josh works part-time, but we are both going to school. Money, so tight. Sometimes we fight.” She sighed. “I wish—”
Heavy feet coming down the stairs caught our attention, and a second later Josh Baxter materialized from the stairwell, back-pack slung over one shoulder, looking this way and that around the dining room. “There you are! Am I in time for lunch? My afternoon class got canceled, so I thought . . . hey there, Gracie girl, come to Daddy?” The overgrown college guy held out his arms.
Edesa surrendered the baby and grimaced at me behind his back. I gave a single shake of my h
ead. I didn’t think he’d heard us talking.
“Hey, you three!” Estelle’s voice sailed across the room from behind the kitchen counter. “You goin’ to eat or what? I gotta sit down. My feet are killing me.”
We hustled over to the counter, where Estelle handed us plates of sliced ham, cooked carrots, and what looked like corn pudding. As Josh jiggled Gracie on his lap and hand-fed her bits of corn pudding, he said, “Oh, hey, Mrs. Fair—um, Gabby . . . my mom wants to know if you’ll be at the Sunday Evening Praise this weekend. It’s SouledOut’s turn to do worship here, and she and my dad are coming. She’d like to meet you and talk to you. Something about a typing class?”
“Sure. I’ll make it a point to be here. And I’ve been meaning to ask you two—do you know where I could get a CD of that song the New Hope worship team did two Sundays ago? The chorus went something like, ‘I go to the Rock . . .’”
Josh scratched the back of his head. “I kinda remember. I think it’s an old Dottie Rambo song. I don’t know if it’s been recorded lately . . . but I’ll check around.”
Saturday, I had to admit, was a perfect spring day—low seventies, sunny. I stood a few steps back from our floor-to-ceiling wraparound windows, drinking in the sun sparkles on the lake. I might even like Chicago if there were more days like this. But as tempting as it was to go out and play, I spent the weekend putting the finishing touches on the boys’ bedrooms, making chocolate-chip cookies and freezing them, and shopping for groceries so we’d have their favorite foods on hand—boxes of macaroni and cheese, frozen hamburger patties, hot dogs, both kinds of buns (plain and poppy seed), and cans of spaghetti and meatballs. And frozen Pizza Bites.
At least they still preferred my homemade cookies.
When Philip went running Sunday morning, I got on the computer and searched online for Memorial Day activities in Chicago. We were bringing the boys home on Saturday, which meant we still had Sunday and the Monday holiday. I found lots of things going on—the Memorial Day parade, an Irish Fest, fire-works at Navy Pier . . . whoa. The Cubs were playing Atlanta at Wrigley Field next Sunday! Could I get tickets this late? Maybe Henry Fenchel could help me. Philip would be dazzled.