Where Do I Go?

by Neta Jackson

  I waved my list. “I can just leave this with you. There are some life skills I’d like to add to the program—and Estelle Williams could do it all. Sewing. Cooking. But she’s already making lunch five days a week, and she’s teaching some of the women to knit when the nurse is here. I hate to ask her to do more as a volunteer.” I took a deep breath. “Have you thought about adding her to the program staff ? Even part-time?”

  The director cast an amused glance at Stephanie. “How did you know we were talking about adding to our staff ? Stephanie needs another case manager too.”

  Mabel invited me to write a memo to submit to the board meeting in two weeks, listing the need and Estelle’s qualifications. “Personally, I like the idea. What else is on that list?”

  By the time I got back to my office and typed up the memo, it was already after two. I grabbed the phone and dialed the pent-house. The phone rang seven times and went to voice mail. “P.J.? Paul? Pick up! This is Mom.” Nothing.

  Oh, great. They probably have the TV on and can’t hear the phone. But I knew Camila had to be gone by now, and I didn’t like not knowing if the boys were all right. Grabbing my purse and back-pack, I signed out and headed for the El. I tried again while I waited for the Red Line. Still only got voice mail.

  An uneasy thought niggled at me as I paced on the platform. What if the boys got tired of waiting in the house and decided to go swimming on their own? Did the beaches have lifeguards yet? Chicago schools weren’t out, but it was after Memorial Day . . .

  By the time the train finally opened its doors at my stop, I was that jumbled bag of nerves familiar to parenthood—furious that the boys hadn’t answered the phone, plotting dire punishments if they had disobeyed me, and scared spitless that something had happened to my kids. I practically ran the three blocks to Richmond Towers, pushed through the revolving doors, heart pounding . . . and stopped dead in my tracks.

  A chunky white man I recognized as another resident in the building had the shirt collars of both my sons locked in his grip, one in each hand, and—neck veins bulging—was spouting off to Mr. Bentley. “Call the police right now!” he was yelling. “If you don’t, I will!”

  P.J. was writhing like a wild feline. “Let me go, you jerk! I’ll tell my dad.”

  The doorman patted the air with both hands as though trying to calm everyone down. “Now, no need to call the police. I know the parents. Just let me—”

  Paul spotted me and burst into tears. “Mom! Make him let us go!”

  Heart pounding, I finally found my voice. “Mr. Bentley! What’s going on?”

  Before Mr. Bentley had a chance to say anything, the red-faced man had let go of my sons and was shaking a finger in my face. “These your kids? You live here? What kind of parent are you, letting them run loose around the building, raising Cain?!”

  “What—what did they do? . . . Mr. Bentley?”

  But the man wasn’t finished. “Snuck into the parking garage and ran around rocking cars, setting off a dozen car alarms.” He stabbed his finger at me again. “You better believe management is going to hear about this!” He stormed off, but he had one parting shot for Mr. Bentley. “If you can’t keep hooligans like these brats from running amuck in our building, mister, I’ll have your job!”

  The man’s words burned in my ears. “Hooligans like these brats . . . I’ll have your job.”

  But I tried to focus on the real issue with P.J. and Paul when we got up to the penthouse. “He shouldn’t have said that, but he was angry. With good reason. You boys know better than to create a ruckus like that! What were you thinking?!”

  P.J. flopped on the couch, arms folded, face molded in an angry pout. “But, Mom, we got so bored! There’s nothin’ to do here.”

  “No excuses. I told you not to leave the house until I got home.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t come, and the whole day was almost gone.”

  That got me. It was so tempting to relent, pack a snack, grab our swimming suits, and let the sparkling waters of Lake Michigan wash this whole ugly incident into oblivion. But I braced myself to follow through. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when Mrs. Sanchez left. And I’m sorry you had to wait so long. But that’s still no excuse for setting off car alarms, for heaven’s sake! You have embarrassed your dad and me and . . . and you even put Mr. Bentley’s job in jeopardy.”

  P.J. shrugged sullenly. That did it. I realized neither boy had so much as said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Both of you. To your rooms. You’re grounded the rest of the day—and maybe longer. Depends on what Dad says when he gets home.”

  Twin wails went up. “Aww, Mom!”

  “Go!”

  I pressed my fingertips to my scalp as bedroom doors slammed. Oh God. Please don’t let this get Mr. Bentley in trouble too. Heating water for tea to calm my nerves, I realized I was less concerned about us getting kicked out. In fact, I almost hoped it would happen. Maybe we could look for a house—on the ground—or even buy one of those charming row townhouses in one of the “gentrified” urban neighborhoods.

  Get a grip, Gabby. Philip would blow a gasket—

  Philip. I groaned as I steeped my chamomile tea. I’d give anything if I didn’t have to tell Philip. But I had no doubt we would hear from management about this, and it would be even worse if he found out that way.

  By the time my husband got home, I had a pot roast in the oven—I figured a heavenly “welcome home” smell never hurt—and had steeled myself to tell him right away what had happened. Personally, my own mad at the boys was over, and I was going to lobby that not getting to go swimming today was punishment enough for a first offense . . . but I should have known better.

  Philip was furious with me.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had hoped the boys and I could pack Friday evening and take off for North Dakota on Saturday. But Philip insisted on taking the boys to Navy Pier for the day—“Since you kept them holed up here like moles yesterday,” he’d hissed at me—to ride the enormous Ferris wheel, eat lunch at Bubba Gump’s, and take a sail on one of the masted “tall ships” that gives rides by the hour to tourists.

  My eyes burned with unshed tears as I washed and folded clothes, ordered a rental car for the trip—a minivan, no frills—and packed duffel bags for the boys. Nothing I’d done yesterday had been right according to Philip, from leaving the boys with Camila Sanchez in the first place, to not being there when she left, to not fulfilling my promise to take them swimming. Of course they got into trouble. What did I expect?

  I’d said nothing. From his point of view, he made a good case. None of this would have happened if I’d been home with them instead of at work.

  I argued my own case to the laundry basket. “Good grief ! P.J. is thirteen, old enough to stay home a few hours by himself—and look after his younger brother! . . . Many families have working parents . . . I was home for years when the boys were small . . . Philip is the one who sent the boys off to boarding school nine months out of the year! . . . A job for me at this time in our life makes sense. My job is a worthy one, and I’m good at it . . . Since I do have a job, there will be times we have to pull together as a family and adjust. I can’t just work a few months and quit, then start up again . . . Good grief ! One day of boredom isn’t going to kill the boys. And I am taking a week off to take them on a vacation trip . . .”

  But it was no use. Philip’s words continued to beat me over the head in the silent penthouse. “Selfish” . . . “Pigheaded” . . . “My mother is right about you” . . . “Might as well send the boys back to Virginia right now” . . .

  I buried my head in a still-warm-from-the-dryer T-shirt. Was I just selfish and pigheaded? Was I the crazy one here?

  Frankly, I was glad to be leaving for a week. We both needed time to cool off. By the time I got back, the heat would be off, the boys would be in sailing camp for a month, and we could settle into a workable routine.

  But the silence in the empty penthouse was starting to give
me jitters. I called Manna House at noon to ask how the first Saturday typing class went. I waited for several minutes while someone went to see if Jodi Baxter was still there, then she picked up.

  “Checking up on me, are you, Gabby?” Her voice was teasing. “Actually, I was surprised you weren’t here to make sure I showed up.” Jodi laughed. “I’ll have to tell you sometime about the first time I volunteered at Manna House. The place burned down.” She chuckled again. “But seriously, the class was good, I think. That Kim is a real go-getter. She’s still in the schoolroom practicing. A couple other people dropped by and asked if they could learn to type, too, which would be fine with me, but you’ll need several more computers.” She paused a mere nanosecond, as if shifting gears. “How are you doing, Gabby? Everything okay?”

  The question took me by surprise . . . and for some reason I found myself telling this woman I barely knew about the juggling act all week, trying to entertain my boys and keep up with my job.

  “Oh, boy, tell me about it. I’ve been teaching third graders ever since our youngest started school. At least Denny and I both work for the public schools, so when school is out, so are we. Well, technically. Except Teacher Institute Days. And athletic meets on weekends, ad infinitum. But if one of our kids got sick? There went all my sick days.”

  For some reason, I found Jodi’s homily strangely comforting. Lots of families had to juggle schedules. I was not crazy. “The worst part is,” I found myself saying, “I let them stay home yesterday since the woman who cleans for us was there until two o’clock, which was fine, but I didn’t get home until three—which turned out to be just long enough for them to get into trouble.”

  “Oh dear. What did they do?”

  Why was I telling her this? “It’s so embarrassing. I guess they were exploring the building we live in, got into the parking garage, and started rocking cars to make the car alarms go off. Like ten or twelve all at once.”

  I heard a gasp at the other end, and mentally kicked myself for saying anything—now she thought I was a terrible mother!— but to my shock, Jodi Baxter started laughing. I mean, howling.

  “Oh. Oh. Oh.” More belly laughter. “That is so funny! I mean, I know it isn’t right now, but it’s the sort of thing you and your husband will tell on your kids and laugh about later. I mean, I’m sure they meant it as a prank, and there was no real harm done. But, oh dear. I can just imagine. Yikes. The noise! Just be sure you guys stuff a sock in your mouths so the kids can’t hear you laughing behind closed doors. They can’t know you think it’s funny until they’re at least eighteen.”

  Her laughter was contagious. I couldn’t help it. Pretty soon I was giggling too. And that night, after the boys had come home, talking a mile a minute about their exciting day at Navy Pier with their dad and getting excited about our road trip to North Dakota, the world no longer felt like it was falling apart. Of course not! What the boys did was naughty, yes. They had to be disciplined, yes. But it wasn’t the end of the world.

  As I lay in bed after Philip had fallen asleep, I wondered what it would be like to giggle in the dark with my husband about what had happened yesterday, and laugh so hard we had to stuff socks in our mouths.

  chapter 35

  A cloudless sky arched over the city Sunday morning, and the TV weatherman promised mild temperatures in the low seven-ties. Perfect travel weather. I sent up a heavenly thank-you. The weekend “door-dude” called the penthouse at eight to tell us Enterprise had delivered the rental minivan. While Philip rode down the elevator with the boys and the luggage, I did a last-minute sweep of the house. Good thing. I found the earphones to Paul’s portable CD player, my cell phone still charging in the bed-room, and our damp swimsuits still in the washing machine where I’d washed them last night. I guiltily whisked them into a recloseable plastic bag. My name would be mud if I forgot those.

  At the last minute, I also stuck my Bible into my bulging backpack. I’d been telling God I was going to start reading the Word more regularly. Maybe this week while I was on vacation I’d have time to actually make good on that promise.

  Outside by the car, Philip gave me a peck on the cheek, smelling faintly like his Armani aftershave. Sea breezes and tropical forests. He’d already picked up a tan from the outing on Lester Stone’s sailboat, our afternoon at Wrigley Field, and another layer yesterday. Gosh, he looked good. I had a sudden urge to slide my arms around his neck, feel his body pressed against mine, satisfy this hunger for skin touching skin . . . but the moment passed as he opened the car door and waited for me to get in.

  “You’re sure you know how to get out of the city?”

  “I think so.” I showed him the maps I’d printed out from the computer.

  “Looks okay. Just be sure you get on I-90 to Wisconsin, Gabby, and not I-94, or you’ll waste a lot of time.” He leaned in a side window. “’Bye, guys. Don’t give your mom any grief. Call me when you get there, okay?” Philip stepped back and waved us off. When I looked in my rearview mirror just before leaving the frontage road, he was gone.

  It seemed to take forever to get out of Chicago’s sprawl, even without major traffic delays. Finally we were zipping northwest on the toll road, past newly plowed fields, pretty farms, and the occasional oasis for gas, restrooms, and fast food. The day was so beautiful, I drove with my window down, the sunroof open, and no AC. The wind felt so good, I didn’t even mind that my curls would probably end up a snarly mess. And the farther we drove away from Chicago, the lighter I felt.

  My cell phone rang the “William Tell” midmorning just as we were entering Wisconsin. I snatched it up and recognized the area code for Alaska. “Celeste? Thank goodness you called! . . . What? . . . Yeah, the boys and I are on the road now, heading for Minot. Are you coming? . . . Can’t hear me? I said, are you coming home?!”

  I pressed the cell phone to my ear, my sister’s voice fading in and out. But I got the gist of it. She wasn’t coming. Late snow. Some stranded hikers. Tom needed her there. Maybe later in the year when their daughter Kristi was home from college . . .

  I finally flipped the phone closed, fighting the lump in my throat. I knew it’d been a long shot, trying to get my sisters and their kids home all at the same time. But I’d been hoping . . . no, needing to try to tie up the loose ends in my life. We’d been distant too long.

  I shook off my disappointment, stuck an Eighties Faves CD in the car player, and turned up the volume. It would’ve been great to have a family reunion, but the boys and I were going to have a good time anyway.

  “What’s love got to do, got to do with it . . .” I bellowed with Tina Turner.

  “Mo-om! I can’t hear my CD player!”

  “Too bad. It’s my turn.”

  “I’m hungry!”

  I tossed the bag of snacks into the backseat and kept singing. “Who needs a heart, when a heart can be broken . . . !”

  Nothing was going to stop me from enjoying every second of this trip.

  We stopped just west of Minneapolis at a chain hotel for the night. Eight hours on the road, not bad . . . though it took a twenty-ounce Pepsi to keep me awake in the late afternoon, and I had to move P.J. to the front seat to end the jabbing and poking.

  But once in a booth at a local Outback Steakhouse, I actually managed to get the boys talking. Well, Paul anyway. “Tell me about this piece of music you composed for the band, Paul. I wish we could have heard it.”

  “Aw, I was just horsing around with my trombone and came up with a tune, and my band director showed me this really neat composition program on the computer, and, well . . .” As he prattled on, I mentally made a note to ask Philip about getting the software for our home computer.

  The boys spent an hour in the hotel pool after supper, while I soaked in the Jacuzzi, watching them horse around, letting the forceful water jets coax the last of the tension from the past several weeks out of my body. I didn’t think about Philip. I didn’t think about Manna House. I didn’t think about anything at all exc
ept how warm and relaxed and . . . and safe I felt, five hundred miles away from my life.

  The next morning, we were on the road again by eight o’clock after a carbohydrate-heavy continental breakfast in the hotel lobby. P.J. elected to sit up front, and as the long miles clicked by on the odometer, I had a momentary hope he’d open up and tell me more about what was happening at school, but he pretty much kept plugged into his iPod.

  However, both boys did reasonably well on the second leg of the trip, as long as I stopped every two hours and reloaded the snacks and drinks. Between Minneapolis and Fargo, we played the License Plate Game and called out thirteen different state plates plus two Canadian provinces, then ran Twenty Questions into the ground. Paul decided he’d annoy us by starting in on, “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” and was delighted when I joined in the old camp song. But at around sixty-five bottles left on the wall, P.J. hollered, “Enough already!” I couldn’t have agreed more.

  My heart was singing. I wanted to keep driving forever.

  As we crossed into North Dakota around noon, the topography had definitely changed from compact family farms to sprawling prairie. Cattle dotted the slightly rolling grasslands, which were still reasonably green in early June, though miles went by without seeing a single tree—just shrubs, sagebrush, and occasional sandstone formations. Mega-acre fields sprouted the first mantle of spring wheat, looking like a military crew cut.

  Both boys pronounced it “boring,” but to me it was beautiful. The pungent smell of sagebrush made me feel slightly drunk, and my pulse quickened as we turned off I-94 at Jamestown and headed north on a two-lane highway. Minot—170 miles the sign said.

  Home . . .

  For the first time in months, that word formed in my conscious thought and rolled around on my tongue.

  “There’s Grandma!” I pulled into the driveway of the boxy beige house that had been my childhood home and beeped the horn. My mother, grayer than I remembered her, got up stiffly from the flower bed where she’d been weeding, turned, and shaded her eyes from the five o’clock sun. A four-legged bundle of wispy yellow hair erupted from the grass and charged the car, barking.