Where Do I Go?

by Neta Jackson

  “Tell you later!” Edesa kissed my cheek and scampered off with Josh.

  “This must be your mother!” Jodi Baxter whispered, giving my mom a warm hug. “Come sit with us.” She found four seats, but everyone was standing, many arms lifting in praise as the music continued to swell . . .

  “. . . Nothing compares to the promise I have in You . . .”

  Still trying to take it all in, my eyes swept the room. Dark faces, creamy brown, fair-skinned . . . African braids, brunettes, blondes . . . wow, what a diverse congregation. And there was Estelle, decked out in one of her roomy caftans that hid her extra pounds! I tried to catch her eye and then did a double-take as the bald African-American man next to her tilted his head and winked at me.

  My mouth dropped open, and I tried not to laugh. Mr. Bentley!

  By the time the service ended, I was so full, I felt like I’d just eaten a ten-course meal. The songs were a mixture of upbeat and worshipful—I really did love that saxophone wailing beneath the melody on some of them—and the sermon by one of the copastors, a tall, gangly white man with thinning hair, was punctuated by “Amens” and even an occasional, “Thank ya, Jesus!” from the congregation.

  My head was in a whirl afterward as Jodi and Edesa and Estelle tried to introduce me to several women—“our Yada Yada Prayer Group sisters,” they called them. Estelle’s housemate was a stylish, slender blonde in a red beret she introduced as Stu. I could hardly imagine two people who looked more different. I was surprised to learn they lived upstairs in a two-flat over Josh’s parents.

  Edesa introduced me to the African-American family she and Josh rented their “studio” from. I’d seen Carl Hickman before—he’d come with Peter Douglass to our party at the shelter. His wife was a wiry woman named Florida. “How ya doin’, Gabby?” She shook my hand in an iron grip. “We been prayin’ for you at Yada Yada—’scuse me. Girl!” Florida’s hand shot out and grabbed a youngster darting past. “You know better than ta be runnin’ in the house of God!”

  I was grateful when Jodi Baxter showed up with two cups of coffee and pulled me aside. Mr. Bentley, even without his uniform, had graciously taken my mom under his wing, keeping her company and her coffee cup refilled, so I sat down with Jodi, blowing out a big sigh. “This was quite a church service.”

  “Yes, praise God! I love the worship here.” Jodi brushed her soft bangs back. She wore her brunette hair with its slight wave just skimming her shoulders. Wouldn’t mind hair like that for a change. “We used to be two different churches, but we merged because God told us we needed each other . . . long story.” She chuckled. “We’re still in training, but we love it.” Jodi cast an affectionate glance toward her son, who was holding little Gracie in one arm, the other draped around Edesa, talking to an excited knot of people. “And it’s good for our kids, who don’t have to give up their own culture to feel at home as a family.”

  I noticed Josh and Edesa seemed especially happy. “What’s this bad news–good news Edesa was going to tell me?”

  “She didn’t tell you yet? Gracie’s birth father violated his parole and landed back in prison. So his petition to take the baby got thrown out! I can still hardly believe it, after all the worry of the past few months—but God really answered our prayers.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad.” That’s what I said. But I felt a pang. God really answered their prayers . . . why not mine?

  “Are you okay, Gabby? You look a bit strained. What’s going on?”

  And just like that I found myself telling Jodi Baxter my whole saga—moving, feeling adrift, finding the job at Manna House, tension with my husband, now triple complicated with needing to find a place for my mom and summer plans for the boys falling through. I shook my head. “I don’t know what to do, Jodi. I was going to resign Friday, but Mabel wasn’t there—”

  “I know.” Jodi’s face clouded. “Her nephew, C.J., tried to commit suicide.”

  I gasped. “What?! That little boy? Oh, Jodi. I had no idea. Is he going to be OK?”

  “I think so. We’ve been praying around the clock since we found out yesterday.”

  I looked at her. “Does God really answer prayer, Jodi? I’ve been praying and praying about my mom and about my job and about what’s going wrong with me and Philip, and it seems like the only answer I got was, ‘Come to Me.’ ”

  Her hazel eyes got round. “ ‘Come to Me?’ God said to you, ‘Come to Me’?”

  I felt embarrassed. “Well, those are the words that popped into my brain while I was at the prayer meeting at my mom’s church. It didn’t seem to make a lot of sense—not exactly an answer to my prayer about Mom. But a couple of days later I was reading my Bible—I’ve been trying to read Matthew—and I came to those verses, you know, the ones that go, ‘Come to Me, all you who are weary—’ ”

  Smiling, Jodi chimed in. “ ‘—and bearing a heavy burden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light.’ ”

  I gave her a wistful grin. “Yeah. That’s the one.”

  Jodi Baxter took my coffee cup, set it aside, and took both my hands in hers. “Gabby, that is God answering your prayer! Don’t you see? All these other things—your husband, your kids, even your mom—yes, they’re important. And God really cares about them. But the thing God cares about most is you. I think . . . it sounds to me like God is calling you, Gabby. To come home.”

  chapter 41

  “There were a lot of black people at that church, weren’t there?” My mom was still watching people spill out of the doors of SouledOut as I snapped her seat belt in place.

  Her comment took me by surprise, but I tried not to show it. “Mm-hm. All kinds of people. It was nice, wasn’t it? Maybe that’s what heaven’s going to be like.”

  My mom nodded thoughtfully. “I didn’t know there’d be so many nice people in Chicago. Mr. Bentley is very nice. And the lady named Estelle.”

  I pulled out of the parking lot. “We didn’t have much of a chance to know many black people back home, did we?” In Petersburg, either, for that matter. Our own fault. Everybody tended to stay in their own little neighborhoods and their own churches.

  “But they’re not really black, are they? Brown. And all different shades too.”

  I felt a little impatient with Mom getting so chatty. It was nice that she was being observant, but what I really wanted was some time by myself to think about what Jodi Baxter had said—and get myself psyched up for the inevitable talk with Philip tonight. Maybe Mom would take a nap after lunch, and I’d have a few quiet hours to just think and pray before the sailors got home.

  But to my surprise, the TV was on and the boys were sprawled on the wraparound couch, watching a Pirates of the Caribbean DVD when we got back to Richmond Towers. “Look who’s here!” I gave them each a hug. “I didn’t expect you back so early! The weather get too rough for sailing?”

  P.J. shrugged, his eyes locked on the movie. “The weather was OK. Ask Dad. He’s the one who called it.”

  The door to the den was closed. I hung up my coat, found the makings for tuna fish sandwiches and put my mom to work, filled the teakettle and turned on the burner . . . before tapping on the den door and sticking my head in. Philip was slumped in the leather armchair by the reading lamp.

  “Hey. You guys are home early.”

  My husband looked up, eyes hard. “That’s right. Thanks to you.”

  I tensed. “What do you mean?”

  “Close the door.”

  I did but stood with my back against it, hand on the handle. Déjà vu.

  Philip threw his hands wide. “You just cost Fairbanks and Fenchel our business with Lester Stone, that’s what.”

  “Wha—what are you talking about?”

  “The phone call to Lester? Dropping Bill Robinson’s name into the conversation?”

  “But Henry asked me to get a message to you! He said it w
as important!”

  “Fine. Talk to me. But you don’t tell my business to anyone, Gabrielle!” His voice was hard, clipped. “Do you understand?!”

  I was totally confused. “I tried to call your cell. Henry tried too, but he couldn’t get through. That’s why he called me.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You had no business talking to Lester Stone about Bill Robinson.”

  “But . . . I thought that was the message, so you’d know why Henry wanted you to call.”

  Philip pushed himself out of the chair. I flinched, but all he did was jab a finger at me. “Did Henry tell you to go through Lester? Huh? Did he?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “I’m telling you! That phone call cost us our contract with Stone! And it’s your fault!”

  I gripped the doorknob harder. “But I didn’t tell Lester any-thing! I just said what Henry told me, for you to call about the Bill Robinson project.”

  “ ‘But I didn’t tell Lester anything,’ ” he mocked in a high-pitched voice. “You told enough just dropping Robinson’s name. Turns out Lester Stone is involved in a lawsuit with Bill Robinson, and he didn’t like it one bit that Fairbanks and Fenchel are working with him. Said it was a conflict of interest for him to employ the same developer.” Philip threw up his hands. “Zap. We’re done. Just like that.”

  My heart was pounding now. “But I didn’t know that! How could I—”

  “You don’t have to know it!” He was yelling now. “All you have to know is not to talk about my business with anyone! Do you understand me, Gabrielle?”

  The teakettle whistled. Jerking the door open, I fled to the kitchen to silence it, catching frightened glances from the boys as I ran through the living room. I needed time to pull myself together—but I forgot my mother was still puttering in the kitchen, taking her sweet time making the tuna sandwiches. I flipped the burner off under the teakettle and kept going to my bedroom, where I flung myself on the bed.

  Philip followed me, slamming the bedroom door behind him. “I’m not through with you, Gabrielle. You just don’t get it, do you? Ever since we moved here, you’ve done everything you can think of to undermine my new business.”

  I sat up, hugging a pillow in front of me. “That’s not true, Philip!”

  “Shut up. That’s the problem with you. You don’t have any business savvy. You don’t know what a corporate wife should be doing to help make her husband a success. You turn up your nose at Mona Fenchel’s connections that would help us break into a business class social strata. You puke all over Lester Stone’s sail-boat. You bring your mother and her . . . her dumb mutt here just after the boys come home for the summer, turning this pent-house into a three-generation madhouse . . .” He stopped and glared at me. “Speaking of your mother, what’s the deal with the group home? When is she moving in?”

  I was too scared to speak. I shook my head slightly.

  “I knew it!” he yelled. “This is the last straw, Gabby! The last straw!”

  Philip stomped out without saying where, and the whole house-hold felt like a graveyard the rest of that day. The boys holed up in their room. My mom shut herself and Dandy in her borrowed bedroom. Moving like a zombie, I finished the sandwiches my mom had started, set out fruit and chips on the kitchen counter, tapped on doors, told my sons and my mother they could get some-thing to eat when they got hungry, and spent the rest of the day in my bedroom, blinds pulled, crying until I’d sucked out every drop.

  Philip still wasn’t back when I turned out the light at nine o’clock.

  But I woke with a start when I heard Philip yell, “What the—!” followed by a string of curses. Then, “Where’s that dog! Who didn’t take the dog out?”

  I grabbed my robe and went flying down the hall to the gallery. Philip was hopping on one canvas boat shoe, ripping off the other. A pile of dog poop had been deposited right beside the front door, now mashed and stinking where Philip had stepped in it.

  “Oh no! Paul must’ve forgotten to take him out before bed . . . I’ll—I’ll get the dog and take him out now. Just give me a sec to get my clothes on.”

  “Just clean up this mess, Gabby,” Philip said between clenched teeth. “I’m dressed. I’ll take the stupid dog out. Just . . . just get my other gym shoes and take this one and clean it off.”

  I carried the stinking canvas boat shoe into the laundry room, got Philip’s other shoes from the bedroom, then went for paper towels, a bucket, rag, and pine cleaner. When I got back to the gallery, Philip was trying to clip the leash onto Dandy’s collar, who was pulling backward and growling.

  “Let me do it.”

  “Forget it!” Dropping the leash, Philip grabbed the dog up under his arm and disappeared into the elevator. The doors closed.

  I cleaned up the mess in the gallery, washed the entire marble-tiled floor with pine cleaner, and then tackled Philip’s shoe. I got the poop off as best I could, then threw it into the washing machine. A half hour passed. Philip still wasn’t back, so I went to bed.

  I woke at three-something and realized the other side of our king bed was empty. Putting on my robe, I wandered through the dark penthouse. The gallery light, which I’d left on, was out. Philip was sacked out on the couch, snoring gently.

  Well, fine. I didn’t want to sleep with the big jerk anyway.

  I woke the next morning, a dull headache throbbing above my eyes. I could hear the shower running in the bathroom. Philip was getting ready to go to work.

  I put on my robe and dragged myself to the kitchen, feeling like Charlie Brown with a cloud of gloom over my head. I had no idea how to dig myself out of the pit I was in. I should go in to work today to drop the bomb on Mabel that I needed to take an extended leave of absence and offer to resign. Mom would prob-ably be happy to go with me. But that left the boys hanging . . .

  To my surprise, the pungent smell of fresh coffee greeted me. I stared dumbly at the coffeemaker, which was dripping merrily. Philip had made the coffee?

  A tiny ray of hope broke through the gloom cloud. Maybe Philip was over his mad. Maybe I should call Mabel, tell her I have a family emergency, take the day off, try to work out plans for the boys and my mom with Philip, and go in tomorrow to have the face-to-face talk about—

  “Celeste?” My mom’s voice was plaintive. “Have you seen Dandy? He wasn’t beside my bed when I woke up.”

  I frowned. That was the first time Mom had called me by the wrong name in over a week. Had she heard the dog-poop-in-the-gallery fiasco last night? “Oh, he’s probably sleeping in Paul’s bed. I’ll get him.” I needed to take the dog out soon, anyway.

  I headed for the boys’ bedroom and peeked in. Both boys were still asleep. But no Dandy. Picking up my pace, I did a quick search through the main rooms and was just heading for the master bedroom when Philip appeared in the hallway, cleanshaven, tan slacks, black silk short-sleeve shirt, smelling like his Armani aftershave.

  I stood in his way, arms crossed, knowing I looked like a frowzy housewife in my robe and uncombed hair. “Where’s the dog?”

  He looked down at me, unperturbed. “I put him out. What did you think I was going to do after he crapped all over our floor?”

  “He’s been out since last night?”

  Behind me, I heard a plaintive wail and felt my mother clutch my robe. “Oh no! No, no . . . he’ll get lost! Oh, Celeste, we have to find Dandy! It’s too cold in Alaska!”

  “You rat!” I hissed through my teeth at my husband as he calmly squeezed past us and headed for the kitchen. I pried my mother’s fingers off my robe and patted her hand. “Don’t worry, Mom. He’s probably hanging around outside, wanting breakfast. I’ll get dressed and go right down, okay?”

  I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and was heading for the elevator when Paul came running after me in shorts, pajama top, and sockless gym shoes. “Mom! What happened? Where’s Dandy? Why is Grandma crying in her room?”

  I tried to be matter-of-fact as the elevator door dinged open and Paul
followed me in. “Your dad, uh, took Dandy out last night, and I guess the dog got away. I’m sure he won’t have gone too far.”

  It seemed to take forever as the elevator stopped again and again to pick up residents leaving early for work. In the lobby, Mr. Bentley was already on duty, passing out newspapers, whistling for taxis. But I shouldered in. “Mr. Bentley? Did you see Dandy outside this morning?” I pointed toward the frontage road exit. “We . . . lost him last night.”

  The doorman shook his head. “Sure haven’t, Mrs. Fairbanks. I’ll keep an eye out and let you know soon as I do.”

  But Paul and I were already flying out the revolving door toward the park, and we spent the next half hour running up and down the jogging path, calling the dog’s name. We even went through the underpass and out toward the beach, barely noticing the calm blue of the lake under a perfectly clear sky. We stopped joggers, described Dandy, and asked them to keep an eye out, pointing back toward the high-rise where we lived.

  But no dog.

  chapter 42

  Paul was in tears. We walked back to Richmond Towers with my arm across his shoulders. “I know, kiddo. But we’ll keep praying, okay? Maybe somebody found Dandy and took him to the animal shelter. I’ll call, okay? He has a tag on.”

  “But it has Grandma’s North Dakota phone number!”

  “Well . . . but if the shelter has him, we can use it to identify him.”

  Back upstairs, I tried to soften the bad news. “Mom . . . Mom. Don’t cry. I’m sure we’ll find him. Look, I’ll stay home today with you and the boys, and we’ll look for Dandy and—”

  “Don’t you have to go to work today, Gabrielle?” Philip broke in, coffee cup in hand. “To finish things up, talk to your boss?”

  I glared at him. “Yes. But I can’t leave now, can I? There’s the boys and—”

  “Yeah. Just like I figured. Look, you just go. I’ve got the boys.”

  I gaped at him, my thoughts ricocheting. Was Philip actually going to pitch in and take care of the boys? “What do you mean? Are you going to—”