by Neta Jackson
I had to get out of there! Frantically, I pushed the elevator button. On the way down, the elevator stopped at three other floors and people got on. But I turned away, my back rigid, willing no one to speak to me—or I might lose it again right there in the elevator. On the ground floor, I managed to slip through the lobby and out the revolving door without Mr. Bentley seeing me, then walked in a daze across the frontage road to the park and along the jogging path until I found an empty bench out of sight of Richmond Towers. I sank into it . . .
Joggers ran past, plugged into their iPods.
The evening air was sweet, still warm after washing Chicago with sunshine most of the day.
A gentle breeze off the lake ran its fingers through my hair.
The only sounds were the drone of traffic on Lake Shore Drive and the trill of birds darting here and there in the trees.
I felt as though I could sit there forever . . .
I might have to.
That thought jolted my numb brain and a hundred questions crowded into my head. What was I going to do? My phone was dead . . . Did I have any money? I fished in my purse, all a-jumble after Mr. Bentley had stuffed everything back in. Thirty dollars in my wallet. A couple of credit cards. A debit card to my household account . . .
How much was in my household account? Philip and I didn’t have joint accounts. I was supposed to use a credit card for every- thing from groceries to clothes, and Philip paid the bills. Other than that, he put a hundred dollars into a household account every week that was mine to use for anything that required cash. My paychecks from Manna House had gone into that account too—though I’d used a good deal of that for the trip to North Dakota.
I groaned. The checkbook for that account was up in the penthouse. Okay, Gabby, don’t panic. You have your debit card. But if I remembered correctly, there was only a couple hundred left. And I’d just quit my job.
I fingered the credit cards. Had he frozen my credit cards too?
I already knew the answer.
“Oh, God!” My head sank into my hands. “What am I going to do?!”
“Come to Me, Gabby . . .”
I looked up, startled. The words were so clear I thought someone had spoken them out loud. But the path in front of me was empty. That Voice in my spirit . . . Jodi Baxter had said it was God calling me. Just like that verse in the Bible, the one where Jesus said anyone who was weary and carrying a heavy burden could come to Him, and He would give them rest.
Pulling my feet up onto the bench and hugging my knees to my chest, I held on for dear life. “Help me, Jesus! I don’t know what to do! . . . I can’t lose my boys! . . . I’m so tired of fighting, trying to keep my life from unraveling . . . But I can’t do it by myself! . . . I need You, God! I need You!”
A cold nose poked itself between my ankles and then nudged my arm. Startled, I looked up. A muddy yellow dog very much in need of a bath was pushing its muzzle into my lap, the rest of its body wiggling all over. I blinked in disbelief. The dog was now trying to crawl into my lap. I gasped. “Dandy!”
That’s when I noticed a bandana knotted to the dog’s collar—and another knotted to it, and another, making a rope. I followed the bandana rope with my eyes and found myself staring at a wrinkled face wearing a purple knit hat.
“You an’ God havin’ yourselves a private tête-à-tête, or can a body sit down on that there bench too? My feet are tired.” Lucy Tucker plopped all six layers of her clothing down on the bench beside me.
“You found Dandy!” I croaked. By this time the dog was in my lap, and we were both a muddy mess. I pushed Dandy off and wiped my eyes and nose with the back of my hand. I felt like laughing hysterically. I’d just told God I needed Him—and He sent Lucy?
Lucy eyed me skeptically. “So what’s wrong with you? You look worse’n the day I first found you in this park, wet as a drowned rat and bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”
Now I did laugh hysterically. Who found who? My shoulders shook from the sheer insanity of it all, the tears started again, and my story came out in little gasps. No penthouse. No husband. No kids. Locked out. Nowhere to go. Just a bunch of suitcases, bags, and boxes sitting in the foyer on the thirty-second floor of Richmond Towers.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Lucy said, patting me awkwardly. “It’s gonna be all right.” She sat beside me for a while until the shaking and crying died down once more. Then she rose stiffly from the bench. “C’mon, let’s go. You got enough for cab fare? My feet are killin’ me.”
“Go?” I blubbered. “Go where?”
“Manna House, of course. Nobody’s ever locked outta Manna House.”
Dandy’s ears perked. He tugged on his bandana leash and barked.
I stared at her. But I didn’t move. “What about my boys? I can’t just let Philip take my boys!”
“That’s right. But one day at a time, Missy. Them boys are all right. Now, you got cab fare or not?”
I nodded, stood up on wobbly legs, and let Lucy the bag lady walk me back along the jogging path toward Richmond Towers. Handing me Dandy’s bandana leash, the old woman in her unmatched layers of clothes pushed through the revolving doors. I could see her gesturing to Mr. Bentley, who got on the phone. Within minutes, a cab pulled up on the frontage road. Mr. Bentley came out and opened the rear door.
“Hey!” the cabbie said. “I don’t take dogs.” I saw Mr. Bentley slip him a folded bill. “Well,” the man grumbled, “maybe this once.”
Mr. Bentley leaned into the backseat before shutting the door. “Don’t worry about those suitcases and stuff upstairs, Mrs. Fairbanks. I’ve got a car. I’ll bring it all later tonight when I get off work.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The cab pulled away, and we rode in silence down Sheridan Road. Lucy rolled her window down, and Dandy stuck his head out, his mouth open in a doggy-smile. Within ten minutes, we pulled up in front of the shelter that had been my workplace for the past two months.
Now it would be my home?
I fumbled in my purse, paid the cab, and the three of us walked up the steps to the double oak doors. “I—I think I still have my key. Forgot to turn it in.”
“Good,” Lucy muttered. “What time is it, anyway? Did we miss supper?”
I turned the key and opened the door. Late evening light still shrouded the peaceful foyer with muted colors from the stained glass windows. The receptionist’s cubicle was empty. Beyond the swinging doors, sounds of chatter and laughter came from the multipurpose room. And music. Turned up loud.
I stopped and listened. Someone was playing my CD! I closed my eyes as fresh tears slid down my face, but strangely, this time they felt like a spring rain washing out the crud as the familiar words sank deep into my spirit . . .
. . . The earth all around me is sinking sand
On Christ the Solid Rock I stand
When I need a shelter, when I need a friend
I go to the Rock . . .
reading group guide
1. The Yada Yada House of Hope series introduces a new primary character. Who is Gabby Fairbanks? Describe her as a person—her personality and character . . . her emotional strengths and weaknesses . . . her spiritual assets and debits. How do you feel about Gabby? What do you want to say to her?
2. What do you think has happened internally to Gabby between the time she first met Philip in the Prologue, and when we meet her sixteen years later in Chapter One? Are there ways you feel you’ve lost part of “who you are” or had to give up hopes and dreams while simply coping with life’s circumstances? If you could get back that lost part of yourself, what would it be?
3. How would you characterize the tension in Gabby and Philip’s marriage? In what way does Gabby feed into this tension? Do you see yourself or your marriage in their relationship in some way? What feelings does it bring up for you?
4. Mr. Bentley and “Mrs. Fairbanks . . . penthouse” are probably as different as two people can be. And yet, why do you think Gabby thinks of the doorman as he
r “first—and maybe only—friend” in Chicago? Who in your life has proven to be an “unlikely” but genuine friend?
5. In Chapter 10, Lucy the “bag lady” asked Gabby, “Why ain’t you prayin’ for me ’bout this bronchitis?” Gabby assured her that she, um, had been (intending to make it “retroactive”). What do you think Lucy meant by, “Huh. Ain’t what I meant”? What is your usual response when someone asks you to pray for them?
6. Even though Josh and Edesa Baxter—whom you met in the original Yada Yada series—are quite a bit younger than Gabby, in what ways do they help open Gabby’s spiritual eyes and heart? Even though they have a temporary reprieve in their efforts to adopt Baby Gracie, what challenges do you anticipate they may face in the future as a multicultural family?
7. Gabby is caught in the “sandwich generation”—parenting not only her two growing sons, but “parenting” her mother as well. In reacting to the crisis in her mother’s life, how is she missing what her kids need? In what ways have you experienced (or are experiencing) a similar family squeeze? If you are discussing this question as a group, how can you encourage and support one another in times of family stress?
8. The setting of this story alternates between a luxury penthouse and a homeless shelter. In what ways do these settings symbolize what’s happening in the story itself—with Gabby in particular, but also some of the other characters (Philip . . . Lucy . . . Estelle . . . etc.)?
9. In spite of what happens in the last chapter, what do you see as glimmers of hope for Gabby? Do you think there can be any redemption for Philip? Why or why not?
10. In what ways do Gabby’s encounter with Lucy in the first chapter and their encounter in the final chapter act as “book-ends” to this story? What are the similarities? What is the significance of the differences?
To my readers . . .
Thanks for joining me on this new journey. Don’t know about you, but this one knocked the wind out of me! Hang on for the next episode in the Yada Yada House of Hope series, Who Do I Talk To? coming out in September 2009.
Until then . . . be blessed!
The Yada Yada Brothers: A New Series
BY DAVE JACKSON
As her life unravels, Gabby Fairbanks, whose story is told in Where Do I Go?, finds a friend in Harry Bentley, the affable doorman of her luxury Chicago high-rise. What she doesn’t realize is that Harry lives with his own drama—a forced retirement from the Chicago Police Department for blowing the whistle on corruption in the elite Special Ops and a budding romance with the fascinating Estelle Williams.
Through Estelle, Harry meets the Yada Yada brothers—Denny Baxter and his son Josh, Peter Douglas, Carl Hickman, Ben Garfield—who provide a new circle of friends to replace his old CPD cohorts. But when Harry discovers he has a grandson he didn’t know about, will he find the faith to take on the boy as a “second chance” to be the father he’d failed to be to his own son—even when the boy creates new dangers in Harry’s fight against corruption, and may derail his “second chance” at love?
Enjoy the following short story, an introduction to Harry Bentley’s Second Chance, the first Yada Yada Brothers Novel.
Dave Jackson lives in Evanston, IL with his wife, Neta, the author of the popular Yada Yada Prayer Group series and the new Yada Yada House of Hope series.
» To order the novel Harry Bentley’s Second Chance, ask your favorite bookstore to order it for you (ISBN # 9780-9820544-0-6) or go directly to www.daveneta.com.
Harry Bentley’s Second Chance
Cindy Kaplan pulled the unmarked cruiser into the lot behind Chicago Police Headquarters and found a parking space. She left the engine running, the whine of the air conditioner cycling on and off to beat the summer’s heat. But sweat still glistened on the bald head of the older black man sitting beside her. In the four years they’d been the salt-and-pepper duo in the elite anti-gang unit, she’d seen the frown lines between his eyebrows deepen into permanent grooves. They’d watched each other’s back, covered for one another on little things, and saved each other’s life more than once, but now she was afraid she was losing him.
“Harry,” she sighed, brushing back the shock of straight, ash brown hair that fell perpetually over her right eye, “you know you don’t have to do this. What’s to be gained? Really . . . think about it. Even if you make your case against Fagan, your career’s over the moment anyone finds out you blew the whistle.”
She saw him glance at her out of the corners of his eyes, then he sighed. “Cindy . . . in all the time we’ve ridden together, when was the last time I backed down over somethin’ like this?”
She shrugged. “Well, when was the last time we ever faced something like this? I know you’re a straight-up guy, but this is different. Different than anything we ever faced before. Fagan’s popped guys for less.”
“Oh, come on.” He tugged at the vest under his shirt that always seemed too tight in hot weather. “Don’t start trippin’ on me now, partner. We don’t know that for sure ’bout Fagan.”
“Maybe not, but we’ve heard it more than once. Why take the chance? I mean, given what we’ve actually seen Fagan do, why wouldn’t he smoke you if you tanked his little racket?”
She watched the big man lean forward again, cradling his head in his large hands, his elbows on his knees, face inches from the air-conditioning duct in the cruiser’s dash. She could imagine him sitting like that in his little apartment for hours struggling over what to do and she knew if she talked him out of it now, she might save his life but crush the self-respect he had rebuilt.
When he leaned back again, he stared straight ahead. “Look, Cindy. I’m goin’ on up in there to make my report like I said. I’m a lot of things, but I ain’t no quitter. What Fagan and his crew been doin’ ain’t right, and someone’s gotta shut him down. You young. You got your whole career ’heada you, and I wouldn’t be s’pectin’ you to put that on the line. But me? It don’t matter what happens to me no more. This is just somethin’ I gotta do. Know what I’m sayin’?”
He turned and looked at her, dark eyes glistening. She could tell his emotions were churning when his speech got “homey,” as he called it. She broke eye contact, not wanting to embarrass him.
“Don’t worry ’bout it,” he added, his voice a little husky. “No way am I gonna drag you into this. I’ll make sure of that.”
“Harry, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s you I’m concerned about.”
“I know, and I ’preciate it. But I gotta do it. No way ’round it.”
She heard the door click open. He turned once more and gave her a little mock salute, grinning like a school boy. “See you. I shouldn’t be too long.” Then he stepped out of the cruiser and headed for the Office of Professional Standards.
“Detective Bentley, please sit down.”
It was a warmly decorated conference room, not a police interrogation cell like so many in which Harry had spent hours questioning suspects. But as he took his seat on the other side of the polished mahogany table from the three “suits,” he felt like he was as much on the grill as any perp.
“I understand from this report that you feel there’s been a few problems in your Special Operations Section.”
“That’s what it says. But . . .” Harry looked back and forth at the three of them. “Perhaps you gentlemen would be so kind as to let me know just who I’m speaking with before we dig in too deep.”
“Of course. I’m Captain Roger Gilson, chief investigator for the IPRA. And”—motioning to the man to his right—“this is my assistant, Carl Handley.” He turned to his left. “Bill Frazer sits in on these hearings as counsel for the city. And that little tape recorder between us is here in place of hiring another court recorder . . . Tight budget, you know.”
Harry Bentley slid his chair in a little closer. “You did say this was the IPRA, the Independent”—he emphasized the word as he raised one eyebrow—“Police Review Authority, right? Even though two of you are from the department and
Frazier, here, represents the city?”
Entirely independent.” Gilson waved both hands over the table “ like an umpire signaling safe. “We have no contact with any of the line officers, completely insulated. And we take orders from no one, not even the mayor’s office.”
Harry rolled his eyes . . . not in Chicago, but he took a deep breath and plunged on. “As you can see from my report, I’ve been in the SOS for six years. At first we were doing a lot of good putting away dope pushers and gangbangers. And there are still good men and women in the unit, don’t get me wrong. But it’s been taken over by rogues, particularly . . .” Harry took a deep breath. “Particularly Matty Fagan.”
“What do you mean, ‘taken over’? This Fagan, he’s your boss, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, Lieutenant Matthew Fagan. Irish, you know. Likes to be called Matty. But . . . well, if you read my report, it details three raids where we had no warrants but broke into citizens’ homes anyway. On two of those occasions we found large quantities of drugs, cash, and weapons. We confiscated them all but did not make any arrests—probably couldn’t have made them stick with-out warrants. But a short time later, all that contraband disappeared, back onto the streets. Then—”
“Mr. Bentley,” interrupted Frazier, the lawyer, “you lost me there for a minute. How do you know this money and dope and guns ended up back on the street?”
Harry rubbed his hand across his smooth head. “I don’t have any proof about the drugs, but they did disappear. And I’m sure the money went into the pockets of a few members of the unit, because they talked about it—”
“Wait, they talked about it? And you think they’ll admit to that?” Frazier snorted.
“ ’Course not. But the guns . . . now there I have evidence. I recorded the serial numbers from those guns, and three weeks later I pulled one off a perp. The number matched! It’s even in my arrest report.”