Stand by Me (8 page)

Peter took his plate to the sink, rinsed it, and stuck it in the dishwasher. “You okay with that, honey?” Getting a nod from her, he headed for his favorite chair in the living room with the Sunday paper.

All right. It made sense. Avis put her own dishes in the dishwasher, then took her cell phone into the bedroom, propping herself with several pillows on their queen bed. But she hesitated.
Lord, You said the Good Shepherd left the ninety-nine sheep
who were safely in the fold, and He went out looking for the one lost
sheep. Can You make that two, Lord? Rochelle is lost, and Conny too.
And I don't know how to find them
.

She hit the speed-dial number for Rochelle and held her breath while it rang. Once . . . twice . . . then an irritating squeal and computerized message.
“This phone number is not currently
in service
.”

What? Maybe she'd dialed the wrong number . . . no, she had Rochelle's number on speed dial, same as always. Still, she tried the number again and got the same message. Unwilling to give up, the third time she typed in the number, digit by digit. Same message.

Avis felt like throwing the phone across the room. Not in service? What did that mean? Now she couldn't even leave a message!

Avis marched into the living room, ready to say,
So what
now, Peter?
But Peter was asleep in the recliner, snoring softly. Watching the slow rise and fall of his chest and his slippered feet resting on the footrest, her resolve melted. The man was tired. He'd put in a six-day week running his business. It wasn't his fault that Rochelle hadn't paid her phone bill. She'd asked him for advice because she wanted finding Rochelle to be his priority too. But . . . he was asleep. And she wasn't helpless.

Avis made herself a cup of lemon tea with honey, sipping the hot liquid as she leaned against the kitchen counter.
So, what
next, Lord?

But the voice she heard in her head was her father's. Something Buck Thomas had said when she'd phoned him as a new mom, panicked because she'd lost Charette in the Marshall Field's store at Christmas.
“Go back to the place where you last saw her, Avis.
Start there. Don't go running off in a dozen different directions.”

Okay, so where was the last place she'd seen Rochelle and Conny?

The Manna House Women's Shelter. She'd taken her daughter and grandson there the day after Valentine's Day. But they hadn't stayed more than a day . . . Still, it was a place to start.

Grabbing her address book from the shelf near the kitchen phone, Avis looked up the number under M . . . and dialed. The phone rang five or six times before someone answered. “Manna House.”

“May I speak to Mabel Turner, please?” If anyone would know where Rochelle was, it would be the director.

“Sorry. She ain't here on Sundays. Be back in the office tomorrow morning.”

Avis shut her eyes and pressed her fingers to her forehead. Of course. But surely someone on the staff was there. “Is there someone on staff I could speak to?”

“Hold on.” The phone went dead. Avis waited a full minute before a voice came on again.

“Hello? Nancy Cox speaking.”

Nancy? She didn't know anyone on staff named Nancy. “I'm . . . my name is Avis Douglass. I was hoping to speak to someone on staff who might know if my daughter, Rochelle Johnson, has been on your bed list recently.”

“Oh. You probably need to talk to Mabel Turner. She'll be in tomorrow. I'm just day staff on weekends. Rochelle Johnson? I don't recognize that name, but that doesn't mean much. She could've been here during the week. Even on a weekend there're always some new faces, and I don't always learn all the names. But Ms. Turner has a list of everybody.”

“All right. Thank you.” Avis pushed the Off button on her phone.

Now what, Lord?
She was back to square one.

Or was she? Why not try Rochelle's last apartment? She said she'd been kicked out for nonpayment of rent—but what if she meant she
might
get kicked out? What if she was still there?

But she'd have to drive to the South Side. No home phone. Rochelle only had a cell.

Avis quickly changed out of the plum-colored suit into a pair of jeans, gym shoes, and a white cotton pullover sweater. Grabbing her car keys and a light jacket, she paused in the living room where Peter was still dead to the world. Should she wake him? Ask him to come with her? . . . No. If Rochelle was still mad at Peter, still saw him as the Big Bad Guy that Mama married, maybe it was better if she went alone.

Scribbling a note that she laid on her husband's lap, Avis quietly slipped out the front door of their apartment and hurried down the stairs. But she only got to the second-floor landing when the door of the apartment below them opened.

“Avis? Oh, good, it's you.” Her downstairs neighbor, Louise Candy—a name that always made Avis want to ask where
that
came from—poked her head out. Her dyed blond hair was rolled up in curlers, and a tanning salon tan framed her pale blue eyes. “Just wanted to tell you that Ted and I are going to Costa Rica for the summer—some business deal he's got going there, a real hot property—so we're looking for someone to sublet our condo for three months or so. But even thinking about interviewing strangers to stay in our condo makes me tired. So thought we'd pass the word among friends. Don't want just anyone renting it, you know.”

Definitely
. Avis didn't want just anyone living downstairs either. They had a quiet building—a three-flat that had gone condo a few years ago—and only the first-floor family had kids, two preschoolers. She and Peter were the only African-Americans in the building, but they got along well enough with the other two condo owners.

“Sounds like a great opportunity. I'll let you know if I hear of someone.” Avis gave a quick wave and hurried down the next flight before Louise tried to fill her in on their latest business scheme in Costa Rica.

But as she crossed the narrow residential street and unlocked the door of her Camry, it hit her: if she and Peter did something like he was imagining—go to South Africa or Timbuktu for six months or a year—they'd probably have to sublet their apartment as well.

She shuddered as she started the car and pulled out of the parking space. Put
that
in the minus column.

Chapter 8

M
onday at Mary McLeod Bethune Elementary School lived up to its reputation as “Wild Horse Roundup Day.” In every classroom Avis peeked into as she navigated the halls, teachers were having to corral kids who were practically bouncing off the walls after a weekend with too much TV, too much sugar, and too little attention from grownups. By Tuesday they'd be settling down, but in the meantime the row of chairs in the school office for kids being remanded for detention was full before noon.

After-school detention wasn't an option at the elementary level, so Avis rotated all teachers and support staff to supervise a separate lunchroom, which meant each person had to be on duty only once or twice a month. If more than five kids were assigned to detention on a single day, Avis added herself to help supervise.

Like today.

By the time detention was over—seven disgruntled miscreants dawdling their way through the school lunch of tuna-noodle casserole, followed by a grade-appropriate extra math assignment—Avis had a headache.

And she still hadn't had time to call Manna House.

Closing the door to her office, she sank into the padded desk chair, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes, ignoring the stack of mail the school secretary had put on her desk. Her trip to the South Side yesterday afternoon had been fruitless. She'd found the apartment at the last address she had for Rochelle, but there was no name on the mailbox in the foyer of the apartment building, and no answer when she pressed the buzzer. Not knowing what to do, she'd hung around for a while, hoping someone would come out or go in who might know whether Rochelle still lived there. Two big dudes with tattoos and low-slung jeans were buzzed in by somebody about ten minutes apart, but they just shook their heads. Then a plump woman—she looked Hispanic—came out pulling a wire grocery cart and said, “
Sí
, I think I know who you mean. Pretty woman, skin like caramel candy, lots of hair? And a little
niño
about five or six?” Avis had nodded eagerly. But the woman had shrugged. “Haven't seen them around lately. Maybe they moved.”

She'd given up then, but it was already after five. The Yada Yada Prayer Group would've started by then, and would be almost over by the time she drove back to Rogers Park from the South Side. She'd called Florida on her cell, apologized for her absence, and said Jodi could explain.

Peter had been upset that she'd gone to the South Side by herself. “You should've woken me up! That neighborhood's crime statistics are going through the roof!”

Maybe she should feel glad he was concerned about her safety. But his comment irked her. Wished he felt that upset about Rochelle and Conny living there.

Avis pressed her fingers to her temple. She couldn't let her mind go there. She needed to keep moving forward, take the next step:
call Manna House
. Avis pushed the stack of mail, requisitions to sign, and interschool memos to the side and picked up the phone.

“Mabel Turner, please,” she said when the regular receptionist at the shelter answered. Nice girl, recently engaged, she'd heard, to a young man at her Korean church.

“Oh, hello, Mrs. Douglass! Hold on . . .” Avis waited a long minute and then heard, “Mabel Turner speaking.”

“Hello, Mabel. This is Avis Douglass. I'm—”

“Avis! What a nice surprise. Didn't see you here last month when SouledOut hosted Sunday Night Praise. Everything all right?”

“Uh . . . yes, fine. I'd just lost my voice, had laryngitis. Hope the service went all right.” SouledOut Community Church was one of several churches that sent a small praise team and someone to speak at the shelter once a month on Sunday evenings. With Peter still on the Manna House board, he and Avis often came with the SouledOut team. “But actually, why I'm calling . . . I'm wondering if my daughter Rochelle has been on the bed list at Manna House lately? You may remember, I brought her there several weeks ago, the day after Valentine's Day, but she and her little boy, Conny, only stayed one night, and”—Avis felt her throat tighten—“we haven't heard from her since.” She reached for the water bottle she kept on hand.

“I'm sorry, Avis. That's got to be hard.”

Avis took several swallows of water, hoping Mabel would say more, but that was it. “So . . . has she been back? I mean, has she been on the bed list since then? I'm worried about her—her health, you know. And Conny. I need to find them.”

There was an awkward silence. Then she heard Mabel sigh. “Avis, I'm sorry. The bed list is confidential. I mean, we can't tell people over the phone if someone is here or not. Or whether they've been here. If Rochelle tells you, that's fine. But . . .”

Avis gripped the receiver. She couldn't believe this! Mabel knew her personally, knew Rochelle was her daughter. Valentine's Day hadn't been the first time Rochelle had been an emergency resident at Manna House. So what was this all about?!

“Avis? You still there? I'm sorry, your question about the bed list threw me. Even though I can't tell you names on the bed list, I can tell you I personally haven't seen Rochelle since she was here last. That's not a hundred percent guarantee she hasn't been here, especially if she came and went on a weekend, but I should have said that up front.”

A knock at her office door was followed by Jodi Baxter poking her head in.
“Oh. You're busy. I'll come back,”
the younger woman mouthed silently and started to pull back.

But Avis waved her in. “Thanks, Mabel. Guess that's basically what I need to know.”
It'll have to do, anyway
. She hung up the phone and turned to the third-grade teacher. “Hi, Jodi. What's up?”

Jodi closed the door behind her and pulled up one of the visitor chairs. “That's my question. You didn't make it to Yada Yada last night. What's up? Was that Mabel Turner?”

Avis nodded. “I was trying to find out if Rochelle and Conny have been back to Manna House in the past couple months, but she said the bed list is ‘confidential.' ” She grimaced. “I'd think family would qualify for information.”

“
Mm
. I see your point—but also hers. Some women don't want other people to know they're at the shelter.”

“Thanks for the support.” Avis allowed an edge of irritation to slip into her voice but tried to soften it by asking what happened at Yada Yada the previous night.

“It was good. Everybody made it—except you, of course. But I shared that you hadn't heard from Rochelle for a couple months and were looking for her. We prayed for you both.” Jodi looked at her quizzically. “So what happened yesterday?”

Avis told her about Rochelle's phone being cut off so she couldn't even leave a message, and the dead end when she went to Rochelle's apartment. “Doesn't sound like she's been back to Manna House either. Mabel did say she hadn't
personally
seen her. Guess that's almost as good as saying she hasn't been on the bed list.”