Who Do I Talk To? (12 page)

This is ridiculous!
Even if the Baxters agreed, would my boys? Leave their grandparents to stay with total strangers? Not a chance. And Philip would have a fit.

Oh God, what am I going to do?

I glanced at the kitchen wall clock.
Quarter to eight
. An hour later in Virginia. I had to call Mike back, soon! The rest of the cleanup crew had already finished. Draining the sink, I took off my apron, flipped off the kitchen lights, and started for my office—when I noticed my mother standing in the middle of the dimly lit dining room, wringing her hands. “Mom! You okay?”

“Dandy.” Her lip trembled. “I can't find him.”

“Oh, Mom. Lucy took him out.”
Like hours ago.
“I'm sure they'll be back soon. You know Lucy!” Yeah, but if “soon” wasn't the next few minutes, Sarge would lock the doors at eight, and that would be it.

As if on cue, we heard a commotion on the main level and a sharp bark. I gave my mother a hug. “See? There he is! Come on, let's go see him.” I tried not to show my impatience. I needed to call the boys' grandfather—and I still had no idea what I was going to say. All I knew was that I wanted my boys back,
now.

In her haste, my mother stumbled a bit going up the stairs, and I had to slow her down. But as we came into the multipurpose room, she was rewarded with a dynamo of yellow hair jumping all around her, whimpering happily. “Oh, Dandy, good boy, good doggy. Are you hungry? You are? Oh, look at your red bandanna. Look, Gabby, Lucy dressed him up! . . . Yes, yes, good doggy. I missed you too.”

But I was looking at Lucy's purple knit hat squaring off in the middle of the room with the night manager. Lucy planted her fists on her lumpy hips. Sarge folded her muscular arms across her bosom as the two women went nose-to-nose.

“That dog ain't goin' ta no pound,” I heard Lucy say.

“Rules are rules, Lucy Tucker. No pets at the shelter.
Capisce?”

“This ain't the army, and you ain't commander in chief.”

“And this ain't no pet hotel. The dog goes—tomorrow.”

Lucy shook a finger in Sarge's face. “Dandy's
family
. Miz Martha's family. Her mean ol' son-in-law already kicked the dog
an'
Miz Martha out. Ya gonna do it again? Huh? Huh?”

“'Course not. Miss Martha can stay. But the dog gotta go.
Sabato.
”

“Humph!” Lucy waved her hand in disgust and stormed past us, heading for the stairs to the bunk rooms. “Over my dead body,” she muttered.

My mother tugged on my arm. “Celeste? Celeste? What does the night lady mean, the dog has to go? Not Dandy. She's not talking about Dandy, is she?”

By the time I calmed my mother down, gave Sarge a piece of my mind for talking about the dog in front of her, and got my mom upstairs and ready for bed, it was almost ten o'clock. Eleven in Virginia! Was it too late to call? I ran down to my office and picked up the phone . . . and then put it back in its cradle.

What was I going to say?

Early tomorrow.
Mike said I could call early in the morning. All right. I'd sleep on it and call first thing in the morning.

Except . . . I couldn't sleep. The bunk room felt stuffy and crowded. Tanya and Sammy took up the fourth bunk. Lucy's snoring grated on my raw nerves. And seeing Mom's tears as she'd hugged Dandy good night before crawling into her bunk was about the last straw. The next day loomed like a hangman's noose outside my prison cell. I had to decide one way or another about the boys . . . had to find a foster home for Dandy before the Battle Ax called the pound . . . and it was the weekend! No Mabel to talk to. Would Estelle be in to cook lunch? I had no idea. Edesa and Josh had no reason to come in, unless Josh just happened to drop by to hang out with the kids. Even Harry Bentley didn't work at Richmond Towers on the weekend.

Wait
. Jodi Baxter was scheduled to teach a Saturday typing class at eleven. Maybe I could talk to her! Except . . . eleven o'clock would be too late.

I needed to talk to someone
now
. But who?

“Come to me . . . all you who are burdened and carrying heavy loads . . .”

I remembered the Voice in my spirit and the verse I'd read in Matthew's gospel. That left God. I'd have to talk to God.

Slipping quietly out of bed, I tiptoed to the door, opened it, and listened. All was quiet. Maybe I could sit in the tiny lounge here on this floor if no one was sleeping out there, which sometimes happened. As I slipped out, Dandy squeezed out right behind me. “No, no, go back, Dandy,” I hissed, trying to shove him back into the bunk room. But he wouldn't budge. I sighed. “Oh, all right,” I whispered. “But if you alert Sarge, your name is mud.”

The lounge was empty. Just a few stuffed chairs covered with cotton throws, a futon that had seen better days, and a table lamp. I wished I had my Bible, but it was downstairs in my office. Well, just as well. I'd keep the light off and just pray.

Curling up on a chair, I pulled the cotton throw around my shoulders. Dandy stretched out at my feet.
God,
I prayed silently,
You've been calling me to come to You. But it seems like I keep getting kicked off the path! Please . . . please lead me down the right path. I don't know what to do!

My prayer drifted into rehearsing the options I'd already discarded. The boys couldn't stay at the shelter—and probably wouldn't want to. Probably wouldn't want to stay with the Baxters either, even if they were invited. Well then . . . the boys could stay with Philip! Except . . . he was moving out of the penthouse next week. But where? Would he have room for the boys? Or would he take them right back to Virginia?

God! I'm going in circles here!

And then the answer dropped into my spirit, like a flashing road sign.
Leave the boys in Virginia for the month of July.
I'd resisted the idea with every fiber of my being. It felt like I'd be giving in, letting Philip win! But . . . if I asked myself,
What's best for the boys right now?
given that I was living in a shelter and didn't know how soon I could get an apartment, or how quickly Lee Boyer could push through the custody petition—the answer was clear. Don't keep jerking Paul and P. J. around. Let them stay with their grandparents. One month wasn't the end of the story. I still had two months to get them back here in time for school. And P. J. could go to lacrosse camp, like he wanted—A low growl broke my concentration. “Dandy! Hush!” I hissed, kicking at the dog with a bare foot. But he was already on his feet, nose pointed toward the stairwell. I reached for him and felt his body tense. The rumble in his throat persisted, and he padded silently toward the stairwell.

Scrambling out of the chair, I tried to stop him. He probably heard Sarge or the other night assistant—a social work intern from a local college—doing their rounds. But I was too late. Dandy had already disappeared down the stairwell.

I followed as quickly as I could.
Good grief !
Just what I needed, for Dandy to tangle with Sarge in the middle of the night. Animal Control would be here at daybreak.

Aha
. . . there he was, crouched at the staircase leading down to the lower level. One good grab and—I stopped. Muffled noises and several thumps from below was followed by a voice snarling, “Shut up.” My heart triple-timed. A
man's
voice!

At that instant, Dandy scrabbled down the staircase like a cougar after its prey. I tried to scream, “Dandy! Come back!”— but nothing came out of my mouth. Instead I heard Dandy barking fiercely, and then—

“Call him off ! . . . Umph!”
A man's voice!
“Get that dog off me—Ow! Ow! My hand! You—” A string of gutter words filled my ears as I stood frozen on the stairs. “Call him off, I tell you, or I'll cut him!”

And then a yelp of pain.

Dandy!

chapter 12

Without thinking, I burst into the open dining area in time to see a dark shape flying through the air and drop to the floor with another yelp as though in pain. “Dandy!” I screeched—and that's when I saw a stocky, dark figure whirl toward me.

“Watch out!” a woman's voice yelled. “He's got a knife!”

The dim room came into focus, as though time had stopped. Dandy lying on the floor . . . Sarge jerking her body back and forth on a chair . . . the blade of a kitchen knife gleaming in the glow of the EXIT sign . . .

But as the dark figure suddenly lunged toward me, Dandy scrambled to life and leaped, grabbing the man's wrist in his mouth. The man yelled. Man and dog fell to the floor. I heard, rather than saw, the knife clatter to the floor, skidding toward me.

“Grab the knife, Fairbanks!” Sarge yelled. “And untie me—now!” Adrenaline pulsing, I snatched up the knife.

Dandy still had the man's wrist gripped in his teeth, shaking it and holding on even as the man flailed about on the floor, hitting the dog with his other hand, trying to shake him off. A few feet away, Sarge half rose from the chair she was sitting in, but it came with her. That's when I saw that her hands were tied to the back of the chair with what looked like a dish towel.

“Fairbanks!” Sarge snapped. “Now!” Coming to life, I dropped the knife at her feet and loosened the clumsy knots. In two seconds Sarge was free. She snatched up the knife, breathing heavily. “Call 9-1-1. I've got it now.”

I ran for my office phone. As I punched in the emergency numbers, I heard the man yell, “Call off the dog! He's tearing my hand off !”

“Lie still, buster. Then we'll call off the dog.”

I quickly told the emergency operator we had an intruder with a knife at the Manna House Women's Shelter and gave the address. “Keep the line open,” the operator said. “Cars are on the way. Do you need an ambulance?”

“No . . . yes!”
Oh God, what if Dandy really hurt that guy?

Still clutching the phone, I stepped back out into the dining room. The night assistant clattered down the stairs, followed by Tina carrying a kid's plastic bat and several other residents who'd heard the commotion.

“Turn the lights on!” Sarge ordered. She had the knife pointed at the guy's chest. Even with the light on I couldn't tell his race or age beneath the scruffy, week-old beard and knit hat pulled low. He was moaning, wide eyes darting between his captor and Dandy, who crouched on the floor, mouth still locked on the man's wrist.

“Somebody tie his free hand to that table leg there. Tie his feet too. Get those dish towels or an extension cord—anything!”

Still holding the phone, I grabbed the dish towels the man had used to tie Sarge to the chair, and between the three of us—me, the college intern, and Tina, looking like a Puerto Rican Amazon carrying that plastic bat—we got the man's ankles tied and his free hand “handcuffed” to a table leg.

“Okay, Fairbanks. Call the dog off—and we better wrap something around this sucker's wrist. There's a lot of blood there.”

I knelt down, my whole body shaking from the trauma of the past few minutes. “Let go, Dandy. Good boy . . . it's okay.” Dandy let loose of the man's wrist, still crouching by his side. “Good boy. Come on, now . . . here, boy.”

Dandy tried to rise, but let out a whine and sank back to the floor. Then, with an effort, he crawled away a few feet, using only his back legs and one of his front paws.

A wide smear of blood followed in his wake.

“No!” I cried, falling to my knees beside him. “He's hurt! Dandy's hurt!”

A dizzy hour later, I found myself pacing in the waiting room of a twenty-four-hour animal hospital, while somewhere behind closed doors a vet worked on the slashing knife wounds on Dandy's shoulder and chest. Lucy had appeared in baggy flannel pajamas just as the police were hauling the intruder to the ambulance outside, and she insisted on coming along when a nice young policeman offered to drive Dandy and me to the vet. He even put the siren on and raced through half a dozen red lights.

I barely remembered running upstairs to shed my bloody silk pajamas, pulling on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and grabbing bath towels to wrap Dandy in. Thankfully, my mother had slept through the whole thing.

In the police car, Lucy had held Dandy's head in her lap, stroking his ears gently and murmuring encouraging words. But now she sat huddled in a corner, eyes streaming beneath the purple knit hat jammed on her head and swiping her nose with the back of her hand. I finally got a wad of toilet paper from a bathroom and stuffed it into her hand.

Before leaving us at the vet, the police officer—his name tag said Krakowski—had taken my statement of what happened. But the streetlights had dimmed and early morning fingers of light were tapping the rooftops by the time the vet came out. The good news was, the knife had not punctured any vital organs. The bad news was that the wound had torn muscles and tendons in the shoulder and chest, and might affect how well Dandy could walk in the future. The vet had to do about fifty internal stitches and twice that many external stitches. Did we want to leave him there for a day or two to rest?