Who Do I Talk To? (19 page)

I flipped the light on in my broom-closet office, feeling annoyed. Why did Lucy just take off like that? She didn't even sign out. I
told
her we'd be back in a few days. What if I'd brought Dandy back today? Hadn't she promised to help take care of him?

I sighed. Or maybe it didn't have anything to do with us. Lucy always had been unpredictable.

An envelope was leaning against my computer. A two-week paycheck and a note from Mabel:

Gabby,

So sorry. You should have gotten this Friday, but the accountant was sick. Hope you made it through the weekend.

Mabel

P.S. I won't be here today. Call if you need to.

I held the envelope against my chest.
Thank You, Lord.
This was going straight into the bank. A few more paychecks and I might have enough for a deposit on an apartment. “Not to worry, Mabel,” I murmured. “God picked up the tab for my weekend.”

It was true. And I wasn't going to let my frustration with Lucy ruin the feeling of peace God had given to me as an extra bonus.

The morning seemed to fly. I worked on my activities calendar, one that could be posted on every floor of the shelter to remind residents of regular classes and activities offered, as well as special program events. So far, so good . . . but I still had ideas I needed to pursue. Halfway through the morning, I left a message for Lee Boyer at Legal Aid to call, hoping to set up our next meeting. Now that I'd made a temporary decision about the boys, I was eager to find out what I needed to do next to strengthen my custody case. What else was I supposed to do before our next meeting? Oh right, the power of attorney papers he'd given me. I hadn't even looked at them yet! Well, tonight then . . .

Estelle poked her head in my door when she came in at ten thirty to do lunch. “How you doin' this mornin', sugar?”

“Good. Those prayers last night . . . I really appreciated them.”

“Well, just keep 'em goin', honey. Let God do the heavy lifting. Say, I brought a bunch of material for my sewing class today. Didn't you say you had a sewing machine we could use?”

I grimaced. “Well, yeah, sorta. I mean, I said it, but it's still behind lock and key at the penthouse. And to tell you the truth, after limping out of Philip's office last Friday, I'm not feeling especially brave about calling him, much less actually going there to pick it up.” I winced. “I know you all prayed for courage last night, but—”

“Nope. That's wisdom, honey. You don't need to be talking to that man right now. Hmm . . . that's the building where Harry works, right?” She tapped her teeth with a carefully manicured nail. “E-mail. The man's got e-mail, right? Tell him to leave the sewing machine at the main desk of Royal Towers or whatever it's called and someone will pick it up.”

E-mail.
It hadn't occurred to me to e-mail Philip. But I liked the idea. I could be brave in a note. Of course, I ran the risk that he'd just hit Delete. But he
had
agreed to me picking up the sewing machine this week . . . it was worth a try. I kept the message short. “Philip, I need to get my sewing machine this week. Please leave it at the main desk with Mr. Bentley. Someone will pick it up for me. Thanks. Gabby.”

Then I hesitated . . . what was I doing?
After fifteen-plus years of marriage, I'm going to settle for just my sewing machine?!

“Argh!” I grabbed fistfuls of my hair to keep from punching the computer . . . but a moment later I took a big breath and let it out.
No.
This was just for now. If it . . . if it actually came down to divorce, Lee Boyer would tell me how to get my fair share of our community property. Until then, I didn't want to do anything that presumed we'd never work this out. Philip's tantrum had to wear out sometime, didn't it?

Oh God, please . . .

I'd just clicked Send when I heard another knock on my door.

“It's open!”

A head full of tiny black braids poked in. “Hey, Miz Gabby.

How ya doin'?”

“Precious!” I jumped up, pulled her in, and gave her a tight hug. “When did you get back? Are you okay? Is Sabrina all right?”

Precious shrugged out of my embrace and sat on the corner of my desk. “Sabrina all right. Leastwise I didn't kill her. But she ain't talkin' to me. Still, she home now. We'll get through. 'Cept . . .” The young single mom looked away.

“Except what, Precious? What's wrong?”

A big sigh escaped from her thin body, like a tire deflating. “Lost my job. Humph. I been waitressin' at the Lucky Straw almost two years. Ya'd think they'd hold it for me when I had a 'mergency, wouldn't ya?” She shook her head, the ends of her skinny braids tickling her shoulders. “But without that job . . . me an' Sabrina gonna be right back here at the shelter, back where we started.”

We talked a long time. Or rather, Precious chattered and I listened. One minute she was fussing about how hard it was raising a girl in today's world when all the role models on TV and the movies were rich, slutty brats, and the next minute she was cussing out the boys who couldn't keep their pants zipped. “What is
wrong
with these young people? They either smokin' they brains out with drugs, or act like havin' a little fun today is all that matters. An' we end up with all these babies ain't got no daddies and the mamas livin' off welfare. No wonder them abortion clinics do so much business. I tell you, Gabby, things gotta
stop
somewhere.”

She finally sighed. “Know I shouldn't go off so hard on Sabrina. Didn't I make enough mistakes for the two of us? Just . . . makes me so mad she's not usin' the brain God gave her. What was she thinkin', runnin' off like that? That I wouldn't find out? Wouldn't come get her? Now she done cost me my job . . . Lord, I'm at my wit's end.”

I reached out and took her hand. “I'm so sorry, Precious. Maybe it's not as bad as it seems. I mean, if you can find another job, maybe you won't lose your apartment.”

She shook her head. “Already lost a week's pay. Even if I find a job in the next two or three weeks, it gonna be awhile till I get enough to pay for two months all in a hunk—even with Section 8. An' my landlord? Mm-mm, Lord have mercy. He got the patience of a jitterbug. What I need right now is one o' them subsidized apartments where they just take a certain percentage of your income, no matter what it is.” She shook her head. “But the waitin' list for them places so long you could wrap it 'round the whole city. Maybe twice.”

Precious slid off my desk. “Anyway, thanks for listenin', Miz Gabby. You wanna be my case manager if we end up back at the shelter again?” She laughed. “You'd have it easy. I know the drill. I just need someone I can yell at long enough to get the monkey off my back; then I'll get down to business . . . Okay, I'm outta here. Gonna see if Estelle needs some help with lunch.”

The door closed behind her. I absently chewed on the end of a pen. That was the second time in less than a week a single mom here had talked about needing “second step” housing—a place of their own, to be a family, even before they had a job that could pay full rent. Had Manna House ever considered doing something like that? I'd have to ask Mabel. And I still hadn't told Precious that my mom and I had ended up here at the shelter ourselves . . . but that was okay. I hadn't even thought about it while Precious was unloading.

Huh
. Might be the first time in a month of Sundays I hadn't been thinking about myself.

Hannah the Bored flagged me down at lunch. “So are you gonna let me do nails for the ladies or not? You
said
to give you activity ideas, an' I've axed you twice.”

Had she really? Had to admit it was easy to ignore Hannah. She irritated me, just sitting around filing her nails. I made my voice light. “Hannah, you are free to do anyone's nails at any time. Go for it.”

The young woman frowned. “But to do it right, I need lotsa diff 'rent stuff. Cuticle cutters, nail strengthener, lots of different colors o' polish, clear coats. If you made it official, ladies could make appointments. Depends on what they want done, how long it takes. Full sets, gel overlays, French tips . . .” An excited grin lit up her face. “You should see the designs I can make—flowers an' starbursts, stuff like 'at. But it takes special brushes and paint.”

I studied Hannah with new interest. Sounded like she knew what she was talking about. A crazy idea popped into my head. “Hannah, tell me, have you ever done nails professionally?”

“Ya mean like in a salon? Oh yeah. I started cosmetology school once, but my ol' man got busted an' . . . nah, never mind. Anyway, had to drop out after that. My aunt had this salon an' she gave me a job, but . . . I don't really know what happened, but she lost the salon, back taxes or somethin', an' I lost my job and ended up no place ta go. So”—the young black woman grinned flippantly—“here I am.”

“But can't you get another job at a salon?”

She shrugged. “That's what I wanna do, but most of 'em want ya ta graduate cosmetology, but can't do that till I can pay for tuition, can't get a job till I get a state ID, but I'm still waiting ta get a copy of my birth certificate. Wasn't born in Chicago, so it's takin' awhile.”

Whew. I never really knew Hannah's background. Who was her case manager? I knew Manna House worked on priorities and goals for each resident, and I didn't want to get the cart before the horse, but—

“Hey, Miz Fairbanks. Let me do your nails.” Hannah grabbed one of my hands. “Oh, girl, they are in
bad
shape. I got a nice color, would look real good on you.”

I pulled my hand back. “Oh, that's nice, Hannah, but I—”

“Aw, c'mon, Miz Fairbanks—”

“Call me Gabby, Hannah.”

“Okay. Gabby. But jus' give me half an' hour, show ya what I can do.”

Something Precious once said hovered at the edges of my memory.
“When you been living on the streets, a bit of pamperin' is pretty nice. Homeless women need ta feel like women, too, ya know.”

I relented. I would like to see what she could do.

By the time I left Manna House that evening, my nails glowed with a dark honey-peach nail color that did not clash with my hair. Hannah had soaked them—in a shampoo solution, but oh well—then she'd softened and rounded the cuticles, lotioned and massaged my hands, filed my nails, and painted them with an undercoat and a top coat. “My last couple bottles,” she'd said.

“That's why I need ta get put on the activity list, so you can get me some real supplies.”

She had me convinced, but I told her I couldn't promise what the budget would be.

I had one errand to do on the way back to the Baxters'—deposit my paycheck. When I had a chance, I was going to move my household account to the branch bank near the Sheridan El. But for now, I had to get off at Berwyn and deposit it at the bank near Richmond Towers. Not likely that I'd run into Philip at this hour.

Lucy still hadn't shown up at Manna House by the time I'd left, even though there'd been brief thunderstorms off and on all day. Where did she go when she wasn't at the shelter? I'd run into her three times in the park near Richmond Towers. Should I walk over there on the off chance I'd run into her? I didn't have my umbrella, but when I came out of the bank, the sky was just overcast, so I took a chance.

No Lucy in the park. I even walked through the underpass to the beach. No sign of a purple knit hat.
Drat!
If I had my cell phone, I could call Mr. Bentley and tell him to keep a lookout when he was on the job, but . . . On a sudden impulse I headed straight for Richmond Towers and into the lobby. Mr. Bentley was holding the inside security door open for a resident whose arms were full of shopping bags from upscale stores, and his eyebrows went up like question marks when he saw me.

“Mrs. Fairbanks! Going upstairs to storm the fortress?”

I grimaced. “No, and I want to make this quick. Don't really want to run into you-know-who. Could you keep a lookout for Lucy—you know, my bag lady friend? She disappeared from the shelter this weekend, and I kind of want to find her. She wears a purple knit hat Estelle made for her—you've seen it, I'm sure. Second thing, my husband is supposed to bring my sewing machine down here to the desk for me to pick up. Either one, would you call me at the shelter and let me know? Or call Estelle, whatever's easier.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Fairbanks.”

I felt a little bad at how brief I'd been with Mr. B, but at least I'd made an effort to find Lucy. Hopefully my mom wouldn't ask about her . . . but when I got to the Baxters' house, that was the first question out of her mouth. “Did Lucy send me a message? I know she's worried about Dandy. Did you tell her he's getting better and we'll be back tomorrow?”

I put her off as best I could—no, Lucy was out, but I was sure she'd be glad to see us as soon as Dandy was strong enough to go back—then collapsed on the stool in the Baxter kitchen with the glass of iced tea Jodi handed to me. “Hard day?” she asked.

I grinned at their cats, weaving in and out between her bare legs. “Actually, a good day. The prayers last night—they really made a difference, Jodi. Not sure I can explain it.”

She just grinned and continued to chop vegetables for a stir fry. Patches, the calico, meowed pitifully. But Peanut, the black-and-white, hopped into my lap, knowing a sucker when he saw one.

I stroked the beautiful fur absently and was rewarded with a loud purr. “But I'm wondering if you have a phone number for the Yada Yada lady—I forget her name—who owns a beauty shop and needs a new nail girl?”

“You mean Adele Skuggs. Sure—I think her shop is open on Monday nights. You want to make an appointment? If she's got an opening, I could drive you over when Denny gets home.”