Who Do I Talk To? (27 page)

I felt his hand on my arm. “Gabby. Listen. I showed you that apartment because that's what you're going to need to bring your boys here. Family-size apartment. Decent neighborhood. Not upscale, but decent. You don't
want
to live in an apartment you can ‘afford' right now, believe me. You need to be thinking long-term.”

I took the napkin off my eyes and blew my nose with it. “So what do I do? What about that housing subsidy you mentioned in your office—oh.”

Our omelets arrived. Lee busied himself buttering hot corn bread and digging into his spinach omelet. For some reason I missed thanking God for the food—even though I'd long lost the habit after I married Philip. But it always touched me at Manna House—women who had nothing were actually grateful they had some food on their plate. Wimp that I was, I sent up an unspoken
Thank You
and dug into my omelet too.
Mmm.
Rich, moist, and cheesy. Hadn't realized how hungry I was. Cold cereal that morning and day-old pastry donated by a local bakery hadn't stayed with me long.

After a few bites Lee pointed his fork at me. “Yes, you could apply for a housing subsidy. The Housing Choice Voucher Program—used to be called Section 8—is actually a wait-list lottery. Which means, even if you qualify, your name might get pulled or not—though thousands of names each year do get vouchers.”

“Like how many ‘thousands'?”

“Thirty-five . . . forty.”

“Oh.” That sounded hopeful.

“And there are some other subsidy programs. But there might be another option, Gabby—especially with time being an issue.” Lee laid down the fork. “Have you asked your mother if she can help cover the rent?”

I stopped chewing. “My mother?” I quickly swallowed the bite I was working on.

He nodded. “Weren't you looking for a retirement home or assisted living for her here in the Chicago area a couple of weeks ago? How were you going to pay for that?”

“Well, her money, of course, but—”

“How is this different? She stays with you. She can keep her dog—something she couldn't do at the places you looked at. She pays her share of the rent.” Lee lifted his eyebrows at me and smiled.

“Hey, Gabby. Wanna play some Scrabble?” Carolyn caught me as I came through the multipurpose room after Lee dropped me off. In spite of it being the weekend, the room was fairly full of women just sitting, a few sleeping, several playing cards—and Hannah doing Wanda's nails.

“Would love to, Carolyn—another time, though. Got something I have to do.” I spied my mother dozing in a chair with Dandy at her feet. “Try my mom—but watch out. She might beat you.”

I slipped downstairs to my office. I needed someplace quiet so I could think about Lee's idea. The apartment wasn't on the market yet, he said, so I had a few days to think about it. But it made sense . . . didn't it? Still, there were some things I needed to check out.

I booted up my computer and spent the next couple of hours surfing the Net for private schools in Chicago. I had tried calling several weeks ago—before my husband decided his life would be better “unencumbered” by me—and had gotten the usual answer. “Registration is closed” or “Would you like to be on the waiting list?” Philip hadn't seemed concerned, assuming the boys would just go back to Petersburg. But it wouldn't hurt to get on some of those waiting lists. And what about public schools? Some were college-prep and magnet schools. Did any of the high schools offer lacrosse? That would be a big draw for P. J.

By the time the supper bell rang, I had a long list of schools to call, including magnet schools with a variety of fine arts emphasis, language immersion, math and science specialties, classical education, global perspective, and interdisciplinary studies. I'd better add more minutes to my cell phone.

Lucy decided Dandy
had
to go out just as folks from New Hope Missionary Baptist Church showed up to lead Sunday Evening Praise. Well, resident participation was voluntary, so I didn't say anything. I introduced my mother to Pastor Clyde Stevens—“One of our board members,” I said, smiling and shaking his hand, wondering if Mabel had filled in the board on my “adverse” circumstances. It wasn't every day a staff member ended up on the bed list. But the pastor didn't say anything about it, just proudly introduced his hugely pregnant wife to my mother as “Lady Sarah.” The attractive Mrs. Stevens—glowing brown skin, hair straightened and worn short like a black cap, large gold loop earrings—looked ready to pop, but she still managed to corral three young boys all dressed in pint-size suits and ties. “Joseph! Joshua! Come here now and shake hands with Mrs. Fairbanks and Mrs. Shepherd. You too, Jeremiah! Uh-huh. I'm talking to you, young man!”

My mother beamed. “That's sweet. All Bible names.”
Right.
This from a lady who'd named her daughters Celeste, Honor, and Gabrielle. Precious waved at me and tipped her chin in the direction of her daughter, Sabrina, who looked like she'd rather be having a root canal. Mabel breezed in, trailed by her nephew C. J. The boy hunched his slender shoulders inside a Bears hoodie sweatshirt, the hood up. My heart squeezed. Had I been praying for him since his suicide attempt? No. All caught up in my own “drama,” as Precious would say.

Oh, God, forgive me for being so self-centered. Help me to—

“Sister Gabby!” Edesa Baxter snuck up behind me and gave me a one-armed hug, Gracie riding on her hip. “
Hola
, Gramma Shep.” She hugged my mother too. Then she plonked the Hispanic baby in my arms. “Can you hold Gracie a few minutes? Josh needs help setting up more chairs.” She bustled off to help her young husband. I couldn't help grinning. The three of them looked like chocolate, vanilla, and maple cream.

Maple Cream looked up at me soberly with her dark eyes as if trying to decide if I was safe . . . and then grabbed a handful of my chestnut curls. “Aha, I knew it, you rascal.” I tried to untangle her fist from my hair as a trio of African-American young men opened up the meeting, one on an electronic keyboard, another mastering a set of large bongo drums, and the third bouncing back and forth at the front of the circle of chairs, encouraging us, “Come on, come on, people! We're here to praise the
Lord
!”

New Hope had brought overheads for the words to the worship songs this time, which helped me a lot. After a few lively rounds of “Shout to the Lord” and “We Bring a Sacrifice of Praise,” my mother poked me. “Don't they sing any hymns?”

Maybe she thought she had to talk loudly over the music, but she happened to speak up just as the music faded, and her voice carried. Half the residents snickered. I hid my face behind Gracie in my arms. But the young man up front, mopping the sweat from his face with a small towel, called out with a wide grin. “What hymn would you like to sing, Mother? We'll sing it just for you.”

My mother got flustered, but someone else piped up, “How 'bout ‘'Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus'?” Mom nodded and smiled as the electronic keyboard gently led into the old familiar words. “'Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus, just to take Him at His Word . . .” A few of the residents sniffled as the chorus finished with “Oh for grace to trust Him more.”

The words niggled at me. Was I really trusting Jesus about that apartment? About getting my sons back? How did one get that “grace” to trust Him more?

As the notes of the chorus died away, I remembered it was this group that had introduced me to the gospel song “I Go to the Rock.” Josh Baxter had actually found a CD with the song on it and had given it to me. A CD that'd been missing for two weeks, I reminded myself. But if New Hope was taking requests, maybe they'd sing it—

Too late. Pastor Stevens got up and, to my surprise, introduced his wife as tonight's speaker. “My queen, the First Lady of New Hope Missionary Baptist, Lady Sarah.” All the residents clapped. A few hooted, “All right! All right, now!”

The pastor had a twinkle in his eye. “I hope you're clapping because you're going to hear this anointed woman of God speak—and not because
I'm
not.”

Everybody laughed.

Mrs. Stevens—it was a little hard thinking of her as “Lady Sarah”—seemed comfortable behind the music stand that served as a lectern. “Praise the Lord, church!”

Several of the residents hollered, “Praise the Lord!” right back at her.

“How many people want that old devil to get off your back?”

“Now you're talkin'!” . . . “Preach it, sister!” I recognized Precious.

“Now, you all know John 3, verse 16, right? ‘For God so loved the world . . .'” Several people joined in and finished the familiar verse. “But, ladies, I want to talk about the next verse. ‘For God did not come into the world to
condemn
the world . . .'
God
isn't looking to condemn us for how we've messed up. No, God wants to set us
free
from that mess! But how many of you know, that's exactly what Satan is busy doing all day, all night, whispering in our ears, ‘You bad. You no good. Look at you! You're just one big failure.'”

The room got very quiet.

“Or maybe he's sayin', ‘Girl, you've been givin' it out on the street so long,
nobody
gon' want
you.
You're just damaged goods.' That's condemnation, sisters. Oh, that first part might be true. You've sinned.
I've
sinned. We've all sinned. Scripture is clear about that. Sin is sin and needs to be cleaned up. But
conviction
, my sisters, is different than
condemnation.
The Holy Spirit says, ‘Don't carry that sin around anymore. Let me wash you clean and set you free. I made you beautiful! Don't wallow in that muck anymore.' When the Holy Spirit convicts you of your sin, it's because God wants to free you from its clutches, pick you up, and set your feet dancing!”

The young man on the keyboard played a few notes, and shouts of “Thank You!” and “Praise Jesus!” filled the room.

“All right, all right, I'm almost done here,” said Lady Sarah. “Let me read you one more verse from Romans, chapter 8. ‘There is therefore now
no condemnation
to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit. For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus has made me free from the law of sin and death.'” She looked up, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Oh, sisters. Don't let that old devil keep you down with his condemnation. Listen to the Holy Spirit, who wants you to let go of all that old baggage, be washed in the blood of Jesus, and be
free
! Oh, glory!”

Pastor Stevens jumped up and helped his pregnant wife into a chair as the praise leader led into a song, something about being “washed in the blood of the Lamb.” But I didn't even hear the words. Because as Lady Sarah spoke, I realized she'd given me the answer to my riddle—what the difference was between what Denny Baxter had done, asking forgiveness for a sin he didn't commit, and the times I'd apologized and said I was sorry when Philip accused me of stuff.

Philip's blaming made me feel condemned.

While what Denny had done had set both him and his accuser free.

chapter 28

Pastor Stevens and his wife stayed afterward to pray for a few of the residents. I noticed Lady Sarah praying for Sabrina, who was sobbing into a paper towel someone had stuffed into her hand, while Precious sat close by, praying in agreement with what was going on.

Gracie had fallen asleep in my arms. “Pray for me,” I whispered to Edesa as I handed her the sleeping child. “I think I found an apartment. Just can't afford it.”

“Oh,
muy bien
!” Her eyes danced, then faded. “Pray that we find an apartment too. Same problem. No money.”

“Did you guys apply for a housing subsidy? Section 8 or whatever?”

Edesa grimaced. “Josh is too proud. But I'm
this
close to wrapping his pride around his neck.” She lifted her eyes heavenward. “
Lo siento, Señor Dios!
”

I still had to call my boys, so I sat out on the front steps with my cell phone. Lucy came down the sidewalk with Dandy as the last New Hope people were leaving. “Nice timing, Lucy,” I teased, holding open the door for her.

“Humph. He walks slow, case ya haven't noticed.”

Almost eight thirty. Mom was visibly tired and complaining of another headache. I talked her into using the service elevator to the bunk room floor rather than the stairs. “For Dandy's sake,” I said. Should I ask about the apartment? Maybe tell her about it, give her time to think it over?

Tanya came into the bunk room to put Sammy to bed while I was tucking my mother in. “There'd be room for P. J. and Paul,
and
Dandy and me?” Mom said.

“Yes,” I whispered, wishing we were still alone.

My mother sighed . . . or was that a groan? Her head must still be hurting. I tiptoed out of the room and used the bathroom. When I came out, Tanya was curled up in one of the chairs in the small second-floor lounge, arms covering her head.