Who Do I Talk To? (29 page)

Mabel rubbed her forehead. “Mm. And which bunk room have you filled up with Pluto and Snoopy?”

“Uh, well, right now they're in my office. Still looking for an extra closet . . . oh. Before I forget. Do you think we can use some of the Dandy Fund to give the ladies a bit of fun at the Taste of Chicago tomorrow? Ten bucks each? And CTA passes?”

“CTA passes are for trips to the doctor or public aid office—”

“And field trips! Field trips are in the program budget, you know.”

Mabel wagged her head and sighed. “You do have a way of keeping things on the edge around here, Gabby Fairbanks.”

“Well, good news, then. Instead of 24/7, I'll only be here daytimes. I found an apartment.” I flopped down in her extra chair.

“Really?” Now Mabel looked interested. “Tell me.”

I ran through the details. “My lawyer at Legal Aid told me about it.” I didn't say he'd taken me to see it and we had lunch afterward. “And if Mom and I put our money together, we ought to be able to make the rent.”

Mabel raised an eyebrow. “What happens when your mother's name comes up on the assisted-living list back in North Dakota?”

Gee. Couldn't she say, “That's great!” or something? Why did she always get to the sticking point? “Well, uh, hopefully by then my court case against Philip will be far enough along, I'll be able to get my fair share of assets. Or something.”

Angela stuck her head in the door. “Phone call for Gabby.” Mabel started to reach for her desk phone, but Angela shook her head. “It's male,” she hissed.

I hid a grin. “Probably my lawyer. I'll take it in my office, Angela. Tell him to hold.” Scurrying downstairs, I flipped on the light in my office and reached for the phone. Why'd he call on the Manna House phone? Had Lee lost my cell number?

“Gabby speaking.”
Silence.
“Hello?”

Then his voice. “Gabrielle.”

Philip!
I caught my breath. Why was
he
calling?

“I see you were in the penthouse while I was out.” A statement. Not a question.

“Yes.” I matched his tone—crisp, level, with a slight challenge—and pressed my lips together to keep from explaining or making an excuse.

“How did you get in?”

“I still have a key to our penthouse, Philip.” I dropped “our” in there.

“Why? Did you want to see me? Get something?”

“I thought you were moving this weekend. But obviously not. Where were you?”

The pause lasted a full second. “That's my business. I don't have to explain anything to you.”

“Nor to your mother or your sons, it seems. No one knew you were out of town.”
Oops.
I wouldn't know either if Mr.

Bentley hadn't said he'd seen him leave with a suitcase.

“Who said I was out of town?” Now his tone heated. “I don't like this spying, Gabrielle.”

I kept my voice even. “I'm not spying, Philip. I thought you were moving. We need to talk about our household goods. I found an apartment, and I need to furnish it.” Which was true, even though I'd visited the penthouse before I knew about the apartment.

“An apartment?” He sounded off step. “How—”

“Like you said, Philip. My business.”

For the first time I could remember, Philip Fairbanks didn't shoot back. And I was still standing.

I caught Estelle alone in the kitchen after lunch cleanup, making potato salad for the next day's holiday, and told her about Philip's phone call.

“Good for you, honey. 'Bout time you stood up to that man!”

“But it was strange, Estelle. I couldn't figure out why he called. I mean, I thought he'd really yell at me when he found that glass with my lipstick on it. But he just asked why I'd been in the penthouse.”

Estelle chuckled as she cracked and peeled hard-boiled eggs under cold running water. “Humph. Probably wondered why you didn't trash the place.
He
would've, if you'd tossed
him
out.” She shuffled over to the fridge, stuck the egg bowl in it, and grabbed a bag of potatoes.

“Yeah, well, that would've been stupid of me, wouldn't it? Since it's my stuff too. I told him I'm going to need my things when I get my apartment.”

She looked at me sharply. “What apartment? You know somethin' I don't know?”

“Yeah, well, I was going to tell the staff this morning, but we kind of got interrupted. My lawyer found it for me.” I gave her a quick rundown of Lee Boyer's call and our Sunday rendezvous.

“Hm. Who's this Lee Boyer? Sounds a bit overzealous to me.”

“Oh, come on, Estelle. He's been really helpful.”

“Uh-huh.
Really
helpful.” She shook a potato peeler at me. “You be careful, young lady. Don't you go runnin' after the first man who sweet-talks you. You gonna need some
time
to untangle yourself from this Philip mess 'fore you be thinkin' clearly.”

“Good grief, Estelle. He's just my lawyer. He knows I have to get a place to live before I can get the boys back.” Was he just my lawyer? When I talked with Lee, I always felt so . . . safe. But maybe that's how a good lawyer
should
make you feel.

The pile of peeled potatoes was growing.

“Uh, Estelle, how much food are you making for tomorrow? You know I'm trying to pull together a trip to the Taste. If Mabel agrees to spring some of that Dandy Fund for an outing, we'll be gone most of the day. And fireworks . . . maybe we'll even stay for the fireworks.”

“No you won't.”

“What? What do you mean, no we won't?”

Estelle started dicing the peeled potatoes and dumping them into a pot on the big, black stove. “'Cause Chicago does its fireworks thing on July third. And I was crazy enough to let Harry talk me into goin' with him an' his cutey-pie grandson tonight. Lord, help me.” She rolled her eyes and started in on a second bag of potatoes.

I grinned. Sounded like Estelle and Mr. Bentley still had a thing going on. “Why don't you just take a holiday?”

“Humph. Taste or no Taste, I'm makin' Chicago dogs with all the trimmin's an' good ol' mustard potato salad an' apple pie for my ladies. You'll see. After all that fancy-smancy food-on-a-stick at the Taste, them ladies gonna come back here an' be beggin' for my leftovers.” Estelle held up a bag of onions. “You gonna just be standin' around? 'Cause if so, you can start choppin' these onions.”

“Whoa, I'm outta here. Sorry! I've got calls to make!” Which was the truth. I'd barely had time to start in on my list of schools before lunch. But as I made call after call, I either got a voice message saying the office was closed because of the Fourth of July holiday, instructions to leave name and address so they could send an application, or the dreaded answer: “Fall registration is closed. However, you may apply and we'll put your child on our waiting list.”

My list was growing shorter. A tinge of panic dried out my throat. What if I couldn't find a good school for P. J. and Paul? What if—My eyes fell on the note card Edesa had left for me the second night I'd been at the shelter. I'd taped it to my computer, but now I peeled it off. The words “
I will not forget you
” and “
your sons hasten back
” leaped out at me.

Edesa had written those verses from Isaiah 49 as God's promises to me. And last night at Sunday Evening Praise we'd sung, “
Oh for grace to trust Him more.
”

I took a deep breath.
Okay.
I was going to go for broke. I'd fill out every application and put P. J. and Paul on every waiting list. After that, I'd have to trust God.

To my delight, when I got the notes from the staff meeting that afternoon, Mabel had included an addendum:
CTA passes and $10 per resident approved for Taste of Chicago outing.
Quickly making a sign-up sheet, I passed it around at supper and ended up with several I knew fairly well—Hannah, Tina, Aida, Wanda, Carolyn, and Diane. I recognized a few others like Althea, the Iranian woman. A couple of names were new.

I counted the list. Only thirteen?
Hmm.
Not as much interest as I'd expected. My mother had shaken her head. “Too much walking.” Well, that was true. Probably just as well. She'd been needing a nap almost every day.

Lucy's name wasn't on the list either. Was she embarrassed to just put her X? I tried to let her off the hook. “Hey, Lucy, want me to put your name down for the Taste? You get ten bucks to spend.”

“Huh. Ain't got time for no gallavantin'. Dandy's stitches need to come out, and I need to stay here with him. Doc said ten days. Ten comin' up tomorrow.”

I'd forgotten Dandy's stitches. “But tomorrow's a holiday! I don't even know if the animal clinic will be open on July Fourth. We can wait one more day. Dandy will be fine. Come on. It'll be fun.”

“Nah. Don't like them big crowds. Dandy an' me'll stay here with Miz Martha. 'Sides, Estelle's makin' apple pie.”

Well, okay. Thirteen was a good number, probably better than a huge crowd. At least I didn't have to keep track of any kids—the Baxters had taken them to the Taste on Saturday. But should we try to keep together? No, that was stupid. These were adults. They'd want to go off, do their own thing. As I understood it, the festival had music stages and other entertainment in Grant Park, besides all the food vendors.

Still, I felt kind of responsible since it was a Manna House outing. I mused about this out loud when Sarge and her college-age assistant, Susan, showed up to cover the night shift. Sarge shrugged. “Not a problem.” The ex-marine grabbed Susan, who was wearing a Manna House T-shirt. “See this? Orange. Best color to stand out in a crowd. Put 'em all in Manna House T-shirts.”

I grinned. “Great idea!” I had another great idea. “Sarge? Would you like to go with us tomorrow? I sure could use another staff person.”

“I can go too,” Susan offered. “I don't have summer school tomorrow.”

Which is how sixteen of us in bright orange T-shirts that said
Manna House Volunteer
in black letters pushed our way onto the crowded Red Line El train and rode to the Loop. Once off the El, it was only a couple of blocks to Columbus Drive and Grant Park, which was teeming with the holiday crowd. After getting our food tickets at one of the ticket booths—a strip of eleven for seven bucks—and agreeing to meet at Buckingham Fountain at three o'clock, the bright Manna House T-shirts melted into the crowd like so many orange Popsicles on a hot day. Even Sarge and Susan disappeared.

But no way did I want to go solo my first time at the Taste. I felt overwhelmed at the sheer number of booths and competing smells—Thai spices, sizzling pizzas, and grills spitting out BBQ chicken and ribs. Then I spied an orange T-shirt and a familiar brown-and-gray ponytail in the line waiting at Sweet Baby Ray's booth. “Hey, Carolyn! You decided to get some ribs?” I sidled up beside her, giving the person behind her in line a “we're together” smile.

Our resident bookworm, hands stuffed in the pocket of her jeans, nodded. “But one strip of tickets isn't going to go far around here.”

“Yeah, I know. Best I could do from the budget, though.” The line inched forward. “Say, I heard you're leaving us. Is it true?”

Carolyn grinned, softening the plain effect of always wearing her hair pulled back in that skimpy ponytail. “Yep. My name finally came up at Deborah's Place. Been waiting a long time.”

I felt a real pang. “I'm going to miss you, Carolyn. Who's going to take care of our budding libr—Oh. We're next.” I squinted at the menu board. “What are you going to get?”

Five minutes later we each walked away with a boneless rib sandwich dripping a pungent red sauce. But the crowd was so thick I felt like a salmon fighting to swim upstream against a strong current. We finally stopped for a breather to watch a clown twisting long, skinny balloons into wiener dogs and giraffes, to the delight of a dozen kids and perspiring parents.

“Meant to ask you 'bout the library thing.” Carolyn headed for a patch of grass where we could sit. Between bites of her sandwich, she said, “I'd like to come back to the shelter and volunteer. Didn't we talk once about doing a book club?”

I sucked some sauce off my fingers. “Carolyn! That would be wonderful! Will you have time? Won't you be getting a job or something?” Carolyn was one of the smartest women I'd met at Manna House. Mabel said she had a master's degree in literature. Had no idea why she'd ended up in a shelter.

Carolyn shook her head. “Not for a while. I'm on disability.” The word hung in the air for a long moment, my unspoken
Why?
hanging there with it. Then she shrugged. “Had a nervous breakdown on the job at the public library, got really abusive, and ended up doing time in a psychiatric facility. I'm still on meds and under a doctor's care.”

I stared at her. “Never would have guessed it. To me, you're one of the solid rocks at Manna House! I'll never forget you taking my boys under your wing that day and playing board games with them.” I touched her arm. “Not sure what we're going to do without you.”

To my surprise, the stoic Carolyn suddenly wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “Tell you the truth, Gabby, I'm kinda scared. I want this so bad, but . . . I'm not sure if I can make it on my own.”

“Oh, Carolyn.” I almost added, “Sure you will,” but frankly, I had no idea. Why would a talented woman like Carolyn end up in a shelter? I wished I knew how to support her on her way back to a “normal life”—whatever that was.

But who was I to help someone else? I was having a hard enough time patching my own life back together.

chapter 30