Who Do I Talk To? (37 page)

That had made me laugh. Celeste wasn't that far wrong.

I'd also called Mike Fairbanks to tell him about the funeral on Thursday morning here in Chicago, and that I'd be driving my mom's body back to Minot, where we'd have a second funeral. “I wish the boys could come to the funeral in Minot, but I think they'd have to change planes, maybe even twice. I don't really feel good about that.” And, I had to admit, it would probably cost more than going to Europe. Mike said okay, he'd call me back after checking flights to Chicago.

Now, as I lay staring at the ceiling fans slowing rotating overhead, I wished I'd asked if he'd spoken to Philip. I probably should call Philip myself, even if he had.
“I trust in God, why should I be afraid?”
the psalm said. Besides, shouldn't I treat Philip like I'd like to be treated? At least let him know that my mother had passed.

But I drew the line at him coming to the funeral. Not that he would. But after the way he'd treated my mother, if he tried it, I'd probably sic Dandy on him and send him to the hospital like that midnight burglar.

Sometime during the night I must've fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, Sarge was shaking me awake and telling me to clear out of there before other residents started to come downstairs. She also handed me the first cup of steaming coffee out of the pot, and I managed to get through that Wednesday morning on constant refills.

I called Lee Boyer first thing, told him what had happened and that I had to cancel my appointment that morning. “But this changes everything, Lee. I can't afford the apartment now . . .” I tried to steady my voice so I wouldn't break down again. “And I don't know what that means since I signed a contract. Can he sue me?”

“Now, Gabby, don't worry about the contract. I know this guy; we'll work something out. He owes me a few favors. But we do need to get you an address so we can file your custody petition with the court ASAP . . . Hey, look. Let's not try to deal with that today. You just lost your mother; that's enough to deal with. When you get back from Minot, we'll get right on it. Trust me, Gabby. I'm working this for you.”

“Trust me, Gabby . . .”
Why did that put a ruffle in my spirit? I felt confused about my feelings for this man. Lawyer? Friend? More than friend? But just then my call waiting beeped. The caller ID said Mike Fairbanks. “I'm sorry, Lee. Gotta take this. It's my father-in-law.” I flipped over.

The call was short. Mike said he was bringing the boys to Chicago, they had a late flight that afternoon, and Philip was going to pick them up at O'Hare. “We'll be staying overnight with Philip. I'll get them to the funeral tomorrow morning, Gabby, and we'll be returning tomorrow night. That way P. J. will only have to miss one day of lacrosse.”

I felt like screaming,
What does lacrosse have to do with anything?!
Even if I was leaving for North Dakota soon after the funeral, didn't Philip want the boys to stay through the weekend? They could go back to Virginia Sunday night, and P. J. would still only miss two days of camp. But I bit back my sharp retort.
Focus, Gabby, focus.
Mike was bringing the boys to their grandmother's funeral. I'd get to see my sons for those precious few hours, whether they stayed longer or not. That was all that mattered. “Thanks, Mike,” I managed. “I appreciate that you're coming with them.”

Blinking back tears, I hustled into Mabel's office, and we spent an hour roughing out a funeral service—Mom's favorite scriptures, music, who might participate. “Type up what you want for an obituary, Gabby,” she told me, “and I'll contact Peter and Avis Douglass, see if they'd be willing to officiate. Any of the residents you'd like to include somehow in the service?”

I shrugged. “Well, Lucy—
if
she comes back, and if I don't kill her first for absconding with Dandy.” I threw open my hands in helpless frustration. “Should I go look for her? Call the police? I mean, I really do want to find Dandy.”

Mabel thought a moment, then fished her car keys out of her purse. “If you think you know where to look, be my guest.”

I took the keys but realized it was probably a hopeless cause. Lucy could be anywhere! She was a street person, after all. It wasn't like she had a home and a workplace and a list of relatives and friends I could check out. But I did drive around the streets and through the alleys near Manna House, and even drove through Graceland Cemetery where I knew she often walked Dandy. Nothing.

Not sure why I found myself driving up Sheridan Road toward Richmond Towers, except that the park there along Lake Shore Drive was the place I'd first run into Lucy. Literally. Parking Mabel's car in the visitor parking spaces along the frontage road where Richmond Towers faced the park, I resisted the urge to peek into the lobby and say hi to Mr. Bentley. Another time.

Walking the jogging path, I veered off through the mown grass to check under some of the lush bushes. Was this the one where I'd tripped over Lucy's cart that day in the rain? I wasn't sure . . . but it was stupid anyway. Why would Lucy crawl under a bush on a breezy, warm day like today?

But I still scanned the park, following the path through the pedestrian tunnel under the Drive and coming out just north of Foster Avenue Beach. That's when I saw them . . . two familiar figures sitting on the two-tiered rock wall that led down to the strip of sand about a hundred yards to my left, a purple knit hat topping the dumpy body of Lucy Tucker, her arm draped around a yellow dog patiently sitting beside her.

I did not call to Dandy. Instead I quietly walked up beside them and sat down on the wall beside the dog. He immediately rose up, excited, licking me in the face and whimpering his greetings. “Hey, Dandy,” I said, scratching his rump. “Easy, now. How you doing, boy? . . . All right, all right, that's enough. Sit . . . sit! That's a good dog.”

Dandy flopped between me and Lucy, his brow wrinkled, as if unsure what was going on or what he should do. Lucy said nothing. I, too, just sat on the wall, watching the waves stirred up by the strong breeze coming off Lake Michigan, the horizon dotted with slender, white sails. The warmth of the sun on my head and the breeze running fingers through my unruly curls swaddled me in an oddly comforting cocoon, a momentary respite from death and funerals and—

“I was goin' ta bring him back,” Lucy finally muttered.

I didn't answer. Two seagulls fought over some tidbit in the shallows.

“We jus' needed some time, the two of us, what with Miz Martha dyin' off so sudden-like. Couldn't get no peace back there! Ever'body yappin' an' cryin' . . .”

Sitting there on that wall, my mad at Lucy sifted out of my spirit like so much dust. “I know. I got worried, though.”

Lucy sniffled and wiped her nose with a big, faded blue handkerchief she pulled out of somewhere. “S'pose ya gotta take him back with you.”

“Yeah. My boys are coming for their grandmother's funeral tomorrow, and I know they'll want to see Dandy. Paul, especially. He took care of Dandy for my mom when she was staying with us . . . kinda like you.”

Lucy's head swiveled toward me. “What funeral?”

I told her our plans. A funeral at Manna House tomorrow morning, another in North Dakota, probably on Sunday. “My dad is buried there. We want to bury my mother beside him.”

Lucy slid off the wall and shuffled two or three steps until she stood right in front of me, a kaleidoscope of mismatched tops and bottoms. “How you gettin' from here ta there?”

“Uh . . . driving. Mabel's asking the board if I can use Moby Van.”

Lucy's rheumy eyes bored into mine. “Takin' Dandy?”

That brought me up short. I hadn't thought about what to do with Dandy. The Baxters would probably be glad to take care of him—or even Lucy—for the five or six days I'd be gone. But somehow that didn't seem right. Dandy was family, had been Mom's companion for the past ten years. And that only begged the bigger question. What was I going to do with Dandy
after
the funeral?

If I had my apartment, I'd keep him myself. That would be a big draw for the boys—well, Paul, anyway—in coming back to Chicago. His own dog.

But I didn't have an apartment. Didn't know when I would get one either.

“Well?” Lucy put her hands on her hips and stuck her face close to mine. “I
said,
are ya takin' Dandy back to Dakota ta bury your ma?”

“Yes!” I shot back. Well, why not, since we were driving.

“Okay then.” Lucy hauled herself up the big step onto the grass and wrestled her cart out from under a nearby bush. “I'm goin' too.”

chapter 38

Lucy would not be dissuaded. I almost hoped we'd have to take the Baxter minivan so I could honestly tell her there wouldn't be any extra seats—but when I got back to the shelter with Lucy and Dandy, Mabel had left a note for me on my desk:

Gabby—good news! The board is granting permission to use Moby Van to transport Martha Shepherd's casket, since she died while a resident of Manna House, and since there wouldn't BE a van except for Dandy. All they ask is that you cover gas and any out-of-pocket expenses. Have a safe trip!

My skin prickled. This
was
good news—so why did I feel a tinge of panic? The whole idea was crazy! Driving cross-country with a casket in the back of a van the size of a small bus. Paying for gas and expenses . . . certainly a reasonable request. But where was it going to come from? My credit cards were dead. I'd have to use my debit card, which would take money right out of my bank account. I'd just have to keep a close watch so that I didn't drain my account completely.

And now what excuse could I give to Lucy? Even if we took out enough seats to accommodate the casket, there'd still be enough room for me, Jodi, Dandy,
and
Lucy.

I grabbed the note and poked my head out the door. I'd ask Estelle what I should do. Lunch was over, but Delores Enriques was still packing up her portable medical clinic in a corner of the dining room. Two of the residents whose names I didn't know were wiping tables and sweeping the floor. Estelle was bustling around the kitchen with a larger-than-normal crew.

“
Hola
, Gabby.” Delores paused her packing and scurried over to give me a hug. “I am so sorry to hear about your mother. My own mother lives in Mexico, but it's been five years since I have seen her. Now . . . I think I should go. One never knows how short life is.”

I hugged her tight. “I know. Thanks, Delores. I hope you can go see your mom. The last few weeks I had with my mother were precious.” I let her go, then turned back. “Say, I met your son, José, last Sunday. At SouledOut. Such a good-looking boy! He was with Amanda Bax—”

“
Sí
,
sí
, I know.” She rolled her eyes heavenward.
“
Señor
Dios, por favor!
Just let him get through college before those two get any ideas . . .” The dark-eyed woman leaned close to me and lowered her voice. “José looks up to Amanda's brother, and
he
married Edesa Reyes when he'd barely turned twenty. But José is the first male in my family to even
go
to college. My Ricardo . . . oh.” Delores put her hand up to her mouth. “
Perdone.
You go on, Gabby. I know you have a lot on your mind. We'll talk another time, all right?” She gave me a kiss on the cheek, then turned back to packing her stethoscope, swabs, and other instruments.

The kitchen was bustling. I leaned on the wide counter that opened into the kitchen, hoping I could get Estelle alone long enough to ask what I should do about Lucy. Althea, her hair hidden by her Middle Eastern head scarf, and Diane—took a moment for me to recognize her with that big Afro tucked into one of those ugly white hairnet caps—were both holding the big electric mixer as it went around and around, to keep it from rocking off the counter. Sammy's mom and several others from the Thursday cooking class were slicing cheese and ham, chopping vegetables, and arranging it all on a big, round tray.

“Hi, Estelle! What's happening? Your cooking class meeting early this week?”

Estelle looked up from the cutting board, where she was slicing lemons and limes. “Hey there, Gabby. You doin' okay? We just combined the knitting club and cooking class today to fix some food for the repast tomorrow after your mama's funeral. Least we can do for Gramma Shep.”

“Uh-huh” . . . “That's right!” a few voices called out.

“Sheila, turn the heat down under them greens! S'posed to simmer, not boil . . . Diane! That cookie dough mixed yet? Turn that thing off ! . . . Whatchu need, Tanya? Another tray?” Estelle bustled past me on the other side of the counter, giving me a quick glance. “You need somethin', honey? Can it wait a bit? We got a lot of pokers in the fire here.”

I backed off with a wave. Didn't look like now was the time. Besides, I had a lot of last-minute details to wrap up for tomorrow—run to the funeral home to pick up the transport permit, call Aunt Mercy and ask how arrangements were shaping up on that end, ask some of the residents to act as ushers, call Denny Baxter and see if some of the guys from his men's group would act as pallbearers, wash a load of clothes and pack for the trip, pack up Mom's things to take back to North Dakota . . .