Who Do I Talk To? (39 page)

As we came into the multipurpose room, the young black woman from SouledOut was already playing some background music—hymns and classical pieces. Lee found a seat toward the back. People were still talking but had quieted to a low murmur, and those standing by the casket moved aside to make room for the boys and me. Mike Fairbanks crossed himself—odd, since he wasn't Catholic—then quickly sat down in the front row.

I stood at the casket, my arms around both boys, as we looked at my mom's body. A stranger lay there, hands crossed on a familiar Sunday dress. Her gray hair was done neatly, her glasses perched on her nose, but the waxy expression didn't look anything like my mother, who could in turn be sweet or stubborn—sometimes both at the same time.

To my surprise, P. J. reached out a tentative finger and gently touched my mother's hand. But as he touched the waxy skin, he recoiled, his face crumpling, and he darted to a chair next to his paternal grandfather. Paul, on the other hand, pressed himself into my side, clinging to my waist. He didn't want to leave . . . until we heard a whine at our feet. Dandy had slunk up beside us, his doggy forehead wrinkled. He sniffed the casket, whining pitifully.

Paul lost it. And so did I. We cried and hugged Dandy and each other . . . and I heard other sobbing around the room as we finally found our chairs.

Once the casket was closed and the funeral started, Avis led us in a “celebration of life.” She read one of my mother's favorite psalms, and we sang “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” and “O Love

That Will Not Let Me Go.” Someone had thoughtfully printed out the words and included them in the simple program. Edesa Baxter read my mom's obituary, and as she read the words I'd written, I realized what an ordinary life my mother had led, nothing terribly exciting. And yet . . . she had been a faithful and loving wife, had raised three girls who had the same genes but were as different as rain, snow, and hail, had rolled with the uncertainties of the past few years since my dad died, and took comfort in the small, everyday joys of life—puttering in her flower garden, talking to her doggy companion, going to church, and making new friends . . . even in a homeless shelter.

How many so-called celebrities could say that?

Avis invited anyone who would like to share something about Martha Shepherd to come to the front. To my surprise, Hannah was the first one up. “Even though she white, we all called her Gramma Shep, 'cause she'd sit an' listen to ya, as if you was important—
and
she let me paint her nails!” Hannah jerked a thumb toward the casket, which the funeral home staff had closed before the service started. “Jus' look in there an' see! An' if ya want your nails done, I'll—”

A chuckle went around the room as Avis Douglass cut her off. “Uh, no commercials, Hannah. We need time for others.”

Carolyn got up and said it was a joy to know someone who liked to talk books and play Scrabble, followed by several other residents, staff, and volunteers—all of them giving testimony to the smiling presence of this simple, older woman who brought a bit of sunshine into the Manna House homeless shelter.

Then Lucy got up and laid a hand on the closed casket. Her rheumy eyes glistened. Dandy, who'd been lying at Paul's feet, got up and went to her, sat on his haunches, and looked up at the old woman. Lucy, dressed for the occasion in a clean but rumpled flowered skirt, white blouse, blue sweater two sizes too small, ankle socks, and sandals, didn't address the people in the chairs. She spoke to the casket.

“Miz Martha, this is Lucy.” Her voice was husky. “Me an' you, we was kinda unlikely to be friends, but that's what you was—my friend. Don't have too many friends. Got one less now that you're gone. But you an' Dandy here . . .” She reached down and patted Dandy, who seemed to be hanging on every word. “You was some of the best friends I ever had. An' I really don' know what I'm gonna do now that you gone, Miz Martha . . . but if you're in that happy place they talk about 'round here, I'm thinkin' I'd like to find out how to get there, too, so we could . . .” Her voice faltered. She stood there a moment, her shoulders sagging. But then she patted the casket. “Jus' wantchu ta know, Miz Martha, you trusted me ta take care of Hero Dog, here, an' that's what I wanna do”—the old bag lady turned and gave me the eye—“though ain't nobody tol' me yet who he's gonna live with. But if Dandy needs a guardian angel down here, that's me.” And she shuffled back to her seat.

Avis beckoned to me. I saw both smiles and tears in the wake of Lucy's eulogy as I faced the people who had gathered to celebrate my mother's life. I suddenly felt overwhelmed at seeing all the faces seated in the rows before me—black, white, tan . . . young, old . . . homeless women and board members . . . Mabel Turner, who'd hired me on faith and whose patience toward me was long on God's grace . . . Precious and Sabrina, Tanya and Sammy—two mothers like myself who only wanted to make a home for their children . . . Estelle Williams, who'd taken me under her wing like my own personal mother hen . . . Edesa and

Josh Baxter and baby Gracie . . . Josh's parents and sister Amanda, who'd taken in a couple of strangers . . . and even some of Jodi's Yada Yada Prayer Group sisters . . .

My mother had been in Chicago a mere four weeks—most of that spent here at Manna House—and yet the multipurpose room was full. I nodded and smiled at Harry Bentley, sitting beside Estelle, who had been
my
first friend here in Chicago. “Thank you, everyone . . . ,” I started, but the lump in my throat was so big, nothing more came out.

“All right, now,” Precious piped up. “Take your time, Gabby, take your time.”

There was so much I wanted to say. But as I struggled for words, I saw the double doors to the foyer open—and Philip slipped in.

Mike Fairbanks must have seen the stunned look on my face, because he turned his head to follow my eyes . . . and the next minute he was out of his seat and making a beeline for the back of the room. Almost at the same moment, I saw Lee Boyer and Harry Bentley get up from different parts of the room, like a pair of white and black cops, and head for the doors as well. Seeing his father and the other two men heading for him like bouncers at a nightclub, Philip backed out of the room, followed by the three men, and the doors swung shut behind them.

I caught Avis's eye, shook my head, and fled to my chair. The pianist took her seat at the keyboard, and the next minute we were all standing and singing, “Some glad morning when this life is o'er . . . I'll fly away . . .” I turned my head and looked toward the closed doors. What was happening out there? Leaning over to my sons, I whispered, “Wait here for me, okay? I'll be right back.” Hoping not to be noticed as I ducked through the standing congregation, I slipped into the foyer. Empty. I crossed to the heavy oak front doors, turned the handle of one, and pushed it open a few inches.

Through the crack I saw Philip standing down on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette—
since when?!—
and looking off into the distance, while Mike Fairbanks, two inches shorter than my six-foot- two husband, jabbed a finger in his face. “—ashamed to call you my son! You know Gabby didn't want you here today—and I don't blame her. After what you did—”

This was my fight, and I was tired of running from it.

I stepped outside.

Mike stopped, finger in mid-jab, and all four men gaped at me.

I marched down the steps until I faced my husband.
Gabrielle . . . strong woman of God.
If that was my identity, I better start living into it—though I had to admit that the presence of my three benefactors cinched up my courage a few notches.

“You're not welcome here, Philip. You know why. You turned my mother away from your home. You treated us both like dirt. She wouldn't want you here today. I don't want you here today. The least you can do is respect that.”

No hysterics, no name-calling . . .
Thank You, God, for giving me words.

Philip took a drag on the cigarette, dropped it to the ground, and ground it out. “I'm sorry about you losing your mom, Gabby. I—” His left eye twitched, the way it always did when he was tense, and he turned his head, as if watching the El train crossing the street a couple of blocks down. “That's . . . all I wanted to say.” He pushed past his father and started down the street toward his car.

Lee Boyer laid a comforting arm around my shoulder, but I was startled to hear him call out, “Fairbanks!” Philip stopped and half-turned his head. “
Sorry
isn't good enough.” Lee's voice was low and tight. “We'll see you in court.”

chapter 40

The repast after my mother's funeral celebration was a noisy affair, with more food than I'd seen in a long time lined up on the kitchen counter—greens, fried chicken, hot wings, sliced ham, corn bread, beans and rice, taquitos, a fruit tray, red punch, coffee . . . and three kinds of cookie bars. A regular multicultural fest. Estelle must have shanghaied her prayer group, too, because I'd seen her housemate, Stu, and several other Yada Yada sisters bringing in food as well.

The servers were all Manna House residents and volunteers, wearing clean white aprons and brightly patterned African head wraps instead of the usual ugly hairnets. Even Carolyn had her long, brownish-gray ponytail tucked up under a blue-and-gold head wrap, and her cheeks were flushed, animating her normally pale skin with a glow of color.

Dandy took advantage of the hubbub, moving from table to table, getting handouts. By popular request, Sarge retold the story of her rescue from the midnight intruder by Hero Dog and his subsequent rise to mascot and official watchdog status—omitting her ominous threats to banish him just days earlier.

P. J. and Paul remembered some of the residents from their earlier visit, and they ended up in the rec room, playing PingPong with Sabrina and Hannah and some of shelter kids. But poor Mike Fairbanks seemed a little overwhelmed by it all.

It was almost one thirty by the time Jodi Baxter leaned over my shoulder and whispered, “We better get on the road before two if we want to miss traffic.”

The pallbearers—Josh Baxter; his father, Denny; Harry Bentley; Peter Douglass; and the two pastors on the board—had already taken out the last three rows of seats from Moby Van and loaded my mother's casket into the back under the supervision of the funeral directors at the end of the service. Now Jodi and I added our suitcases, Dandy's bed, dishes, and a bag of dog food, and everything my mom had brought with her from North Dakota a month ago into the back alongside the casket.

“I wish I could go with you, Mom.” Eleven-year-old Paul stood on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched, hands in his pants pockets, his short school haircut grown out into a mass of unruly coppery curls, not unlike my own. “Why can't I take care of Dandy till you get back?” His lip quivered. “You
are
going to bring him back, aren't you?”

“Yes. I promise.” I gathered my youngest into my arms. “I wish you could go with me, too, kiddo. But . . .” My eyes blurred. “You need to stay with Granddad a little while longer. We'll be together soon. You'll see.” I reached out toward P. J., who let me pull him into our good-bye hug too.

“Don't you worry about that dog none, sonny,” Lucy inter rupted, bouncing her overloaded wire cart down the front steps of the shelter. “I been takin' good care of him for your gramma, an' ain't gonna quit now, even though she gone.”

I stared at the cart. “Lucy! You can't take that cart on this trip! I mean . . .” Frankly, I'd been hoping someone would pull Lucy aside and talk her out of going along. When was I going to learn that wishful thinking never got me anywhere?

Lucy peered into the open side door of the van, where Dandy was already sitting up on the second seat, panting in the heat. “Whatchu mean? They's plenty of room in this ol' bucket. I gotta take some clothes along. We goin' up north, ya know.”

Mabel stepped in to the rescue. “Lucy, come on. We'll find you a suitcase. You can leave your cart in my office, and it'll be safe and sound till you get back. Deal?” She led Lucy back into the shelter, cart bumping behind them.

Denny Baxter hovered around the van like a regular grease monkey, checking the windshield wiper fluid, making sure oil and water were full, checking the tire pressure. “You got enough gas to get you to Des Moines? Jodi, you sure you and Gabby want to stay at your folks' place tonight? It's gotta add a couple hundred miles.”

“We know.” Jodi flipped her bangs back. “But it's cheap lodging. And dogs are allowed. Free breakfast too.” She kissed Denny right on his dimples and climbed into the passenger seat. “Besides, if I see my folks on
this
trip, you're off the hook the rest of the summer.”

I shrugged and grinned at her husband. “What can I do? I need a copilot.”

Mabel and Lucy came back out, this time with an actual suitcase—the old-fashioned kind with no wheels. Still, Lucy looked embarrassed to be carrying it. “Don't feel natural,” she grumbled, shoving it into the van and climbing in after it.