Who Do I Talk To? (4 page)

Realizing I'd left the shelter without checking out or telling anyone, even my mother, where I was going—against shelter rules—I fished out Estelle's phone again and called. “Angela? It's Gabby. I forgot to sign out. I have some errands to do. Could you tell my mother I'll be back soon? . . . I don't know, maybe a couple of hours . . . Thanks. Oh! If you see Lucy, would you ask her if she can take care of Dandy? I'll make it up to her, promise.”

The El tracks loomed overhead where the Red Line stopped at Sheridan Road. I crossed the street and pushed open the door of the convenience store that sat next to the station. Did they have phone cards? What about an ATM machine? The clerk, who looked Indian or Pakistani under a cap of straight, black hair, pointed to a circular rack of prepaid phone cards, then jerked a thumb out the door. “Bank! You have to go bank for ATM machine.”

I quickly bought a twenty-dollar phone card with my debit card, knowing I had at least that much in my household account, and scurried out the door, looking up the street beyond the El station. Bank? I hadn't realized there was a bank close by, probably because I'd always walked straight from the El station to the shelter, going the other direction. But sure enough, a small bank sat on the corner half a block north—probably a branch of some big bank I'd never heard of.

An old man was using the ATM inside, and I fidgeted while he fumbled with his card and the push buttons. But finally he stuffed his money, card, and receipt in his pants pocket and shuffled out the door, tipping his hat at me on the way out. I was in such a hurry to find out the bad news, I had stuck my Visa card into the machine before his polite gesture even registered on my scrambled brain. And I hadn't acknowledged it.

Guilt joined the puddle of self-pity I was wallowing in. Would life ever be normal again? Would I ever wake up again with my children safely under the same roof, my husband in my bed—huh! Not that I wanted him there right now, maybe never—looking forward to an ordinary day, happily greeting the people who came across my path? After fifteen years of not having to think about money, was I now destined to live from paycheck to paycheck, counting every dime?

Get a grip, Gabby.
I shook off the maudlin thoughts, tapped my PIN number on the pad, and tried to make a “credit loan” of a hundred dollars. The card came spitting out at me. The readout said,
Card Rejected.

I tried my American Express.
Card rejected.
The only other credit cards I had were for Bloomingdale's and Lord & Taylor, and I was pretty sure what would happen if I walked into one of those stores and tried to use them.

The slimeball!
Philip had canceled them all—which, frankly, was what I'd expected, though I'd hoped . . .

I had one last card, the debit card to my household account. I stuck it into the slot, tapped in my PIN number, and withdrew twenty dollars. A moment later, a twenty-dollar bill, my debit card, and the receipt whirred out of their slots. I focused on the receipt. How much was left?

The faded blue ink at the bottom said,
Balance: $187.23.

Someone else came into the foyer and stood behind me, wanting to use the ATM. I stuffed the twenty, the debit card, and the receipt into my shoulder bag and stumbled out the door of the bank. That was it? That was all the money I had in this world?

The rich aroma of fresh coffee lured me into the Emerald City Coffee Shop under the El tracks. I flopped down in a chair at one of the small tables near the front window. A cup of coffee, that's what I needed to steady my nerves . . .

Wait.
Could I afford a cup of coffee? My hands shaking, I grabbed a napkin and pulled a pen from my purse. Thirty dollars in my wallet—no, make that twenty after I paid for the cab last night that brought Lucy, me, and a bedraggled Dandy to the shelter. Add twenty that I just took out of my account, that's forty. One-eighty-seven still in the account, plus forty cash . . .

I had roughly $220 to my name. Plus a twenty-dollar phone card.

That was it.

So much for a mocha latte at three dollars a pop.

Wait
. . . My last two-week paycheck from Manna House should come by Friday. I suddenly felt like laughing. I was rich! Well, maybe not rich. Not enough to live on, not enough to rent an apartment yet. But at least I could afford one cup of coffee.

I was relishing each sip of a medium regular coffee with cream when I heard a cell phone ringing close by. Didn't recognize the ring, so I ignored it—until I realized the ringing was coming from my shoulder bag. Estelle's phone! Was she calling me? Or was someone else calling her? Should I answer it?

I grabbed the phone, flipped it open, and looked at the caller ID.
Harry Bentley.
Eagerly I pushed the Talk button. “Mr. Bentley? It's me, Gabby!”

“Uh . . . Mrs. Fairbanks? Uh, I thought . . .”

“Oh, Mr. Bentley, I'm sorry. You were calling Estelle. She loaned me her cell phone.” I felt guilty, as if I'd intercepted a note between two lovers. Shouldn't have answered the phone. “But she's still at Manna House. You could call the main number.”

“Mm. That's all right. I'll catch her later. But . . . just a minute. Can you hold?” Without waiting for an answer, I heard Mr. Bentley turn from the phone and say something to someone in his polite doorman voice. “All right, all right. You have a nice day,

Mrs. Pearson, you hear?” His voice came back on, though speaking low as if not wanting others to hear. “Mrs. Fairbanks, are you still there?”

“I'm here, Mr. Bentley.”

“Just wanting to know . . . are you all right?”

The kindness in the older man's voice nearly turned on the faucet again. I fished for a tissue. “Um, still in shock, I guess. Trying to sort things out . . . you know.”

“Did you get hold of your boys? Don't mean to pry, but . . .”

“That's all right, Mr. Bentley.” I had to swallow hard a couple of times. “I appreciate your concern. Haven't talked to them yet. No one answers at my in-laws'.”

I heard the doorman mutter something on the other end that I didn't catch. But then he said, “Well, don't worry, Mrs. Fairbanks. I know you're upset—you've got a right to be—but I'm sure your boys are all right. Bad as it is, they're with their dad.”

My reply came out in a choked whisper. “I know. Thanks.”

“Well, now. Don't know if you plan on comin' back to Richmond Towers today or not, but thought I'd let you know I haven't seen Mr. Fairbanks, and I've been on duty since six this mornin'. Don't think he's come back. The manager is in the office, though. You might want to come up here and, well, you know, see what can be done about getting you back into your penthouse.”

I sat up. That's right. That was still on my list of things I needed to do today. “Thanks, Mr. Bentley. I'm coming now. See you in thirty minutes.”

I grabbed the napkin with the total of all my worldly finances scribbled on it and headed out the door of the coffee shop for the turnstile in the El station. That's when I remembered one other asset that was going to come in handy. I had a transit card in my wallet I'd bought just last week with twenty-five dollars in fares on it.

Should last me awhile—especially since the “commute” to my job from bedroom to office was now just down the stairs.

chapter 4

I rode the Red Line north to my usual stop, followed the other passengers down to street level, and started walking the few blocks to Richmond Towers. But when I turned the corner and saw the glass-and-steel building rising into the sky just ahead, I suddenly couldn't breathe. My hands started to shake.

I can't do this!
Was it just yesterday that I'd come home from work, ready to tell Philip that I'd found a place for my mom to stay until I found something better? Ready to tell him I'd quit my job, just like he wanted, so I could supervise the boys this summer? Thinking these efforts would make everything all right that had gone wrong between us? Making a sacrifice worth the price of selling my soul.

Only to find that my sons were missing and I was out on the street . . .

The shock and rage of those first few hours threatened to boil up once again.
Steady, Gabby. Don't lose it right here on the street.
Besides, I encouraged myself, the first person I'd see when I walked through those doors would be Mr. Bentley. I forced myself to walk the last two blocks, each step a prayer for courage.

I pushed through the street-side revolving doors into the spacious lobby of the luxury high-rise, quiet and empty of building residents in the noontime lull. I'd always felt like an imposter pushing through those doors—as if someone would find out I was just a small-town girl from North Dakota—and today even more so. But like a familiar Chicago landmark, Mr. Bentley sat behind the half-moon desk, uniform cap tossed aside, bald head glistening like a brown bowling ball, and spearing what looked like Chinese takeout with a plastic fork. The knot in my spirit loosened a hitch.

I cleared my throat. “Mr. B.”

Mr. Bentley jumped as if I'd said, “Boo!” spilling some of his lunch. “Don't sneak up on a body like that, Mrs. Fairbanks.” He grabbed a napkin and dabbed at his pants.

“I'm sorry. Didn't mean to scare you.” Hard to believe he hadn't heard me come through the revolving door. Mr. Bentley was usually aware of every squeak and puff of air that went through that foyer. “That must be some takeout you've got there.”

“Humph. Nothin' special. I was just thinkin' about some-thin'. . .” He grabbed his cap with the gold braid, buttoned his coat, and came around the desk. “You all right? I was afraid the manager might go out before you got here. But he's still here. You go on.” The doorman gave me a push toward the glass door marked Building Personnel Only. “I'll buzz you in.”

What I really wanted to do was hang out with Mr. Bentley for five or ten minutes before going in, but he was already leaning on the buzzer to the glass door across the foyer. I hurried over and pulled it open. “All right, all right!” I hissed over my shoulder. The doorman gave me an encouraging nod and flicked his hand as if shooing me in.

Several doors lined the short corridor: Sales Office. Lock Boxes. Security. Restroom—Staff Only. I stopped in front of the door marked Building Management, which was slightly ajar. What in the world was I going to say that wouldn't make me—or Philip, for that matter—look like a fool in front of a total stranger?

I knocked and peeked in. “Excuse me?” A fortyish white man in shirt sleeves and a loosened tie sat at his computer, papers spread over the desk. The nameplate on his desk said Walter Martin. “Mr. Martin? Do you have a moment?”

The man looked up. “Uh, certainly. Did you have an appointment, Miss . . . ?” He fished for his appointment book and frowned at it, as if wondering if he'd forgotten.

“Mrs. Fairbanks. Penthouse, thirty-second floor.” Just saying the little refrain made me feel bolder, though I wished I'd found a dress and heels to wear and paid more attention to my hair and makeup. My head of natural red curls—though it had darkened to a chestnut color in recent years—had a tendency to get frowsy in humid weather.

“Fairbanks,” he murmured. “Oh yes, your husband left a phone message on my answering machine. I'm sorry, I've been so busy I haven't called him back yet. Is that why you're here?”

I tried not to stutter. “Phone message?”

“Mm, yes. Something about canceling the penthouse lease early, needing to move suddenly. Said he'd have everything out by the end of the month. Of course, unless he can get someone to sublet, he will be responsible . . .”

I didn't hear the rest. My mouth went dry, my brain stuck on “lease . . . move . . . end of the month.”
Lease?
I thought Philip had bought a condo! And he was moving out?

I tried to clear my brain. “Excuse me.”

The man stopped his spiel. “Yes?”

“Could I see a copy of the contract?”

“Of course.” The man rolled his chair, opened a file drawer, and after a moment of pawing through its contents, pulled out a file. He opened it, scanned the contents—then looked up at me. “I'm sorry. This is awkward. But only Mr. Fairbanks's name is on the lease. If you are his wife, of course you have a right to see it, but . . . do you have any identification?”

My cheeks flamed. What did he think I was, some hussy trying to pull a con? But my better sense told me to stay calm, play the game. He had to do what he had to do.

“Of course.” I pulled out my wallet and slid my driver's license toward him. Still a Virginia license.

“I see. Do you have any identification with your current address? Or a current utility bill with both your and your husband's names on it?”

I flinched. We'd been in Chicago for barely three months. I hadn't applied for a new driver's license yet. The bills came in Philip's name—not that I had a copy of any of the utility bills on me anyway. The manager was probably wondering why I didn't just run upstairs and get a copy of the electric bill, or our marriage license, or something! But everything like that was on the thirty-second floor in Philip's study, behind a front door with a new lock, and my key did not fit that lock.