Who Do I Talk To? (6 page)

Sweet silence.

Crawling into my own bunk, I slid Edesa's note under the pillow. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered, what did she mean about
living
my name?

The six o'clock wake-up call grated on my nerves after my short night. Didn't homeless women
ever
get to sleep in? On the other hand, breakfast was ready at seven, prepared by the night staff—oatmeal and toast this morning—and the coffee was hot. I needed at least two cups to pry my eyelids awake.

I had just finished telling my mother I would get the rest of her clothes and personal things situated up in our bunk room, when Sarge rang the big handbell for attention. “Listen up,
signore
! Here is the chore list for today. Wanda and Gabby, breakfast dishes. Martha Shepherd and Tanya, wipe tables and sweep. Lunch . . .”

Drat!
I'd forgotten about the chore list. How was I supposed to take care of my mother, put in my hours as program director, and start the uphill battle to get my kids back while washing dishes for thirty-some people? I sighed. Couldn't very well complain. All the residents helped with the daily chores in one way or another. At least my mother hadn't been saddled with heavy duty, like the dishes.

“Hey!” Lucy's crusty voice broke into my thoughts. “What if I don' wanna
be
here at lunchtime! Cheese Louise. A body's got things to do, places to go. Can't hang around all day just 'cause you put my name up there to push a broom after lunch.”

“Trade with someone, then,” Sarge shot back. “Just so it gets done.”

Which was just as well, because Lucy ended up trading chores with Tanya, who had a nine o'clock interview at one of the housing agencies and wanted to get out of there. That put Lucy and my mom working together, so I just left them to it, while Wanda tried to teach me the ins and outs of the huge industrial dishwasher—though her Jamaican accent was so thick, I had a hard time understanding half of what she said.

“No problem, Sistah Gabby! You spray off de food, mi stack de dishes in de trays, slide dem in dis way, slide down de door, push dat button . . . see? All dere is to it!”

Except there was no such thing as “spraying off ” cold oatmeal stuck inside the multiple bowls, which meant I did a lot of scraping and scrubbing before Wanda could load the trays.

By the time I'd dried and stacked the heavy coffee cups that came out hot and steaming from the dishwasher, my curly hair had frizzed up like a Brillo pad under the required white hairnet, and my hands were beet red. Delores Enriques, the nurse from the county hospital who came in once a week on Wednesday, was already setting up her makeshift nurse's station in a corner of the dining room. I gave her a wave as I hurried upstairs to check on my mom. She was sitting in a far corner of the multipurpose room chatting with Carolyn, the shelter's self-appointed “book maven,” who'd been trying to set up a library with donated books. To my surprise, Dandy sat on his haunches, pressed close to my mother's knees, her hand lightly stroking his head.

I looked nervously about. “Mom! I don't think Dandy should—”

Carolyn put a conspiratorial finger to her lips. “Shh. We saw Sarge leave, so Lucy brought Dandy up. Nobody's gonna care for a few minutes.” The middle-aged resident, who wore her long, brownish-gray hair slicked back from her pallid face in a straggly ponytail, grinned at me. “Say, Gramma Shep is the first person I've met at Manna House who's also read Robert Browning's poems. How come you never told me that?”

Just then Estelle breezed through the double doors from the foyer, loose orange caftan flying, carrying two bulging bags with yarn and needles sticking out of the top. Without breaking stride she called out, “Mornin', ladies! It's Wednesday—knitting club gonna be startin' up in a few minutes. Sure could use your help again, Gramma Shep.” The colorful black woman disappeared down the stairs to the lower level.

I grinned. Looked like the knitting club I'd suggested Estelle pioneer was off and running for its second week, giving women something to do while waiting for the nurse to see those who signed up. Pleased, my mother struggled up out of the overstuffed chair to follow. I started to help her, but Carolyn got there first. “Nah, let me. I'll get your mom downstairs and put the dog in your office. Just don't ask me to take him out and pick up his poopies. No sir. That's where I draw the line.”

I tried not to laugh. “Thanks, Carolyn.” I knew Lucy had already taken Dandy out once, and with Mom busy for the next hour or two, I should be able to get a few things done. First stop, Mabel's office.

As briefly as I could, I brought the director of Manna House up to speed on my visit to Richmond Towers yesterday, the status of my finances, and the phone call with my children, including the fact that Philip was probably back in town and expected at his office. “At least I know where to find him,” I said wryly. “But I need a lawyer, Mabel—someone who does family law. Problem is, I don't have any money.”

Mabel flipped her old-fashioned Rolodex and wrote down a number. “Legal Aid. Ask for Lee Boyer. He's done work for some of the shelter residents before. He's a good man.”

“Thanks. Oh, before I forget . . .” I handed my boss the intake form I'd filled out. “Never thought I'd be checking off any of those boxes. Pretty humbling. Always thought homeless people were, well, like Lucy, bag ladies or winos living out on the street for years. But now look at me.” I shook my head.

Mabel arched an eyebrow, the only wrinkle in her maple-smooth skin. “You're not the only person with a college degree we have in here. Look at Carolyn. She's got a master's degree in literature! Had a string of bad luck financially, lost a lucrative job, didn't have any close family, got evicted for some reason—”

“Yeah. That's me. Evicted by my own husband.” I knew I sounded sarcastic. I stood up quickly. “Thanks, Mabel. I'm going to call Legal Aid and then get to work.”

“One more thing, Gabby.”

I paused. “Yes?”

“Sarge says we have to do something about the dog. She's right. What if every resident wanted to bring her dog or cat into the shelter?”

I groaned. “I know, I know. It's just . . .” I dreaded telling my mother she couldn't keep Dandy. “What am I going to do? He's been Mom's constant companion since Dad died! I'd keep him myself if I had my own apartment, but . . .” I shook my head in frustration. Dandy wasn't the only reason I needed to find an apartment—soon!

“Well, maybe we can find a foster home for him. I'll start asking around.” A slow smile spread over Mabel's normally businesslike features. “Lucy sure seems to have taken a shine to him.”

“I know! She took him out three times yesterday and again this morning. Don't know where they go—there aren't any parks close by that I know of.”

I started to leave when she called me back again. “Gabby?”

Now what?
I tried not to roll my eyes.

“Don't be thinking about showing up at Philip's office today.”

I gave her a look. I'd been toying with that very thought. Oh, how I wanted to give that man a piece of my mind, and do it in front of his partner and any clients who happened to be there too!

She jabbed a finger at me. “See the lawyer first. Know your rights. Until then, you'll just be acting the fool, and he'll feel justified walking out on you.”

Now I did roll my eyes, jerked open her door, and let it close—hard—behind me.

chapter 6

I couldn't get an appointment with the Legal Aid guy until Friday. “But this is urgent!” I protested.

“Honey, they're all urgent,” said the woman on the other end of the phone. “Mr. Boyer can see you Friday at two o'clock. You want the appointment or not?”

Frustrated, I said yes and banged my office phone back onto its base. Friday was two days away! Yeah, Mabel had told me to get legal advice before I confronted Philip . . . but two days?!

Outside my office door, the dining room buzzed with women waiting to be called by the nurse. Everything from bunions caused by ill-fitting shoes to mysterious rashes to a variety of STDs needing medication. Maybe Delores Enriques, the pediatric nurse from the sprawling county hospital on Chicago's near south side, had something that'd help the headache spreading over my skull like a cracked egg . . . or maybe I just needed to
do
something.

Like a steam-driven engine, I hauled the rest of my mom's and my stuff two flights up to the bunk room we'd been assigned, put our necessities in the small dresser drawers provided for each resident, and stuffed the rest of the suitcases and boxes under our bunks. Not exactly the beautiful walnut bedroom set that had been a wedding gift from Philip's parents—and definitely not the spacious walk-in closet in the penthouse. At the same time, the Lord & Taylor pantsuits I'd just stuffed under the bed would make me stand out here at the shelter like a gold front tooth.

It took five trips, but by the time I shut the door on the beehive going on around the makeshift nurse's station in one corner and the knitting club in another, my broom-closet office seemed five times bigger. Even Dandy seemed happy with the new arrangement, coming out from under my desk and stretching along the wall next to the file cabinet.

For the next hour, I tried to get back up to speed with plans for the activities program here at Manna House—after packing it up on Monday, thinking I wouldn't be back and someone else would have to take over as program director. I focused on the activities I'd already put in place:

An ESL class once a week
. . . Tina, one of the residents, a big-boned Puerto Rican who was fluent in both Spanish and English, had agreed to try teaching English as a second language to Aida Menéndez, a young Latina who'd been bounced around in the foster system until she was eighteen and dropped out of school because of language problems. Tina was good for a few weeks anyway, until she lined up some resources for alternate housing or found a job, and then I'd need to find someone more permanent. Edesa and Josh Baxter had rustled up some ESL materials from Josh's mom, a third-grade teacher on the north side.
I'll have to sit in on Tina's weekly session, see how it's going,
I thought.

Typing
. . . Josh's mom, Jodi Baxter, had also agreed to teach a typing class on Saturday morning for residents who wanted to improve their job skills. The shelter had a schoolroom with two computers, but Jodi had said three people showed up for the first class a few weeks ago. I made a mental note:
Ask the board for another computer.

And the knitting club
. . . that had been easy. When I first took on the job, I'd noticed Estelle knitting something blue and bulky while managing the signup list to see the nurse. Now five or six women were knitting and purling away on Wednesday mornings, watching simple winter scarves grow longer, if not exactly symmetrical.

I chewed the end of a pencil as I studied the list of possibilities for more “life skills” for these women with precious few resources. Now that Estelle had been hired on a part-time basis, she was the obvious resource for basic classes in cooking and sewing. That proposal was already on Mabel's desk. And Edesa's husband, Josh, had casually suggested a sports clinic for the shelter kids on the weekend . . .
Hmm.
His dad was the athletic director at Rogers Park High School. Possible resource there.

I grinned to myself. Might as well get the whole Baxter clan involved here! They'd supported the Fun Night that Precious McGill and I had cooked up last month. Precious, a former resident and now a volunteer with the after-school kids—couldn't exactly call it a “program” yet—had managed to get all the residents and most of the staff off their duffs that night, doing the Macarena . . .

Precious! I suddenly realized I hadn't seen the livewire volunteer
or
her teenage daughter, Sabrina, since I got back from North Dakota with my mother almost two weeks ago. I doubted she knew I'd resigned on Monday, much less became a “resident” that same night. What was up with
her
?

I reached for the phone and my staff directory.

And I thought I had problems.

The first time I tried the number I had for Precious, I got her voice mail.
“Can't talk now, but leave a number an' I'll call ya back—if Jesus don't come back first, and if He do, it ain't gonna matter!”
I was a little taken aback, but managed to leave my name and a brief “Call me at Manna House when you've got a minute.”

When Estelle banged on a pan for lunch, I went out and asked if she'd seen Precious lately. She shook her head. “It's goin' down tough for her an' Sabrina lately. Not sure she's in town.” The big woman flounced behind the counter. “Line up, ladies! Who wants to ask God to bless this food?”

Going down tough? What did that mean? I decided I'd try calling again later.