Who Do I Talk To? (8 page)

If this chapter was meant for me, Philip should be worried. Very worried.

Lucy brought Dandy back just before supper, both of them soaked, caught in one of Chicago's late-afternoon thunderstorms. They'd been gone more than three hours, and Dandy wriggled his rear end like a rag mop on amphetamines when he saw my mom, leaving wet splatters everywhere and sending Sammy into giggles. When I casually asked Lucy where they'd been, the old woman gave me a look. “Out. Don't it look like it? Humph. Gotta get me some dry clothes. Here . . .” She tossed me a rag. “You can clean up the dog. An' if I was you, I'd put him up in the bunk room 'fore Sarge shows up.”

Good point.

Supper came and went. I didn't feel like talking, but I sat with my mom and Sammy to be polite, picking at the tuna casserole on my plate. Tanya still hadn't shown up, and the shelter curfew was eight o'clock, unless a resident had prior permission. Sammy was getting very clingy with “Gramma Shep.” Poor kid. If worse came to worst, I'd tell him he could sleep in our bunk room tonight.

When I still hadn't heard from P. J. and Paul by seven thirty, I slipped into my office and called again. This time P. J. answered.

“Oh, hi, honey. I'm glad I got you! Did Nana Marlene tell you I called earlier?”

“Uh, don't think so. Maybe she told Paul.”

I doubted it. I tried to sound interested in what they'd done that day—trip to the pool, watching the baseball games at the local park—all the while trying to curb my jealousy that the Fairbanks had my sons.

P. J.'s voice got challenging. “So did you and Dad work out this ‘misunderstanding' about where the heck we're supposed to be this summer? It's not fair, Mom! First we come to Chicago. Then Dad brings us back to Petersburg. Nana says we're staying here, but
you
say it's all a misunderstanding an' you want us back in Chicago. Will you guys just . . . just make up your stupid minds?”

It was all I could do not to rip the phone out of its jack and throw it against the wall. Fighting back tears, I managed, “I don't blame you for being upset, P. J. It
is
unfair. And it's not your fault. I . . . Dad and I need a few days to work some things out. Please be patient.”

“Well, what about the summer lacrosse league? Can I sign up or not?”

A sense of foreboding came over me so strong, I could almost taste it. If P. J. signed up for that lacrosse team in Petersburg, my sons were as good as lost to me.

I finally pulled myself together and went back upstairs to the multipurpose room—where a tearful Tanya was arguing with the night manager.

“But I got here before curfew, Sarge! Look. It's only 7:57!”

“So? This is not a babysitting service, Tanya.
Capisce?
” The night manager slapped the side of her head. “What were you thinking, leaving Sammy alone here all day while you were out? Rules are rules, no?”

“I know! I shouldn't a' done that. It—it was j-just . . .” The skinny young woman started to hiccough with fresh sobs. Sammy plastered his face against her side, his arms hanging on tightly. My mother was standing off to one side, wringing her hands.

“Uh, Sarge?” I'm not sure where the guts came from to speak up. “Why don't we leave Tanya's case till tomorrow when Mabel can decide what to do? If you want, they can move to our bunk room tonight. I'll take responsibility for the decision.”

“Humph.
Some people
sure do feel free to bend the rules, if you ask me.” Sarge moved off, grumbling. “Like a certain
dog
that is not supposed to be here. No?”

“Don't worry, Sarge. Mabel's looking for a foster home for Dandy.”

Sarge headed for the foyer to check in the last few curfew-beaters—including Lucy, who was just coming in with Dandy after his evening walk around the block. “The dog better be gone by
Sabato
!” she tossed over her shoulder.

Tanya grabbed a tissue from a nearby box and blew her nose. “Thanks.”

I waited until the double doors had swung shut behind Sarge. “I'm not your case manager, Tanya, but I think you have some explaining to do.” The TV room was full of
CSI
fans, so I led her into the toddler playroom, empty at this time of night. Sammy wasn't about to be separated from his mother, and
my
mother followed right on our heels. Well, so be it. We all deserved an explanation.

Tanya sat on a preschool chair, knees together, feet splayed out, tearing her used tissue into little shreds. “Well, I had a”—
hic—
“appointment at Deborah's Place this mornin', an' . . . an' I was so sure I was gonna get a place for me an' Sammy this time. A studio, one-bedroom—I didn't care. 'Long as it was just us. Miz Gabby, I been puttin' my name on lists for six months! We was in two other shelters 'fore we came to Manna House—one place was jus' one big room for about thirty wimmins plus they kids. Manna House been good to let me an' Sammy stay here together, an' the bunk room's better'n nothin'. But I want my own place! You understand, don'tcha? What kinda mother has her kid livin' in a
shelter
?” Tanya's face went dark. “But this mornin' they sayin' I don't qualify. Somethin' about gotta be in they drug program. But I ain't done no drugs!” The tears threatened again. “Man! I felt so bad, I wanted to hurt somebody! Or . . . or get drunk or
somethin'
! So I . . . I just walked around, and, yeah, I drank a few beers. But that's all. Honest! I didn't get high or nothin'. And I never meant to leave Sammy. Aw, come here, baby. Mama's sorry.” The two wrapped their arms around each other and rocked.

I shut my eyes, her story too painful to process. Here I was, wallowing in my private pity party, and I'd been homeless for all of
two days
. I felt like the spoiled princess who complained because there was a pea under the mattress.

“Am I wrong, Miz Gabby?” Tanya's voice broke into my stupor. “Sammy an' me, we just need a place. But it's like a dead-end road. Can't get an apartment. Don't wanna raise my kid in a shelter. Am I wrong for needing a little help to get on my feet?”

“No, no. You're not wrong, Tanya.” I sighed.
And you're not the only one.

chapter 8

Tanya and Sammy took over the fourth bunk in our room—the more the merrier, as far as Dandy was concerned. Lucy, on the other hand, muttered her disapproval the whole time we were getting ready for bed. “Howza body s'posed ta sleep packed up in here like a bunch a' sardines . . . Too many lungs usin' up all the air . . . Humph. Dandy an' me gonna go sit inna lounge till you all go ta sleep . . .”

Well, fine with me. Maybe I could get to sleep before Lucy came to bed and started her engines.

And I'd guessed right about Mabel the next morning. Since Tanya had shown up by curfew and hadn't broken an actual
written
rule—though leaving your kids unsupervised was about to become one—Mabel gave Tanya another chance, but with a stern warning that she was on probation. Probably to soothe Sarge's prickled sense of protocol as much as anything. I had to grin inside. Mabel and Sarge were like two sides of a kitchen sponge, one side soaking up people's blunders and good intentions gone awry, the other scratchy and rough to deal with the tough cases.

Having to wait another whole day to talk to a lawyer, though, almost killed me. This was ridiculous! Three days ago my husband had kidnapped my children—yes, that was the word for it—leaving me homeless and broke, and I wasn't supposed to confront him until I had my
facts
lined up in a row?

Bunk the facts. He needed to get a load of my
feelings.

Twice I picked up the phone, dialed his office, and then hung up after one ring. The third time I steeled myself to stay on the line. Someone picked up. “Fairbanks and Fenchel. May I help you?”

The female voice took me by surprise. Since when did Philip and Henry have a receptionist? Sounded young too.

Okay. I can play this game.
“Philip Fairbanks, please.”

“May I say who's calling?”

I thought fast. “CitiCorp Business Accounts.” It was a bald-faced lie, but she probably had instructions not to send through any personal calls.

“One moment.” The line went blank. But a moment later the woman came back on the line. “I'm sorry. He's in a meeting right now. Would you like me to put you through to his voice mail?”

I almost slammed the receiver down—but caught myself. “Yes. Thank you.”

Two rings in my ear, then Philip's voice message, pleasant and professional. No hint that he was a monster in a business suit. I heard the beep. “Philip. This is Gabby. You'll be hearing from my lawyer, and I'll see you in court.” I hit the Off button.

There. No hysterics. No crying. No pleading. But now he knew I wasn't rolling over and whimpering like a kicked puppy. And I had every intention of showing up at his office in person as soon as I had my facts in hand.

Better yet, what if the
police
showed up at his office? With a wicked sense of vengeance, I picked up the phone again. Voices in my head said,
“Wait, Gabby.”
But I felt driven by an insatiable need to
do
something, to make something happen.

I dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

“My—my children have been kidnapped!”

“Ma'am? Can you give me your name and location?” The questions kept coming—name and ages of my children . . . when did I discover they were missing . . .

“You say they turned up missing Monday night?”

“Yes! I came home from work, and the doorman said they'd left with my husband—and I haven't seen them since!”

“Your husband.” The tone of voice changed. “Ma'am, if your
husband
took your children—”

“Without me knowing about it! He took them! He kidnapped them!”

“I see. Mrs. Fairbanks, that was three days ago. Why are you only reporting them missing now?”

“I . . . I . . .” My confidence drained away as though someone had pulled a plug. “Please. Help me. Please get my children back.”

“So you don't know where they are.”

“Well, yes, I do . . . but I didn't at first. He took them to his parents' in Virginia.”

I could almost hear the silence on the other end laughing at me.

“Look, officer!” I was angry now. “My husband took my children away from me, without my knowledge or permission. He took them
out of state
. That's a federal offense, isn't it?”

Another pause. “Ma'am, do you have reason to believe your children are in danger?”

I felt pinned to the wall. “No,” I whispered. “No. They're . . . they're all right. But they—”

“So you've talked to them.”

“Well . . . yes. But—!”

“Mrs. Fairbanks. We'll send an officer out to take a report, but this is really a civil matter. It will need to be settled in court.”

“Uh . . . no, that's all right. You don't have to send anybody. I'll . . . I'll talk to a lawyer.”

I sat at my desk, burning with embarrassment and frustration. I'd made a fool of myself. So much for the cops barging into Philip's office and dragging him away in handcuffs. But I still knew I was right. Philip had kidnapped our children. And I was going to get them back.

Somehow I made it through that Thursday, trying not to feel like a fool. Even had a chance to sit down with Estelle and pull together ideas for the basic cooking and sewing classes we'd talked about before. We decided on Monday afternoon for Basic Sewing—threading needles, sewing on buttons, making repairs, hemming a skirt—while I worked on getting some sewing machines for the next level.

Huh. I have a sewing machine just sitting up in the penthouse. Maybe I
should
fight to get my stuff back.

“—Basic Cooking?” Estelle was saying. “You know I don't use no recipes. It's all in here.” The fifty-something woman tapped the side of her head. I noticed she was wearing her hair down more often, her silver-streaked hair falling in kinky waves to her shoulders. And was that glow on her cheeks natural or a touch of golden blush?

“So Harry Bentley likes your hair that way?” I tried to keep a straight face.

She gaped at me. “An' since when is that any of your business? Humph.”

“Since I'm the one who introduced you two. As for recipes . . .” I moved right on without blinking. “Just start with simple stuff—different ways to fix chicken, season vegetables, some healthy soups and salads. You know, using the basic food groups to create a balanced diet, stuff like that.”

Estelle wagged her head. “Girl, you know I'll be goin' up against Fast Food City! Lot of these women think protein means a McDonald's burger, veggies mean a bag of potato chips, and fruit means a bowl of Froot Loops.” Estelle started to shake with silent chuckles.