Derailed (10 page)

Estelle pursed her lips and looked at the hand I was still holding, then stared me in the eyes for several moments like she was running some kind of a BS detector on me. Then she leaned in and planted a kiss on my lips. “Well . . . okay. Why don't you go see what he has to offer?”

“
If
he still has anything to offer.”

“But promise me, any red flags and you quit. I don't care what the consequences are. You're no spring chicken—you done retired once already—so you ain't buildin' a career. If it works, it works. If not, that's it. Okay?”

With a chuckle, I nodded agreement. Yeah, I could buy that plan. If we couldn't crack our mortgage nut with a job with the APD, we'd do it some other way. I could be a doorman again, if that's what it took.

She grinned and reached out to grab my other hand. “But first, we pray.”

I had planned to drive Estelle to work that
morning, but she wouldn't have it. “If the bus was good enough for DaShawn, I can walk a couple of blocks and catch it too. Just zip right over to the ‘L' and down to work. No problem.”

“But it's windy and cold out there, Estelle.”

She walked over to the window and looked out to the right and then to the left. “But it ain't snowin'. In fact, the clouds are breakin' up. It'll do me good. You go visit Mother Bentley.”

The mere mention of my mom gave me a little stab. “Yeah, yeah. Sounds like a good idea. But if you need a ride home, give me a call, okay?”

“Quit fussin', Harry Bentley. Go on, now. Go visit your mom. Take her some more praise CDs, and be sure those nurses are playin' 'em to her. She don't need to be starin' at that TV all the time.”

“That's what she did at home.”

“But she wasn't sick at home. Now she needs to have her mind stayed on Jesus, get her spirit ready to cross on over in peace.”

The truth of what Estelle said shook me. Was God trying to tell me something, get me ready for her passing? How could I know when I'd missed the signals about buying the house?

When I got to the hospital, my mother was indeed watching TV—with the sound turned off, no less. I glanced at the screen. A “silent” talk show? Had she lost it entirely? But she gave me a crooked smile and reached her right hand up toward me.

“How you doin', Mom?” I leaned down and kissed her. “Hey, I brought you a Richard Smallwood CD. You want to listen to it?”

She mumbled a sound I'd come to recognize as yes.

The CD player on the windowsill was covered with a folded blanket. Didn't look like it had been used much. Once I got it going, I turned to her. “You like that?”

She gave me a crooked smile and a slight move of her head.

“You want the TV off?”

Her gibberish and a sideways wave of her right hand meant no.

She lay there watching the silent talk show and listening to Richard Smallwood while I sat in the recliner and watched her, thinking about all the years she'd been there for me and all the years that had come before me. What had it been like growing up in the Jim Crow south and then moving north to Chicago during the war years?

My restless night caught up to me, and I drifted off.

When I woke up, Mom was asleep, the CD had finished playing, and the silent talk show had turned into a soap opera. There wasn't really any reason to stay longer, but I had a dread of leaving, wondering how many more times I'd see her, how many more hours we would have together. Would I regret not lingering another half hour now instead of rushing off?

I stood up and walked over to the window. I started thinking about the mortgage again, then made a sudden decision to call Gilson.

Checking to see that I had a good signal, I dialed the Amtrak captain. To my surprise, Gilson answered on the second ring.

“Uh, yeah. Captain Gilson, this is Harry Bentley. I wanted to follow up on your call to me a few weeks ago. Were you serious about looking for some new personnel?”

“Sure was, but I'm not ready to retire yet if you're thinkin' about snatchin' my position. Ha, ha!”

“Uh . . .” Gilson's sorry attempt at humor took me off guard. Could I stand to work for this guy on a day-to-day basis? “Look, I'm not interested in your job, Captain, but as I recall, you mentioned a couple other possibilities—undercover detective, K-9 unit.”

“That's right. You lookin' to climb aboard?”

“I'd be interested in coming down to have a serious talk if you've still got anything open.”

“Of course, of course. In fact, Harry, to snag you, I'd create a position. When can you get here? I'm available anytime . . . oops, don't want to give you the wrong impression. We keep civilized hours around here. That means I go home at night, unless there's something serious breakin'. So . . . this afternoon? Tomorrow? Oh, wait. Can't do it this afternoon. Got a meeting with the Chicago Commission for the Homeless. Got a lot of homeless people hangin' out in Union Station, you know. Especially when the weather's bad.”

I knew that was a problem at the train station like it was all over the city, but was Gilson recruiting me to herd homeless people out of Union Station? If so, the job wasn't for me. Having volunteered at Manna House a few times, I had a much more sympathetic view of homeless people now than I used to. A lot of people end up on the streets through no fault of their own, and I wasn't about to become the person who chased them out of a warm place to sleep.

“You said something about the K-9 unit and drug interdiction—”

“That's right. Did I tell you about Sylvia Porter and her dog, Corky?”

“You mentioned something like that.”

“Yeah, well, we're still stymied trying to team Corky with a handler. Hey, I'm just lookin' at my Daytimer here, and tomorrow morning looks clear. Can you make it?”

“What time?”

“How 'bout ten? Should have the morning's dust cleared off my desk by then.”

“Ten it is. Thanks, Captain. See you then.”

I ended the call before he could say anything more.

But what was I doing? Going down for an interview with a man who irritated me no end with his annoying way of talking and his crazy schemes. I stood staring out of Mom's hospital window. I would keep the appointment, but if the job required me to report directly to Gilson, maybe I'd take a pass. No way did I want to work for a man I couldn't respect.

The contractors I'd hired showed up to start work on the first-floor kitchen, so I spent the rest of the day stripping walls in the front room. The old wallpaper must've been put up with horsehide glue. By the middle of the afternoon when Rodney came in and stood in the doorway inspecting my work, I'd only completed half of one wall.

“How'd the job search go?” I grunted, still scraping with only a cursory glance in his direction.

“Got an interview at Home Depot. Said they'll let me know in a couple of days. But I don't know, man. Everything's all screwed up. Must've made a dozen calls. Nobody's hiring.”

“Figures. Guess that's what it means to be in the middle of a recession, no matter what the president says.”

“Tell me about it.” He stood there watching me.

“Hey,” I stopped scraping and spoke through clenched teeth, “you wanna change your clothes and lend a hand here or somethin'?”

“Oh, well . . . sure. Need to grab a bite to eat, then I'll be right back down.”

He wasn't
right
back down. And as the minutes passed, the muscles in my jaws clinched into a near cramp. Why couldn't he have offered? It should've been obvious I could use some help.

He finally arrived without an apology for taking so long. Other than the few words necessary to coordinate the job, we worked in silence for the next couple hours, completing one wall and starting on a second, until I heard someone come in the front door.

“That you, DaShawn?” I hollered.

“No, it's me.” Estelle came into the room, taking off her heavy winter coat and hat.

“You're home early. What time is it?”

“Almost four, same as usual. Wasn't bad by ‘L' and bus.” She looked around at the wall-and-a-half Rodney and I had stripped. “Hey, this looks great.”

“Ha! Nearly wore our fingers to the bone. That old paper's a bear to get off.”

“Where's DaShawn? He should be helpin' you two. I'll send him down.”

“Don't think he's home. Didn't hear him anyway.”

“Maybe he sneaked by so we wouldn't put him to work,” Rodney said with a laugh as he scraped vigorously at a particularly stubborn strip of paper. “That's what I'd've done at his age.”

“Ha! No doubt.” Estelle went on upstairs, but in a few minutes she was back leaning in the doorway. “He's not up here. Did he have some after-school thing goin' on today?”

“Don't think so. At least he didn't say anything to me.”

“And he didn't phone?”

“Nope. Haven't heard a word.” I'd walked him to the bus that morning to make sure he took the 290 rather than the 96, but it never crossed my mind that he'd have a problem getting home.

Using a clean rag to wipe flakes of wallpaper off my shaved head, I walked out to the little vestibule where Estelle was standing and lowered my voice. “Should we go out lookin' for him?”

Estelle rolled her eyes and pointed into the first-floor apartment, obviously meaning Rodney. Was she saying it was his problem? I shrugged.

“Rodney,” I called, “whadda you think we should do?”

He came to the doorway with a scraper in his hand. “I dunno.”

I gritted my teeth. He sounded like he had when he was fifteen—
I dunno, I dunno
—but then he said, “Ain't met any of his friends yet. But I'd think they'd be the first ones to call.”

Good point. But as far as I knew, DaShawn hadn't made many friends at school. Part of the problem was he was going to a magnet school, and none of the kids in our old neighborhood went to his school. There were a few kids in the church youth group he sometimes hung out with, but I didn't know their phone numbers.

I scratched my head. “Suppose I could call Josh Baxter. He works with the youth at church. He might know if somethin's goin' on.”

“Worth a try,” Estelle said and climbed the stairs back up to our apartment.

I called Josh, but he didn't know of anything happening with the youth. He gave me a couple of numbers for kids from the church, and I called them too. No one had seen or heard from DaShawn today, but then none of them went to DaShawn's school. I called the school and got nothing but the answering machine. It was after four thirty, and school had been out since two thirty. I was beginning to get worried.

“I think we better go look for him,” I said to Rodney, feeling frustrated that he wasn't more concerned.

When DaShawn first came to live with me, I'd enrolled him at Bethune Elementary where Peter Douglass's wife, Avis, was the principal. But it only went up to the fifth grade, so we got him into Stone Scholastic Academy, one of the better magnet schools on Chicago's North Side. It hadn't been that far from our old apartment, but it was an easy bus ride from our new place. All DaShawn had to do was catch the 290 over to Western and then take the 49B down to Granville and walk a few blocks east. Less than thirty minutes. I had talked through the route with him, and he'd nodded as if he understood. Hadn't even hinted it might be a challenge.

Rodney and I jumped in the RAV4 and retraced DaShawn's route to and from school, driving so slowly people were honking at us to get out of the way. Searching for DaShawn put Rodney and me on the same side, and the earlier tension between us melted as we offered little suggestions to one another about where we might look—up this alley, in the windows of that McDonald's, among the guys playing a pickup game on a park basketball court.

But we didn't see DaShawn. As we parked out front of our new house, I was kicking myself that I hadn't driven DaShawn for the first couple of days just to point out the buses and the stops. But at thirteen years old, he'd been using public transportation for a year or more, at least during daylight hours. He knew his way around this part of the city, and had never had any trouble. So what had happened today?

Estelle met us at the door. “Did you find him?” she burst out the moment we came in.

I shook my head.

Now she seemed downright anxious. “Maybe we oughta call the police. It's gonna be dark out there pretty soon, and we have no idea what's happened to him.”

“You think he split?” Rodney asked, a pained look on his face.

“You mean run away? Why'd he do that?” I shot back.

Rodney shrugged. “Well, I did it—more'n once.”

“When?”

“What difference does it make? You never knew anyway.”

Ouch! I looked at Estelle.