Derailed (28 page)

I chuckled to myself. The lady was quite a character.

When we got to the entryway again, Don looked at me as though hoping it was okay to make the offer, and then said, “You wanna check upstairs, Mom?”

“No reason to. The box was never up there.”

Don shrugged, thanked me for letting them come, and ushered his mother out the front door. I watched through the door window as he walked her out to the car and helped her in. In spite of her cane, the woman had made a remarkable recovery in such a short time—what was it? Just two and a half months? I felt really bad she'd lost something so valuable to her . . . and that she was fantasizing about coming back to live in her old apartment. Well, old people did have their delusions.

I went upstairs, poured some of the coffee I'd made for my guests into a travel mug, and took Corky out the back for a walk.

Trust and obey
—what a strange thing for the old woman to say over losing something that meant so much to her. “Trust and obey, trust and obey.” I said it over and over as we reached the perimeter of the cemetery at the end of the alley. The words had a familiar ring. Then I remembered the old gospel song by that name. That was it. She was talking about trusting God and obeying what he said. How'd the last line of the song go? “
Trust and obey, for there's no other way to be happy in Jesus but to trust and obey
.”

I took a sip of coffee. Maybe that was the key to Grace Meredith's song. The only way to give up this world was to trust God's care in spite of all the zigzags. Maybe then, and only then, would Jesus become all that matters, the only way you could honestly say, “Just give me Jesus.”

Was Mom in that zone? I looked through the fence at the gravestones, some plain, some tall and encrusted with lichen, some leaning a little. Did you have to be at death's door before you could say it and mean it?

“Hey, DaShawn.” I eyed my grandson as he
shoveled pancakes into his mouth Saturday morning. “What you doin' on today?”

He hunkered down in his seat as though making himself look small and weak might exempt him from any chores I had in mind. Made me want to laugh.

“I dunno,” he finally mumbled.

“Well, if you don't know, guess no one else would either. How 'bout you, Rodney?”

Pick still stuck in his uncombed hair, he shrugged and shook his head, no less suspicious than DaShawn.

“Ha, ha!” Couldn't hold it back. “Relax, you guys. I been thinkin' we might see about puttin' up that backboard and hoop in the alley this mornin'. Whaddaya say?”

They both perked up, DaShawn sitting straighter in his chair. He glanced at his dad, and then turned to me with a bright grin on his face. “Well, I'm in, Pops. That'd be great.”

“Good, good! But only if you're
really
up for it. Wouldn't want to overwork ya none.”

Estelle put a second plate of pancakes on the table. “Don't forget you promised to fix my refrigerator door at Manna House.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “Oh, I can get to that this afternoon while these guys knock themselves out shootin' hoops.” I gave DaShawn a sly glance. “Then I'll come back and show 'em who's boss before dinner.”

“Oh, you the boss, Pops. You da boss if you get that hoop up for me.” The boy grabbed two more pancakes like he was storing up reserve fuel for the day.

After breakfast, we picked up the additional hardware we needed from Home Depot and, after a few minor complications, got the Spalding backboard and hoop mounted on the back of the garage before lunchtime. By then, DaShawn's friend Tavis had discovered what we were doing, as had his older brother, Destin.

I watched with satisfaction as a little two-on-two got organized, Rodney and DaShawn versus the two Jasper boys. Apparently, the morning's pancakes were lasting. Putting up the hoop definitely was worth the effort, not just for my grandson, but I could see it'd be good for other neighborhood kids as well.

“You wanna play, Pops? We can probably find someone else.”

“Nah. I gotta take Corky for a walk and grab some lunch 'fore I head on over to Manna House.”

Hustling up the back stairs, I asked Estelle if she thought I could take Corky with me to the shelter.

“Don't see why not. The Fairbank boys bring Dandy by sometimes for a visit. Of course, he's still the shelter's ‘Hero Dog.' ”

“Yeah, but Dandy's not a drug detector.”

“
Hmm
. Hadn't thought of that. The shelter's supposed to be a drug-free facility, but . . . you can never tell. Maybe it'd be good to have an occasional sweep.”

“No, no, no. I was messin' with you. Corky's Amtrak. If she alerts to someone, I can just give her the ‘free' signal, and they'll never know the difference. But I don't mind takin' her into unfamiliar situations. Helps keep her alert.”

The hoop in the alley got a lot of play all weekend, attracting some of the other kids in the neighborhood, even young Danny and his two dads from the house a couple of doors down. There was lots of hootin' and hollerin' going on when Estelle and I came back
from visiting Mom at the hospital Sunday afternoon, but everyone good-naturedly took a break as we drove into the garage.

Sure hoped the other neighbors wouldn't become upset over all the noise. Might have to set some rules about when things had to shut down in the evenings.

Rodney wasn't playing basketball. When I went down the front stairs to take some laundry to the basement, the front door to the first-floor apartment was open. “Rodney, you in there?”

“Yeah.”

He sounded as dejected as a Bears' fan after a losing game. I walked in and found him on his bed in his room. “What's up?”

“Ah, Donita. Been on the phone with her for the last hour.”

“That don't sound good.” I didn't welcome hearing that name any more than a February snowstorm. “What's she want?”

“She says she's gettin' her life together. Started rehab, wants to see DaShawn.”

“Not under my roof. That woman's poison.”

“Yeah, I know . . . but she's still DaShawn's mom.”

“You think he wants to see her?”

“Probably not, but there may come a day. You know, Dad, you didn't try very hard to keep our family together, though now you got a good one. I'll give you that. But I don't like the fact that mine fell apart either. Sometimes I think that's my next step . . . to put it back together.”

I looked at him and slowly shook my head. He was right about my failures, but I just didn't see any hope for him and Donita.

By Sunday evening, I started thinking about my workweek looming ahead. Since Captain Gilson seemed so eager for me to put in some extended time on the Southwest Chief—“The Drug Train”—maybe I'd substitute it for my overnight that week and postpone the Texas Eagle until another week. Tomorrow morning I'd go in early and catch the 7:30 up to Kalamazoo and back for a day run, patrol Union
Station on Tuesday, and head out to Kansas City on the Southwest Chief on Wednesday afternoon. I could catch the eastbound Chief the next day and get back to Chicago on Thursday afternoon a little after three, presuming the Chief was running on time. It'd be a perfect week, and I could still take Friday off.

Everything came off without a hitch on Monday. I made a bust and still got home in plenty of time to have dinner with the whole family. DaShawn was helping Estelle prepare dinner, so he got to bring the steaming bowl of green beans to the table as well as the Caesar salad.

“I made it myself, Dad.” He grinned at Rodney as he plunked the salad bowl down in the middle of the table.

But when he returned for the hot chicken casserole from the oven, Estelle shooed him away. “Thanks anyway, buddy, but I'll get this one. Don't want you burning yourself on this hot dish—you might drop it.”

Once everyone was at the table and we'd said a blessing, Estelle began serving up the hot chicken and rice. She handed Rodney's plate to him with a wink. “Might have some good news for you.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose. “
Mmm
, smells like good news to me. Thanks. But, uh . . . were you meaning some other news?”

“Yeah. I was over visiting our neighbor across the street this afternoon—same woman we had to dinner a couple weeks ago—and her assistant, Samantha, was there helping her. Anyway, she's the one who arranges all of Grace's transportation—”

“She still gonna use the train?” I asked.

“Probably. But the news is”—she gave me a frown for interrupting—” when I mentioned you were looking for a job, Rodney, Samantha all of a sudden blurts out that the guy at the end of our street here is looking for drivers. Might be worth checking it out.”

“Wait a minute.” I swallowed my mouthful of chicken. “Are you talkin' about that McMansion dude? He needs a personal driver?”

“That's not it. He's an attorney, but apparently he owns a limo company on the side—”

“That must be why those big ol' black stretches drive up our street sometimes.” DaShawn hooted.

“Most likely. Samantha said the last time she tried to schedule one, she had problems because they were short of drivers. The person she talked to on the phone apologized and said they were looking to hire new ones. She just threw it out there as a possible answer to prayer since I'd asked them to pray for you.”

Everyone was silent as Rodney chewed, staring at his plate. Finally, he looked up at her. “Yeah. Well, I'll look into it. Thank you. I'll definitely check it out.”

Good! He made the right choice.

I took a deep breath and leaned back. “Hey, y'all. I got some news too. Made another bust today.”

“Get outta here!” DaShawn jumped in as if he too had sensed the tension and was glad for relief. “Who was it this time?”

“Couple of ol' hippies, rich ones, if their car was any measure.”

“What?”

“Well, if I tell ya, I'll have to . . . you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. You'll have to kill us. Come on, Pops, we won't tell no one.”

“Anyone.” Estelle reached for the salt. “You won't tell
anyone
.”

“Whatever. Come on, Pops.”

“All right. But you can't be blabbin' it around, ya know.”

“We won't. We won't.”

Rodney eyed me with a smirk on his face. “Speak for yourself, son. This information might be worth somethin' on the street.”

“Oh, yeah?” DaShawn came right back. “But your butt won't be worth nothin' if you sell it.”

We all laughed. The boy was smart all right.

I took a couple more bites. “This is mighty good, Estelle. And your salad too, DaShawn.” I paused and thought for a moment about how I could tell the story without revealing my cover to DaShawn or Rodney.

“Come on, Pops. Quit stallin'.”

“Well, I went up to Kalamazoo today, and by the time we were nearly there, Corky and I had worked our way from the rear of
the train through all the coaches except the first one, and we were nearly to the front of it when Corky suddenly sat down and identified this middle-aged couple who were sittin' there watching a movie on their laptop. I was still standing a little behind them, kinda lookin' over their shoulders, but they were so engrossed in their movie they didn't even notice us.” I chuckled. “They were quite a pair, though. The woman wore a paisley tunic and had dreadlocks the color of a dirty gunnysack. And the guy had a gray beard and a nearly bald head—”

“
Ha
! Look who's talkin',” muttered Rodney.

“No, no, no.” I stroked my short beard. “Mine's neatly groomed, isn't it, Estelle? And I shave my head so it has some class. But this guy . . . well, the most I can say for him is that he didn't do a combover, but let me tell you, those fly-away wisps of white hair looked like smoke streaming from a Gary steel mill.”