Derailed (4 page)

I wiped the shaving cream from around my ears and got to the table before DaShawn.

“If that boy misses his bus . . .”

I shrugged as I sprinkled pepper on my eggs. “Well, you know I ain't takin' him. He can catch the next one and be late, as far as I'm concerned. Teach him a lesson.”

“DaShawn!” In spite of her threat, she called him one more time.

“Comin'!”

The boy appeared, wolfed down his eggs, and slurped his OJ, his skinny butt barely brushing the chair before he was up and running for the door.

“Don't forget your homework!” Estelle called after him.

When the door finally slammed, Estelle plopped down in her chair at the table and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “I declare, I feel like I've worked a whole day already, an' I still gotta feed thirty picky women at the shelter.”

I stifled a chuckle and we ate in silence for a few moments. I figured Estelle was still stewing about DaShawn, but then she up and said, “You know, Harry, I've been thinkin'. Everything's already set up for lunch at Manna House—did the prep yesterday—so I don't have to be in till 'bout eleven. Maybe we should go look at that house you found.”

“Uh . . . really? The two-flat?” I couldn't believe it. “Sure. But . . . maybe we oughta take some time to pray together about it first, like
you said. You know, be sure we're on the same page and ask God to guide us. It's a big decision.”

She dabbed a crumb from the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin and gazed straight at me without one hint of
it's-about-time
in her sincere nod.

We held hands across the table, and I asked God to open our eyes to what we were going to see. I told him we didn't want to make any mistakes, but we needed a good plan for Mom and DaShawn, and we wanted him to guide us.

Estelle gave me her light-up-the-world smile and squeezed my hand when I said amen. Man, did that feel good!

But when I phoned the bank's real-estate agent, the guy seemed reluctant to open the building, saying the place wasn't ready to show yet. The bank had given the previous owner some grace in getting her things out, so the first floor was still filled with the old lady's belongings.

I had my iPhone on speaker, and Estelle mouthed silently to tell him it wouldn't matter to us. Took some talking, but the agent finally agreed to meet us there at ten. To tell the truth, when we got inside, it wasn't so easy to look past the mess. The first floor was filled with mismatched furniture, piles of old magazines and newspapers, even dirty dishes in the sink. I turned on the water, and nothing came out.

“The furnace isn't working,” explained the agent, “so we shut off the water and drained the pipes to prevent them from bursting.”

We went down to the basement. More clutter surrounded a monstrous old octopus gravity furnace that had been converted from coal to gas, probably back in the 1960s. It would have to be replaced, same with all the appliances we'd seen so far. And everything needed cleaning and painting.

As we came back up out of the basement, I started to feel depressed. Maybe this wasn't the right house. But the agent said, “Before we go up to the second floor, there's one more room back here you haven't seen yet.” He opened the door to a sunroom
addition on the back of the house filled with dead plants—potted tropical trees and hanging baskets with limp translucent leaves, shelves of African violets and Christmas cactuses, their bright flowers shriveled like pieces of wadded-up crepe paper. But the room exploded with brilliance as the morning sun broke through the clouds. It may have been winter, but seeing this room, I could imagine spring coming. I could tell Estelle was impressed too.

That agent was smart. He showed us the worst first, and then took us up to the second floor. “Apparently, the son of the old lady who lived downstairs was trying to upgrade the second floor,” the agent said as we climbed the stairs. “He hoped to attract a tenant, but it never worked out.”

He unlocked the door—and talk about night and day. The second floor was a total contrast to the first floor. The remodeling was top quality. Floors had been refinished, all the rooms painted, and when I looked out back, I saw a new deck with a railing on top of the sunroom below. Most of it was covered by a foot of snow, but I gave Estelle a wink. Could just imagine us sitting out there on a summer evening.

My depression lifted. The second floor let me see what could be done with the place, and I fell in love. In the kitchen, Estelle kept running her hands over the new stainless steel appliances and the marble counters. “Nice . . . very nice. I think I could make you some lunch up in here, Harry.”

I frowned at Estelle and put my finger to my lips when the agent looked away. No sense telegraphing our interest. If we were going to make an offer, it'd be better to remind the agent how dingy the first floor was and how much that reduced the building's value.

But once we were driving home, I asked, “So . . . whaddaya think?”

“Mmm. Sure do like that second floor, but I can't imagine puttin' Mother Bentley downstairs.”

I took a deep breath. “What if we calculated redecorating the whole first floor into our offer, plus new furnaces and laundry facilities in the basement? I mean, we could take our time. Mom doesn't have to move in right now, ya know.”

I could feel her eyes on me. “You think we could swing it?”

“All depends on what the bank will take for it, but . . . I dunno. Let's keep prayin'.”

On Saturday, I got the agent to show us the building again and this time brought Mom and DaShawn along. Mom's eyes lit as we explained that she'd be living close to us. But Estelle and I didn't want to discourage her with how terrible it looked. So when she came into the entryway, and we pointed up the stairs, she looked at them for a long minute.

“Where's the elevator?”

“This building doesn't have one, Mom. You're gonna be on the first floor, but we can't take you in there until they finish painting and fixing it up. Here, let me help you up the steps this once so you can see how nice it'll be for you.”

“Just once, huh?” She eyed the steps again, and then attacked them, shaking off my helping hand and pulling herself up by the hand railing.

Estelle swatted my shoulder and stifled a laugh with her hand over her mouth. “Mom, you could climb Mount Everest if you put your mind to it.”

Once we got up to the second floor, she walked from room to room, muttering, “Where's the furniture? Cain't live in here without no bed, no table and chairs. Where's my TV? I gotta have my shows.”

With remarkable patience, Estelle explained everything once more.

“
Hmm
!” was all Mom said, but I could tell she liked the place.

While we were guiding her through the second floor, DaShawn was exploring—upstairs, first floor, basement, and out back. After we took Mom back to her apartment, I turned my head and eyed him in the back seat of the SUV. “Well, what'd you think?”

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged as he nodded his approval. “There'd be room for Dad.”

I glanced at Estelle. “Don't think so, son. We told you we're looking for a better way to look after your great-grandma. Your dad'll need to get his own place. Know what I'm sayin'?”

I took DaShawn's silence as hesitance to agree. But after a few moments he bounced back. “Hey, think we could put up a hoop behind the garage?”

Grateful to get off the subject of Rodney, I said, “I think that alley would be a great place for a little one-on-one, if you don't mind your old grandpa takin' you to school.”

“Ha! In your dreams, Pops!”

I reached over and squeezed Estelle's hand, but she rolled her eyes. “
Thumpety, thump, thump, thump
at all hours, huh? I don't know if I could take that.”

As Estelle and I prayed, the possibility just got stronger, and the next few days spun by like a whirlwind. We found a contractor to give us a ballpark estimate on the renovations for the first floor, managed to get a credit approval, and negotiated with the bank toward a price we could afford. We even shared the plan with our respective prayer groups—Estelle with the sisters on Sunday evening and me with the brothers on Tuesday.

Some of the guys had questions. Young Josh Baxter, who was learning the ins and outs of building management at the House of Hope, a six-flat connected to Manna House for homeless moms with kids, warned me to be sure and get multiple bids for the rehab work. “They can often vary by several thousand. And get references too!” In the end everyone encouraged us to move ahead cautiously, and both groups prayed a blessing on our final negotiations with the bank.

“I think it's the right place,” Estelle said when I reported how the brothers had responded. “I think it's where God wants us, Harry.”

I grinned at her. “I agree.”

It sure felt different—and so good—to be on the same page with my wife, both of us confident God had his hand on our plans. Guess I was learning something about following God's lead and not trying to do things all on my own.

The next day, after a difficult meeting with the manager of our apartment building in which I finally convinced him to let us out of our lease, I was going back upstairs when my cell rang.

“Yeah, Bentley.”

“Dad?”

I froze on the second-floor landing. “That you, Rodney?”

“Hey, how's it goin'?”

“Can't complain. How 'bout yourself?”

“That's why I'm callin'. You got my letter, didn't you?”

“Yeah. Yeah I did, but . . .”

“I was wonderin' if you filled out that form for me.”

What could I say? “Uh . . . no. Actually, I couldn't. Guess I should've written you back and told you, but there's no way we can invite you to stay with us.”

A long silence hung on the other end of the line as I slowly climbed the stairs and entered the apartment. “This is a pretty small place,” I added. “Just don't have room.”

“Never been there, you know.”

His words felt like a jab under my ribs—a reminder of ten years when I hadn't had any contact with him, didn't even know he had a son. I cleared my throat. “Yeah, it's only a small, two-bedroom place. With DaShawn and Estelle . . . you know I got married, don't you?”

“Yeah, you wrote me.”

“Anyway, we're pretty jammed up in here as it is. Wouldn't work to try and shoehorn someone else in. Fact is”—I knew I was scrambling for excuses—“building management might even object.”

More silence. I felt as weak and shaky as if I had the flu.

Finally, Rodney said, “Dad, I really need this. Wouldn't be like I'd have to stay very long. I could crash on the couch for a few nights while I found something for myself. All I need is for you to send in that form. My hearing got postponed for a couple more weeks, but I really need that form to be in my file when I go before the parole board. Know what I'm sayin'?”

I coughed. “Uh, yeah. Well . . . okay, see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Dad. See ya.”

Rodney's call left an awful sinking feeling in
my gut. I dug through the old mail in the basket on the little table at the end of the couch until I found his letter, pulled out the court form, and read it.

Could I sign it truthfully? Frustrated, I threw it on the table. I'd have to tell Estelle about the call, and that I'd hinted to Rodney we might let him stay a few nights. A few nights . . . 
yeah, right
. Wouldn't hurt to grease the wheels for that sticky conversation, so I grabbed the baskets of laundry and hauled them down to the basement to start the wash.

When I came back up, DaShawn was home from school and already on the computer. “Hey, Pops, I read that letter from my dad. Is he comin' to live with us?”

Oh, man! I hadn't intended him to see that. “Uh, I doubt it, DaShawn.”

“But sounds like he's in jail and wants to get out.”

“Yeah. Sorry to say, he got in trouble again. But maybe this time things'll go better for him.”

“Well, I'd let him stay in my room. We could get bunk beds or somethin'.”

Ah, the resilience of youth. I knew DaShawn's memories of his father were only slightly better than those of his mother, who'd been a cocaine addict and a hooker. But there he was, ready to forgive just to have his dad back in his life.

I put my hand on his shoulder and pulled him to me. “We'll see. We'll see. Estelle and I'll need to talk about it.” I pointed to the computer screen to change the subject. “Whatcha writin'?”

“Just somethin' on mummies.”

“Mummies! You sure that's for school?”

“Yeah. For history—about Egypt.”

That evening while DaShawn watched TV, I herded Estelle into the kitchen and told her about Rodney's call.