The Life List (18 page)

A jogger runs toward me, his Labrador leashed before him. I move aside to let them pass and the dog sizes me up with friendly eyes. As the runner passes I spin around. He’s clad from head to toe in black Under Armour, but still, there’s something familiar about him. He’s looking back at me, too, and for a moment our eyes lock. He hesitates, as if he’d like to run back and talk to me, but then thinks better of it. He smiles and raises his arm in greeting, then turns and continues on. I watch him move into the distance. Finally, it hits me. I think that was the Burberry man—the man I spoke to on the train … and on my way out of the building! Or was it?

“Hey!” I call, but the roar of the tide swallows my words. I break into a run. The last time I saw him I was leaving for a lunch date. I’ll let him know I’m single now. I need to catch him! But my
clunky boots make it impossible to gain on him. He’s a good fifty yards away now. Faster! Suddenly, the toe of my boot catches on something and I fall flat on my ass. I sit on the cold concrete, watching the Burberry man disappear down the trail.

Oh, God, I’ve reached a new low. Andrew and I just broke up last night. And here I am this morning, chasing—yes, chasing—after a man whose name I don’t even know. Could I be any more pathetic? As if my biological clock weren’t enough pressure, my mother has strapped a ticking time bomb on my back, and it’s due to explode next September.

T
he day has officially clocked in by the time I wander back to Mother’s house, but typical of November in Chicago, thick gray clouds have moved in, holding the sun hostage. Tiny specks of snow flutter in the air, instantly vanishing when they land on my wool coat. A foreboding feeling comes over me as I climb the concrete steps to my mother’s door. I don’t want to be alone today. I can’t bear the thought of being that pitiful character you see in the movies, cooking for one on Thanksgiving Day.

I clear the dining room table I’d set last night, carefully folding Mother’s treasured napkins and tablecloth. She bought the hand-embroidered linens when we visited Ireland three years ago, and insisted we use them at every family celebration. Tears stream down my face. We never imagined our family celebrations would vanish so quickly.

To further torture myself, I second-guess my relationship with Andrew. Why aren’t I lovable? Fresh tears sting my eyes. I picture him moving on without me, finding a woman who’s absolutely flawless, someone who could make him happy. Someone he’d want to marry.

Through a teary haze, I manage to stuff the turkey and push it into the oven. Mechanically, I peel potatoes and mix the ingredients
for my mother’s sweet potato casserole. By the time I slice fruit into a bowl, I’m no longer crying.

Three hours later, I remove the most gorgeous turkey I’ve ever prepared. The skin shines crisp and golden, and juices bubble from the bottom of the roaster. Next, I take out the sweet potato casserole and breathe in the familiar aroma of nutmeg and cinnamon. From the refrigerator, I grab the fruit salad and cranberry sauce. I slice the remaining tomatoes into the salad and set it next to my pies. After I’ve double-wrapped everything, I load the food into picnic baskets and cardboard boxes retrieved from the basement.

On my way, I call Sanquita at Joshua House. She’s waiting at the door when I arrive.

“Hi, sweetie. Take this, can you?” I hand her the basket and turn back to the car. “I’ll be right back.”

“You brung us Thanksgiving dinner?” she asks, eyeing the picnic basket.

“Uh-huh.”

“Miss Brett’s brung us dinner,” she calls to her housemates. She peers inside the basket. “Not just turkey loaf, like we had earlier, but real turkey with all the fixin’s.”

It takes me three trips to get everything into Joshua House. Sanquita helps me pile it on the kitchen counter, where the other women gather like ants to a sugar cube. By now I recognize most of their faces and even know a few names. Tanya, Mercedes, and Julonia unload the food while the others lean in.

“The stuffing’s right inside the bird, just the way I like it.”

“Umm um! This casserole smells delicious.”

“Check it out—pecan pie!”

“Enjoy, ladies,” I say, gathering the empty baskets. “I’ll see you Monday, Sanquita.”

“You don’t gotta go,” Sanquita mumbles, staring down at her feet. “I mean, you could eat something if you wanted.”

I
’m stunned. The girl who doesn’t trust people is opening the door to me—just a crack. As much as I’d like to enter, I can’t today. “Thanks, but I’ve had a long day. I need to get home.” Which is where, exactly? Maybe I should ask about vacancies here.

She straightens her shoulders and hardness returns to her face. “ ’Course you do.”

I run a finger beneath my eyes and find flakes of dried mascara. “I’m not feeling so great.” I look into her puffy face, and notice a patch of skin on her forehead that’s been scratched raw, a cruel side effect of waste buildup. “How about you, kiddo? How are you feeling?”

“Good,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “I feel fine.”

Just then Jean Anderson, the grouchy director, steps through the front door. The pocket on her wool coat is torn and she’s clutching a vinyl overnight bag.

“Miss Jean,” Sanquita says. “You ain’t supposed to be here today.”

“Lisa called in sick.” She shimmies out of her coat. “Funny how sickness always strikes on holidays.”

“But your daughter’s here from Mississippi,” Mercedes says, “and your grandbabies.”

“They’ll still be here tomorrow.” She reaches into the closet for a hanger, and when she turns back around, she spots me. Her face turns to stone. “What are you doing here?”

Before I can answer, Sanquita claps her hands. “Miss Brett brung us turkey and fixin’s. Come see.”

She eyes me and doesn’t budge. “Are you all set then, Ms. Bohlinger?”

“Uh, yes. I’ll get going.” I pat Sanquita’s arm. “See you Monday, sweetie.”

I’m three blocks away when I screech to a halt and whip a U-turn. I pull up to the curb and dash up the porch steps, straight into Joshua House. Miss Jean stands at the kitchen counter slicing the turkey.

“Umm um. This bird is a beauty. Mercedes honey, will you set the table, please?” Her smile vanishes when she sees me.

“Forget something?”

“Go home,” I tell her, breathless. “I’ll stay tonight.”

She gives me a once-over, then turns her attention back to the turkey.

I run a hand through my ratty hair. “I just got hired with the school district. They did a thorough background check. I’m safe, I promise.”

She sets her knife on the cutting board and scowls at me. “Why would someone like you choose to spend your holiday at a homeless shelter? Don’t you have kin at home?”

“I like it here,” I say, honestly. “And I adore Sanquita. Besides, my family is out of town and I’m alone. You, on the other hand, have a houseful of guests. You need to be with them.”

“Go home, Miss Jean,” Mercedes tells her. “We’ll be fine.”

She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. Finally she throws her head toward the office. “Follow me.”

As I trail Miss Jean down the hall, I glance over my shoulder. Sanquita stands watching, her arms crossed over her chest. Have I crossed a boundary? Am I invading her personal space by staying tonight? Our eyes meet. One hand emerges from within her crossed arms. I see a clenched fist, then a thumb. She raises it, giving me a thumbs-up. I could cry.

Although Joshua House is at full capacity tonight, it’s free of drama, as far as Miss Jean can tell—no threatening ex-boyfriends, no addicts. “The guests—that’s what we call them—have the run of the house until seven
P.M
. After that, the kitchen’s off-limits. Children need to be in bed no later than nine o’clock. The television
goes off at eleven thirty and everyone must retreat to their own quarters.” She points to a twin bed against the wall. “You’ll sleep here. We change the sheets on this bed daily, so in the morning you’ll strip it. Amy Olle will relieve you in the morning, eight
A.M
.” She lets out a sigh. “I think that about covers it. Any questions?”

I want to put her at ease, so I don’t pummel her with the choir of questions in my head. Is anyone dangerous? Is there a security alarm on this house?

“I can handle it,” I say, with more conviction than I feel. “Get going.”

Instead of leaving, she stands facing me with her hands on her hips.

“I don’t know what your motive is, but if I find out you’re exploiting these women, I’ll have you tossed out of here before you can say
designer handbag
. Do you understand me?”

“Exploit? No. No, I don’t understand.”

She crosses her arms across her bosom. “Last spring a pretty white woman much like yourself showed up wanting to volunteer. Of course I let her. We need all the help we can get. It wasn’t a week later that the video crew came a-calling. Little Miss Pretty was running for circuit court judge. She wanted the city to see what a swell lady she was, volunteering with the poor black folks on the South Side.”

“I would never do that. I promise you.”

We stare at each other until finally she lowers her eyes to her desk.

“My home phone number is right here,” she says, pointing to a Post-it note. “Call if you have any questions.”

She grabs her purse and strides from the room without a good-bye or a good luck. I sink into a chair, trying to drum up a reason to be thankful today.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

B
rad calls me Monday morning, asking if I can stop by his office on my way home from work. All afternoon my hunch gains momentum, and now, as the elevator climbs to the thirty-second floor, it’s no longer a hunch. I’m certain he’s got news about my father.

He looks up when he sees me and smiles. “Hey, B.B.” He crosses the room and gives me a hug. “Thanks for coming in.” He pulls back from me and scowls. “Everything okay? You look kind of tired.”

“Exhausted. I can’t seem to get enough sleep these days.” I rub my cheeks, hoping to stir some color to their pale surface. “So tell me, what’s going on?”

He walks me to the set of chairs and heaves a sigh. “Have a seat.” His voice sounds flat and defeated, and I push back the dread that’s threatening to invade me.

“Did Pohlonski find my dad?”

He plops down in the chair next to mine and runs a hand over his face. “He struck out, Brett.”

“What do you mean, struck out? I thought he had six possibilities.”

“He called each one. There was one guy he thought might be the one. He was in Chicago during the summer of ’78. But he didn’t know your mom.”

“Maybe he just forgot. Does this guy play the guitar? Tell him to ask him about Justine’s.”

“He was a grad student at DePaul at the time. Never heard of Justine’s. No musical ability whatsoever.”

“Damn!” I pound the edge of the chair. “Why didn’t my mother tell me about Johnny while she was alive? She must have had more information about him. But no, she was too damn selfish. She was more concerned with protecting herself than helping me.” I turn to Brad, trying to tamp down my anger. “So, what’s Pohlonski’s plan now?”

“He’s done everything he can, I’m afraid. He tried tracking down the owners of Justine’s but they’ve both passed away. It’s likely Johnny was paid under the table, because Steve can’t find any tax records. He even located the property owner of the place on Bosworth.”

“The landlord? That’s good. He must have an old lease from Johnny Manns, right?”

“No. Nothing. The old man’s living in a nursing home in Naperville now and has no recollection of Johnny Manns or your parents.”

“He’s got to keep trying. I’ll keep paying him.”

Brad’s silence makes me nervous, so I fill it. “Maybe he wasn’t born in North Dakota, after all. We’ll widen this search. We’ll check different spellings, too.”

“Brett, he’s reached a dead end. There’s just not enough information to go on.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I don’t like this guy, Pohlonski. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

“You’re free to find someone else, but take a look at these records.” He hands me a spreadsheet showing the search for Jon, John, Jonathan, Jonothon, or Johnny Manns. Some names are circled; some are crossed out. Notes are scribbled in the margins, indicating dates and times of phone calls. One thing is obvious: This Pohlonski guy has been trying his damnedest to find my father.

“Okay then, tell him to keep trying. Johnny’s out there somewhere.”

“I’ve decided to exempt you from this goal.”

I turn to him. “Exempt me? You’re telling me I should give up?”

He lifts the spreadsheet from my lap. “You don’t have to give up. I’ll leave that up to you. But I’m not going to hold you to this one, Brett. You’ve tried, but this search is going nowhere.”

I lean in. “Well, I’ll tell you right now, I’m not giving up. Pohlonski needs to try harder. We need a bigger age span. Maybe my father was older … or younger.”

“B.B., this could take years. It’ll cost you a fortune. I think you should focus on your other goals for now.”

“Forget it. I’m not giving up.”

He frowns at me. “Brett, listen to me. I know you’re running low on cash and—”