Where Do I Go? (18 page)

“Sure.” Making lunch would seem like a vacation in the Bahamas after manning the front desk.

“Here.” She handed me a pair of latex gloves and an ugly hairnet cap. “Better tuck that mop of yours under this. Don't want no hair spicin' up the soup. They gonna know the red ones are yours, for sure.”

For the next hour Estelle kept me busy peeling and chopping vegetables for a vegetable-beef soup, while she mixed up several batches of biscuits and a large flat pan of brownies. But she caught me off guard when she said, “Mabel tell you I used to be homeless?”

“Just that you were once a resident here.” I didn't admit I'd assumed she was homeless
now
when I first met her.

“Oh, yeah . . . before the fire took this place down.” She laughed. “But, Lord, Lord, He is so good, because that fire turned out to be a blessing for
me
.”

My knife paused in midair. “What do you mean?”

She chuckled. “This white girl, Leslie Stuart, kinda like you, 'cept she's got long blonde”—
wink, wink
—“California hair . . . anyway, she took me in after the fire. Turned out she was lookin' for a housemate and, knock me over with a cotton ball, we hit it off like the Odd Couple, so . . .” She laughed again, a big
hee hee
hee
, while she slid the pan of brownies into the commercial-size oven.

“Did you know her or something?” I couldn't quite imagine the scenario. “Or did she just show up on the sidewalk the night of the fire and invite you to sleep over?”

Estelle scooped up my chopped carrots and potatoes, threw them in her soup pot, and handed me a bag of onions and a bunch of celery. “Nope. Didn't know her. But this church north of here, SouledOut Community, took all of us in the first night, then farmed us out to various church members till the city could find other shelters that had room.”

“SouledOut?” The name was familiar. “Isn't that the church that did worship here on Easter? Avis Somebody preached. I think her husband is a board member here.”

Estelle's shoulders shook with amusement. “That's the one. That's where I worship now. Not only that, I'm part of this prayer group called Yada Yada. Stu and me and about ten others, more or less. If you hang around here long enough, you'll meet most of them at one time or another. Edesa Reyes—I mean Baxter . . . she's a Yada too.”

My eyes were swimming from cutting the onions. I grabbed a paper towel and dabbed. “Sounds weird,” I sniffed. “Like a Greek sorority or something.”

“Nah, it's Hebrew. From the Old Testament—uh-oh. Time creepin' up on us. Can you run upstairs and see if these two are around?” She pointed at names on a chore sheet. “They need to get down here to set up. And—
hee hee hee
—you better fix your face. You look like one of them raccoons we had back in Mississippi.”

So much for waterproof mascara. As I repaired my makeup in the common bathroom, a thought popped into my head.
Funny. She didn't say anything about
why
she'd been homeless . . .

I left at three o'clock, anxious to get the Lexus home and safely in the parking garage before I got tied up in traffic. Besides, I was exhausted. I'd helped serve lunch, which was fun, giving me a chance to chat with each resident and staffperson who came through the line, trying to memorize names and faces. Many were out for the day—Mabel said some of the residents at the shelter had jobs of one sort or another, or had appointments at public aid—so it didn't take long. Then I took my soup to a table and sat with Wanda, who turned out to be a lot more talkative the second time around while she polished off seconds on brownies. Took me a while to understand her patois accent, but it was fun trying to catch the gist.

I'd stayed for cleanup, along with Aida Menéndez and Tina, a large, good-looking Latina, but the two of them talked rapid Spanish to each other as they washed pots and pans, so I just concentrated on scooping leftover vegetable-beef soup into two large plastic containers and wiping down tables with a spray bottle of disinfectant.

As I drove north on Sheridan Road, Estelle's comment,
“You're learning quick,”
rubbed up against my spirit like a purring kitty welcoming me home. Even Mabel seemed pleased that I'd handled things at the front desk, though she'd apologized later for not letting me know what the intake procedure was.
“I didn't
think you'd need it in the first hour!”
she'd laughed. “
Go ahead, call it
a day. We'll see you tomorrow.”

I could see Richmond Towers and the other lakefront high-rises coming up in the distance. But my thoughts were still back at Manna House. I'd noticed Mabel made a point to stick with Naomi at lunch, talking and laughing with others across the table even though the newcomer hunched silently over her food, still tapping her foot under the table. By the time I left, Naomi was zonked out on a couch in the multipurpose room while Tina sat nearby, flipping through a magazine, keeping an eye on her.

Had to admit, I was surprised they let someone who was high come into the shelter and sign up for a bed. I probably would have told her to come back when she's sober . . .

I parked the car in the Richmond Towers parking garage but bypassed the door directly into the secured elevator area in order to walk outside to the frontage street along the park. Such a beautiful afternoon! The time-and-temperature sign I'd seen on a bank coming home had said seventy-two degrees. Blue sky arched overhead with only a few wispy cirrus clouds to catch the eye. I couldn't see the lake from here—my view blocked by the trees in the park and Lake Shore Drive—but suddenly I had an urge to stick my toes in the sand and splash in the water again. Should I change? I was still in my slacks and cotton sweater I'd worn to work . . .

Nope. Once thirty-two floors up, I'd probably see stuff I needed to do and that'd be it.

On impulse, I pushed through the revolving door. “Mr. Bentley!” The bald-and-bearded doorman standing in the lobby, hands behind his back, was just the person I wanted to see. “Could I leave my purse with you for a little while? Half an hour, max, I promise.”

“Now, Mrs. Fairbanks.” He arched an eyebrow at me. “What would I be doing with a purse? What would people think?”

I giggled. “Didn't take you for a man who cared what people think. But, I mean, don't you have a drawer or something behind that desk I can put this in? Doesn't have to be locked. You'll be here, right?”

With a shrug, he took the bag, stuck it in a drawer behind the half-moon desk, and said, “Go on, get out of here. That purse ain't going anywhere.”

Feeling free and lighthearted, I walked briskly through the park across from Richmond Towers, half-ran through the underpass under the Drive, and in no time stepped onto the stone retaining wall. Slipping out of my flats and knee-high nylons, I walked through the warm, dry sand, then rolled up my trouser legs and waded into the lapping water.
Brrr.
Still numbing cold. Didn't Lake Michigan ever get warm?

Sitting on the two-level stone wall that made a convenient seat facing the lake, I let the sun warm my back and dry my feet. Something Mabel had said last week during my interview warmed me inside too.
“From the first time you walked in here,
Gabby, I had the sense it was God who sent you . . . I believe God
brought you to Chicago because He has a purpose for you, right here at
Manna House.”

I wasn't sure what she meant. But it made me feel . . . wanted. As though God hadn't forgotten me, even though I'd ditched Him years ago. Even though the afternoon was slipping away, I felt reluctant to take the elevator to our sterile penthouse. Right now my heart felt full and I didn't know what to do with it. The staff and volunteers I'd met at Manna House—Estelle, Precious, Edesa, and even Mabel—seemed to so easily say, “Praise God!” or “Thank You, Lord!” That didn't come easily to me, but something deep inside wanted to tell God “thank You.”

So I just closed my eyes and said it. “Thank You!”

“For what?” A gravelly voice behind me caught me off guard. I twisted around and found myself face-to-face with a beat-up shopping cart overflowing with bundles, bags, bits of carpet, plastic tarp, and assorted junk. Then a wrinkled face framed by flyaway, graying hair peered over the top and looked down at me. “You lost again or somethin'?”

I grinned up at her. “Hi, Lucy.”

chapter 17

I scrambled to my feet. Lucy was dressed in yet more mismatched layers of clothing, but her eyes seemed brighter. “You're looking better! Hope that means you're feeling better. How's the cough?”

She ignored my comment. “Put on your shoes.”

“What?”

“Shoes. Put 'em on. Didn't your mama tell ya not to go bare-foot in the park? That's how ya cut your foot—an' I ain't got any more clean rags to spare mopping up blood after you.”

“Yes, ma'am.” I grinned, sat back down, and pulled on my nylons and flats. I patted the stone wall. “Sit down a minute. I'm glad to see you.”

“Nah. Don't have time. I'm on my way somewhere.”

I got to my feet again. “Where? Can I walk with you?”

“No, you can't. But turn around . . . now, see? Ya got a grass stain on the seat o' your good britches. Huh. Some people don't have the sense they was born with.” She started off, pushing her cart ahead of her, shaking her head.

“Lucy! Wait.” I ran after her. “When will I see you again?”

She shrugged and kept walking. “Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. All depends.”

“But I wanted to tell you something.”

That got her. She stopped and cocked her head. “So tell me.”

“I—I applied for a job at Manna House. I'm going to be there all week learning the ropes, then hopefully start next week. That's why I was saying ‘thank You' to, uh, God.”

Heavy-lidded eyes studied me. “What kinda job?”

“Program director. Planning activities for the residents.” Why was I telling Lucy this? Why would she care? But I blathered on. “I used to do it for a senior center, but the shelter is a new situation for me. I could use some ideas.”

She snorted. “Sorry. Ain't interested in bingo. Or shuffle-board. Big waste of time, if you ask me.” She started off again.

“I
am
asking you, Lucy!” I called after her. “Think about it!”

She marched on as if she hadn't heard. Then she suddenly turned, marched back, and growled at me. “Now you git on home and take care o' that grass stain 'fore it sets. An' next time ya come to the beach, wear somethin' ain't goin' to get ruin't.”

I chuckled at Lucy's bossiness all the way up the elevator to the top floor of Richmond Towers—but I took her advice, changed into my jeans, treated the stain on my slacks, and tossed them into the wash. I wanted to share the joke with Philip when he came home that night, but hesitated. Lucy's name might still be a sore point between us. Besides, he seemed distracted that evening, spending an hour on the phone, talking business.

“Is everything okay?” I asked when he finally got off the phone.

He flopped into an armchair that matched the curving couch. “I don't know. Maybe.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Hope so.”

I perched on the arm of the couch and waited . . . which paid off.

“It's this new account we bid on last week.” He sighed in frustration. “Found out on the sly that another company is bid-ding for the contract. Big rep for underbidding on projects. Fenchel and I are trying to decide whether to lower our bid right now. We really need this deal. A big one.”

“I'm sorry, Philip.” I had a brief urge to say,
“Maybe we should
pray about it.”
But I was sure it would sound odd coming out of my mouth, as if I was trying to be superspiritual or something. “Anything I can do?”

He shook his head, sinking deeper into his thoughts. I left him alone, but fifteen minutes later brought him a cup of fresh coffee. I was pretty sure he'd be up half the night crunching numbers.

I never did hear him come to bed, and he was gone when I woke up. I still felt the urge to pray, but wasn't sure exactly for what. So I just prayed silently over my morning coffee.
“God, help
Philip today. He'd really like to land this job to kick-start the new business.”
I found myself adding,
“And I'd really like him to get this
contract, so he won't be so tense and touchy.”

I set out for my second day at Manna House, but to my shock, the temperature had dropped thirty degrees overnight and it was misting again. I was definitely not dressed for cold and damp. When I got to the shelter at nine o'clock, I was shivering. And the hot water pot and coffee urn in the multipurpose room were cold and empty.
Well, I'm here to learn, so I might as well make the coffee.