Who Do I Talk To? (10 page)

Yells of “Make a wish!” . . . “Ohh, now, that's purty” . . . and “Cut it, Estelle! Don't wait all day!” greeted the end of the song. Mr. Bentley handed a kitchen knife to the “birthday girl” and sat down again.

“Oh, now. This cake is just too pretty to cut,” Estelle protested sweetly, quickly taking off her apron and hairnet when Josh waved a camera.

“Cut it!” everyone yelled. I grinned. The residents were really enjoying this.

Estelle slid the knife through the frosting, thick with decorative pink and yellow sugar roses. Then she stopped, a puzzled frown pinching her forehead. She tried again in a different place. The knife only went one inch deep. “What?” she mumbled.

Behind Estelle, Edesa and Josh had hands over their mouths, trying to keep from laughing aloud.
What in the world?

Estelle caught them. “Uh-huh. I get it now. ” Turning back to the cake, she lifted the knife over her head in both hands and plunged it into the middle of the cake. This time the knife went in, though it took an extra push on Estelle's part. Then she lifted the knife and the whole cake came with it.

The entire dining room was gasping with laughter. “What is it?” . . . “What? No cake?”

Estelle lowered the cake to the table, the knife still plunged into its heart, then took a big swipe of the frosting with her finger until she reached the “cake.” “Uh-huh. Just what I thought. Foam cushions.” I'd never seen Mr. Bentley laugh so hard.

“Ah, he gotcha good!” Lucy yelled.

Estelle wagged her head. “Harry Bentley! I oughta throw this whole frosted pillow in your face, but I'm too . . . I'm too—” And forgetting decorum, she picked up the bogus cake and dumped it right on his bald head.

Mr. Bentley's grandson was hopping up and down, pointing at his grandpa.

With perfect timing, Josh and Edesa brought out the real sheet cake from my office, giving Mr. B a chance to wipe frosting off his face and talk Estelle into letting him give her a birthday hug. I wanted to squeeze in my own hug and wish Estelle a happy birthday, but I glanced at the clock above the kitchen counter.
Ten after one.
My appointment at Legal Aid was at two! I needed to get out of there.

The prank Estelle's friends had played on her—“It was all Mr. Bentley's idea,” Josh had said—left me feeling strangely hopeful. Estelle had once been a resident at Manna House—though I still didn't know why—but now look at her. Laughter. Jokes. New friends. Even a new beau . . .

“Mrs. Fairbanks?”

I looked up from the magazine I'd been flipping through in the waiting area of the Legal Aid clinic to see a man standing in the doorway, looking at me expectantly.
Wait a minute.
I'd been expecting some freckle-faced, idealistic law student in his twenties. Or maybe a fatherly type, retired, rich, doing pro bono work on the side. But this man was late thirties, probably five-eleven, wire-rim specs, brown hair with blond flecks brushed neatly to one side, nice tan, open-necked shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. Could've been Bill Gates for all I knew. Sure of himself. Decidedly casual.

And boots. I smiled, feeling a surge of familiarity. Maybe it was my North Dakota blood, but Lee Boyer—if this was indeed Lee Boyer—could've walked right off a cattle ranch into my father's carpet store.

I followed the man back to a small cubicle office and sat in the chair facing the cluttered desk while he shut the door. On closer look, those flecks in his hair were more silver than gold. Okay, maybe forty-something.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Fairbanks?”

My mouth went dry. For some reason I felt embarrassed to tell my sob story to this man, who looked like someone I might've gone to school with back at the University of ND. But that's why I was here. To his credit, the lawyer took copious notes. He asked a few more questions about my mother. Did I have power of attorney for her? If not, was she rational enough to sign over power of attorney?

I felt frustrated by the direction of his questions. “Mr. Boyer, it's my
kids
—”

“I understand, Mrs. Fairbanks. But the fact that you currently have responsibility for your mother, who seems to be suffering from some kind of dementia, definitely strengthens your case.” He handed me a set of power of attorney forms to fill out. “Talk to your sisters and your mother and get these filled out, all right? It's important. Now . . .” He leaned back thoughtfully, making a tent with his fingers. “Let's start at the beginning. Your husband is in violation of both Family Law
and
the Landlord-Tenant Law by changing the locks of your apartment without a court order. It doesn't matter if your name is not on the lease. Your husband can't evict you without proper legal procedures, and you can get a court order to return to the apartment.”

“A court order? How long would that take? He's given notice that he's breaking the lease and plans to move out by the end of the month. That's next week!”

“Hm. That's tight. We could try to hurry that along, but maybe the main question is, are you prepared to take over the lease if your husband bails?”

Take over the lease? I shook my head slowly. “No way could I afford the penthouse at Richmond Towers on my own. Even if I could, I don't want it. Not now. Please. Just get my kids back. That's all I care about.”

He jotted another note. “All right. We'll come back to this later. Now, the kids . . . P. J. and Paul, you said. If there is no order giving your husband custody—”

“Absolutely not!”

“—and if he has hidden your children in another state, you can call the police on the in-laws for kidnapping—based on the grounds that he can move
with
them, but he cannot move the kids alone and leave them in the care and custody of another, without your consent or a valid court order.”

“But I already called the police.” I'd left that part out, hoping to get a different answer from the lawyer—or that the lawyer would call the police when he heard my story. But now I rehashed what happened when I'd called 9-1-1.

The lawyer pulled a law manual from a stack on his desk and flipped through it. A minute passed, then two. Then he nodded. “Well, that's right. Since the kids aren't being hidden, and you're able to talk with them by phone, there would be no charge for kidnapping.” Lee Boyer leaned forward, hazel eyes behind the wire rims sympathetic. “But no judge is going to take kindly to what your husband has done, Mrs. Fairbanks. At this point, our options are to file an unlawful eviction case
and
a custody case, and we can merge these into one. And divorce. You definitely have grounds to file for divorce.”

Divorce?
“Uh, wait a minute. Can't I get my kids back without a divorce?”

“Of course. But you should know your rights, Mrs. Fairbanks. Your husband has left you virtually penniless. If you successfully file for divorce, you are entitled to half of your husband's estate.”

My eyes widened. “Did you say . . .
half
of what my husband is worth?” I almost laughed aloud. Oh, wouldn't that news spin Philip's clock!

Lee Boyer nodded. “And you have a strong case, though you should do what you can to make it even stronger. Prove you can support your children. Get a higher-paying job if necessary. For goodness' sake, get out of the shelter and find an apartment with adequate room for two young teens! I have to warn you, Mrs. Fairbanks. We are Legal Aid. We do what we can. But someone like your husband, with a high-powered job and the money to retain an expensive lawyer, can keep throwing legal hurdles in the way to make life difficult.”

His eyes were kind. “Just so you know . . . this might take awhile.”

chapter 10

My head was spinning. I needed to think! Or . . . or talk to someone. But who? It was all so confusing!

I wandered the unfamiliar streets, looking for a café or coffee shop, trying to keep the closest El station within my frame of reference. All I could find was a tiny restaurant called Joe's Eats, with “Breakfast Special—Grits, Ham or Bacon, 3 eggs, Toast, $4.99” painted in red right on the window. I sat in a booth with a Formica tabletop and ordered a cup of coffee. It came in a thick, white mug and looked so strong I added twice the amount of cream I normally used.

During the meeting, Lee Boyer had been very encouraging about my rights, everything from getting the boys returned to me, to hope that I wouldn't be permanently destitute. And Philip! The jerk was in
big
trouble. The lawyer didn't say what the consequences might be, but he did say what Philip had done was illegal.
And
that a judge wouldn't take kindly to his disappearing act with our kids, which would give me an edge in any court case.

But the words
“This might take awhile”
cut off my hope at the knees. What did that mean? I wanted my sons back now!

Grabbing a paper napkin, I pressed it to my eyes, hoping to stem the tears threatening to well up and explode, right there in Joe's Eats.
Oh God, Oh God, what am I going to do?!

“Refill, miss?” A thick-waisted waitress with flabby arms hovered over my cup with a coffeepot. “Got some good lemon pie too.”

I shook my head, blew my nose in the napkin, and reached for my purse. “Just the bill.” I had to get out of there.

Standing outside Joe's Eats a few minutes later, I realized I had no idea where to go or what to do. In the back of my mind, I'd imagined taking the El to the Aon Center after my meeting and showing up in the offices of Fairbanks and Fenchel, confronting Philip with my legal facts. But I knew Philip would just put another black mark on his ledger of my “sins” if I confronted him at his office, “ruining his business.”

Maybe Estelle was right. I should take someone with me, someone who could keep me from being mowed down by Philip's spin on everything.

Still!
It galled me to wait even one more day before confronting Philip face-to-face! The man had kicked me out and disappeared with my kids
four days ago
—and so far hadn't heard a peep from me except the cryptic message I'd left on his phone. He was probably laughing into his Chardonnay, thinking,
What a wimp.

Well. He had another thing coming.

Gripping my shoulder bag, I headed for the El station. I'd just go back to Richmond Towers and wait till he came home. Six o'clock . . . nine o'clock . . . midnight. Didn't matter. He had to come home sometime. After all, I still had my security ID card that would get me in. Or I
could
just show up early tomorrow morning, when he'd be sure to be home . . . On second thought, bad idea. He could just refuse to let me in. No, I had to be in the penthouse foyer when he got off the elevator—“

Streetwise
paper, lady? One dollar.” A
Streetwise
peddler waved a copy of the latest issue at me, a friendly smile showing off a couple of missing teeth. I started to pass by, but the man beamed happily. “Got my name in here, an' a picture too!
Streetwise
Salesperson of the Month! I'll autograph it for you.”

I had to smile. What was one measly dollar? If Mr. Lee Boyer was correct, I had a whole lot of money sitting in Philip's bank account.

A few minutes later, standing on the northbound El platform with my “autographed” copy of
Streetwise
, I started having second thoughts about confronting Philip at the penthouse. No telling when he would get home on a Friday night. I could wait for hours. But more than that, when he got off that elevator, we'd be alone, and no matter what my resolve, in two seconds he'd twist anything I'd say to make it be my fault.

A northbound train squealed into the station. I stood rooted to the platform as passengers jostled past me, reason and rage wrestling in my gut. Maybe I should get on and just get off at the Sheridan station and go back to Manna House. Or ride farther north and take my chances at Richmond Towers. Wait till he showed up and let him have it, both barrels, come what may.

No.
I was tired of waiting. Now or never.

The doors closed. The train pulled out. I watched as it rattled out of sight; then I headed back down the stairs and up to the southbound platform.

At least I had dressed up a bit for my appointment at Legal Aid—boot-cut black slacks with a belted jacket over a teal silk blouse and low, sling-back heels. A pit stop in the women's restroom on the first level of the Aon Center to repair my makeup and tame my curly mane gave me confidence that I looked attractive. Sane.

I stuffed the voice whispering,
“Should you be doing this, Gabby?”
I didn't care. I had to quit running. I had to face my demons—in this case, my husband. The office was the most likely place to find him. The most likely place to guarantee that neither one of us would make a scene. I was going to march in there and—

A young woman looked up from the reception desk when I opened the door marked Fairbanks and Fenchel—Commercial Development Corp. She looked to be in her twenties. Short brunette hair. Conservative lavender blouse. Small pearl earrings. Attractive, but no fashion model. She smiled. “May I help you?”