Who Do I Talk To? (9 page)

I suddenly had a burst of inspiration. “Hey. Maybe we ought to ask Edesa to show up at your class to teach good nutrition—she's working on her degree in public health. Poor nutrition has to be a big factor in many of the health problems we see in here.”

“Yeah, well, you better sneak that stuff in between fried chicken an' chocolate cake. Ain't nobody goin' to show up for a whole class on
nutrition
.”

So it was settled. “Cooking with Estelle” on Thursday afternoon, served up with a sneaky side of “How to Eat Healthy and

Live Longer”—providing Edesa was available. But as Estelle got up to leave, she hesitated, looking me up and down. “How you doin', Gabby? I
know
you got more on your mind than cookin' an' sewin'.”

It was so tempting to unload on Estelle, to bare the fragments of my heart, torn between wanting my sons back—
now—
and knowing I had nothing to offer. I needed somebody to tell me I wasn't a total fool for calling the police, for ignoring Mabel's advice and trying to contact Philip, but I knew if I opened my mouth, I'd be a wreck. I needed to keep going, keep working, keep my mind busy, or I'd never be able to hold on to this job. And I needed this job, for a lot of reasons.

I shrugged. “Hanging in there. I see a lawyer tomorrow at Legal Aid. Can't do much until then.”

The older woman lifted an eyebrow, as if seeing right through my little charade. “Hm. Well, honey, seems to me one of these days you gonna want to do some screamin' at that man of yours. Just want you to know, I'd be glad to come with you so he don't bully you around. Might even do a little screamin' myself.”

Friday. I woke up early, before the six o'clock wake-up bell by the ever-punctual night manager, and caught myself smiling at Estelle's offer. For some reason it made me feel good. It hadn't occurred to me to take someone with me when I did go see Philip with my facts
.
Well, if I did, Estelle would be the one. No one—not even Philip—would mess with her.

Sensing I was awake, Dandy padded over and nosed my arm.
Hmm. Why not take the dog for his morning walk?
Lucy saw me pulling on a pair of jeans and started to roll out of bed. “Let me,” I whispered. “I need to get out. You can sleep in today. Where do you go—the cemetery?”

“Cemetery don't open till eight thirty,” Lucy muttered. “Gotta go someplace else.” She rolled over and was snoring again before I got Dandy's leash on, grabbed a couple of plastic grocery bags from her stash, and sneaked down the stairs. I heard someone—probably Sarge and her assistant—banging around in the kitchen, setting out breakfast. In the foyer, sunlight streamed in the stained-glass windows on either side of the oak doors, creating dancing prisms of colored light on the floor. I dutifully signed out, quietly opened the front doors, and slipped out.

Yes!
Blue sky overhead. Cool, no hint of humidity. A beautiful day. I suddenly felt a pang of longing for the park and lakefront abutting Richmond Towers. I'd love to let Dandy run on the beach, kick off my sandals, and dig my toes in the sand. But here . . . I glanced up and down the neighborhood surrounding the shelter. Mostly two- and three-story apartment buildings. Brick, crowded together, several with storefronts on the ground level. The occasional Victorian house squeezed between them, with a six-foot wrought-iron fence in front as if holding the buildings on either side at arm's length with its iron bars.

How far was it to the lake? Maybe a mile. I quickly nixed that idea. Another time. Too bad Graceland Cemetery hadn't opened yet. Closest thing to a park I'd seen around here.

By the time we got back, morning devotions were just ending. Sarge hustled everyone downstairs for the usual weekday breakfast of cold cereal and milk, toast and jam, juice and coffee, giving Dandy and me the eye. “Saturday,” was all she said.

I felt a flicker of panic. That was tomorrow. Had Mabel been asking around for a foster home for the dog? She hadn't said anything. And what about my mother? She was oblivious that Dandy's days were numbered.

But I determined not to let Dandy's fate get me down. Today was an important day. Today I had an appointment with a lawyer. Today I was going to get some answers.

chapter 9

A knock on my office door was followed immediately by a glowing brown face, brilliant blue headband, and bouncy hair twists. “Are you alone,
mi amiga
?” Without waiting for an answer, Edesa Baxter called over her shoulder in a stage whisper, “Coast is clear. Hurry!”

The next moment, Josh Baxter hustled into my office, carrying a large bakery sheet cake, followed by Edesa with Gracie on her hip. They shut the door behind them and stood there like the Three Bears, caught sneaking into Goldilocks's house instead.

“Can we hide this cake in here, Gabby? Josh, set it on top of the file cabinet, out of her way.”

“Um . . . sure. What's going on?”

“Da-Da!” Gracie squealed, spying Dandy, who'd gotten up to sniff at our visitors.

“How d'ya like that?” Josh made a face as he carefully set the cake on top of the file cabinet. “She says ‘Da-Da' and means ‘doggy.'”

I had to smile. The young Baxter family made such an odd, cute trio. The ten-month-old's creamy tan skin and loose, black curls made her look as if she could be their natural child—white daddy, black mommy—instead of a Latina child in the process of being adopted. “Are you going to tell me what all this hush-hush business is about?”

Edesa leaned forward, keeping her voice low. “
Sí! Sí!
It is Estelle's birthday today! But this is just the backup cake. Señor Harry is bringing—”

Oh no! Estelle's birthday!
I slapped my forehead. “Drat! I forgot! I even mentioned it to Mr. Bentley last week, and then . . .” I shook my head. “With all that's happened this week, it totally slipped my mind. I don't have a card or a gift or—”

Edesa put a finger on my lips. “Hush,
mi amiga.
It's all right. Estelle thinks we've all forgotten. Which is good, since . . . why are you poking me, Josh?”

“Don't give it away, Edesa, my sweet. It's supposed to be a surprise, remember?”

“Sounds like a regular party.” Had to admit my nose felt a little out of joint. Seems like somebody should have at least
told
the person in charge of shelter activities what was going on. But Edesa and Josh didn't seem to notice my little snit.

“Sí!”
She giggled. “Estelle
might
guess that we'll celebrate her birthday Sunday night at Yada Yada, but she won't suspect anything today. Oh!” Edesa looked at her watch. “I've got to run. I'm teaching Bible study in ten minutes. Pray for me!” She handed the baby to her husband, blew them both a kiss, and disappeared out my door.

Yada Yada Sunday night
. That was the prayer group Edesa and Estelle and Josh's mother, Jodi, were part of. Knowing each other so well, they celebrated birthdays . . .

I shook off my melancholy, aware that Josh and Gracie were still standing in my two-bit office. “Say, Josh, as long as you're here, I wanted to ask you about that sports clinic idea you once mentioned.”

“Sure, Mrs. Fairbanks—I mean, Gabby—I'd be glad to talk about that. But . . .” The young man shifted the baby in his arms and cleared his throat. “Maybe it's none of my business, but Edesa said that you . . . uh, that your husband—”

“Josh. It's all right. Sit down.” I indicated the metal folding chair leaning against the wall. As he flipped it open with his free hand, I went on. “If you mean, did my husband kick me out of our penthouse? Yes. That and he took the kids back to Virginia without my knowledge or permission. So . . .” I shrugged. “I'm staying here at Manna House for the time being. My mother too.” For some reason, it was easier to be matter-of-fact with this young man than it was with Edesa or Estelle or Mabel. I even allowed a sardonic half smile. “Every staff person ought to be a resident of the shelter for a while. Gives one a whole new perspective.”

Josh shook his head. “I'm so sorry, Gabby. I thought . . . well, guess I'd hoped Edesa and I could get to know you two better, you know, as an older couple who've been married a few years.”

Now I did have to blink back a few tears. I nodded. “Yeah, I know. That's how it should be. But . . .” I bit my lip and glanced at my watch. Ten forty. Still three hours to go before I could meet with the lawyer. Philip and I were on a road I hoped Josh and Edesa never had to travel.

I'd intended to duck into Edesa's Bible study, but Josh and I ended up tossing around different ideas to meet the needs of kids who ended up at the shelter, while Gracie grabbed things off my desk. Now that his classes at UIC were over, he said, he'd have more time on the weekends. “Weekdays, though, I'll be working full-time for Peter Douglass till school starts again. He has his own business—Software Symphony. Edesa and I really need a bigger apartment, but that takes moola.”

Huh. Takes moola to get one, period.

Currently, there weren't that many moms with kids at the shelter, but Josh talked about taking them to ball games this summer, finding a park where the preteens could shoot hoops and get some pointers, maybe starting a weekend league in this neighborhood for other kids. “My dad coaches some summer leagues. Maybe he could help us get started. We need a van, though. Can't keep borrowing the one from the church.”

“Yeah, well, I just added a fifteen-passenger van to my program budget. We'll see if the board has a collective heart attack . . . Oh my. Is that the bell for lunch already?” Well, at least the rest of the morning had gone fairly quickly. Only two more hours . . .

Estelle had outdone herself on the lunch menu. A chicken pasta salad with walnuts and grapes and hot garlic bread. Maybe she was celebrating her own birthday by giving everybody a treat. She was certainly dressed brightly today—a long, blue tunic with silver filigree around neck and sleeves, worn over wide-legged pants, though the big white apron and food-worker's hairnet didn't do anything for the outfit. But nobody said anything about “birthday,” so I kept mum, even when I went back for seconds.

While I was waiting my turn at the counter, I heard the doorbell ringing on the main floor . . . and then twice more, as if no one was around to answer. Darting up the stairs and through the multipurpose room, I reached the front door and pulled it open. My friend from Richmond Towers and a young boy stood on the steps.

“Mr. Bentley! Mm. Don't tell me. You're here because—”

“Uh, you said this was Estelle's birthday, didn't you?”

I sighed. “Yeah, I did. But with everything that's happened this week, guess who forgot? Come on in.” I held the door for them as they stepped inside, noticing the big, square box the youngster was carrying. “Who's your young helper here?”

Mr. Bentley grinned. “That's right, you two haven't met. This is my grandson, DeShawn. He's living with me now. DeShawn, this is Mrs. Fairbanks. She's, uh, from Richmond Towers, where I work. Here, let me take that.” He took the cake so his grandson could shake hands.

The boy grinned at me. He looked about nine years old, recent haircut, caramel-colored skin, a tad lighter than Mr. B, firm handshake. “I didn't know you had a grandson.” I felt like kicking myself. Why hadn't I ever asked Mr. Bentley if he had family? The boy was a little younger than Paul. If he'd just come to live with his grandfather, something must've happened to his mom and dad . . . like my boys, living with
their
grandparents now. But Mr. Bentley seemed tickled as all get-out. “I—I'm happy for you.”

“You doin' okay? Your boys . . . ?”

“They're okay. Just trying to get them back is all.” I managed a smile. “Look, you two can go on down. They've already started eating.”

“Uh, is there a way I can sneak this in without Estelle seeing? We'd like it to be a surprise.”

I peeked through the clear top of the cake box. Another cake—this one fat and round. “Wow. I guess we're gonna pig out on cake today. Here, let me carry it. She won't even notice what I'm carryin' when she sees you.” I winked at Mr. B.

Sure enough, Estelle was so flustered to see Mr. Bentley, she didn't even notice me taking the cake box to the other end of the room. She filled two more plates of food and even sat down with her guests at one of the tables, seemingly delighted at the news that the boy had come to live with his grandfather. “Stu told me!” she exclaimed.

Stu? That's what she called her housemate, whose real name was Lily or Leslie Stuart or something like that. How did her housemate know Mr. Bentley? Now I was starting to feel left out. Everybody and their cousin seemed to know about Mr. Bentley's grandson except me. Wasn't he
my
friend first?

My disgruntled thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Bentley tapping a spoon on his glass for attention and announcing that this was a special day for a special lady—Estelle Williams's birthday. She tried to make him sit down, but everybody began singing “Happy Birthday” in two or three different keys while Mr. B brought the new cake and set it in front of Estelle.