Who Is My Shelter? (12 page)

Well, he was coming. And I was glad. It didn't have to mean anything, did it? It would've been a slight to leave him out, since he'd been so instrumental in getting the building in the first place. That's all I needed to say.

But I knew if I was honest, that wasn't “all.”

Saturday was a full day. After Josh deposited P.J. at the high school early that morning, he and I visited each of the original tenants still in the building when ownership changed hands. First stop was apartment 2A, the scene of all the yelling Tuesday evening. The young woman who opened the door was as olive-skinned and dark-eyed as the young man who'd left in a huff, her thick, tousled hair gathered into a haphazard knot at the back of her head. Bassi was the name on the lease. Hers? Sounded Italian. When she saw us, she shrugged and opened the door for us to come in.

Boxes littered the front room. “
Sì
, I'm getting out of here,” she said, her voice flat. “You gave us a letter saying we could move out before our lease was up, right? Well, I'm leaving that no-good jerk, going back to
la mia famiglia
. As soon as he's tired of that
puttanella
he's been seeing behind my back, he'll show up and sweet-talk me into letting him come back. But he stepped out on me one too many times. I'm through.”

“I'm so sorry, Miss, uh . . .” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“Zia Bassi. Actually, it's Fabrizia Bassi, but I go by Zia.”

I smiled. “Pretty name.” I felt sorry for her, because I knew what it felt like to be abandoned by the one who was supposed to love you.

“—anything we can do?” Josh was saying kindly. “When are you planning to leave? Do you need help with the move?”

I looked at him, wide-eyed. Letting tenants leave early with no penalty was one thing. Helping them move was beyond our resources. Moving trucks could be expensive!

And then I realized he meant actual physical help. Like carrying boxes down the stairs. That was so like Josh. What a prince.

Well, our little talk about rules and responsibilities wasn't needed here. Zia said she planned to be out by the following weekend. We wished her well and moved across the hall and knocked on 2B. I looked at the names on the lease. Freddie and Bertha Hill. I had only a vague memory of a middle-aged white couple and two or three younger adults—their grown children? relatives?— going in and out of that apartment. I'd heard them from time to time—heavy footsteps in the hallway over my head, occasional noisy music, loud conversations—but nothing to complain about. We got no answer to our knocks.

Next stop, 3B, across from Josh and Edesa's apartment. Maddox Campbell, a friendly Jamaican man I'd met earlier, came to the door, his “dreads” tucked into a roomy knitted cap in green, yellow, and black layers—Jamaican flag colors. “Ah ha! De poodle lady!” he teased—a reference to my curly hair. “And de new neighbors 'cross de hall wit dat cute baybee.” He shook hands with Josh. “What mi can do you for?”

I felt almost silly handing Mr. Campbell the sheet of paper on which I'd printed out the rules for the building—which included a number of obvious things such as proper use of the trash and recycling bins. The tall, thin man frowned. “You tink we be cause of dese problems?”

“No, no, Mr. Campbell. There have been a few complaints about the other tenants, so we decided to just give this list to everyone. Josh Baxter, here, is our new property manager, so if you have any problems in your apartment, you contact him, all right?”

Maddox Campbell's face relaxed into a wide smile, showing good teeth. “Ah, den. Irie, mon.”

Maddox Cambell was a likable guy. Almost wished he didn't have to move. I hoped he'd be able to find a good living situation, but decided not to ask how the search was going. Didn't want to pressure the guy. Besides, the day was slipping away and I was expecting a conference call with my two sisters at noon, not to mention I had to cook something for our potluck tonight and clean my apartment if I was going to host all those folks for the house blessing!

P.J. took a city bus after the cross country team got back and was home by five o'clock. “We came in second, Mom!” he crowed, dumping his duffel bag and leaving a trail of sweaty green-and-gold sportswear on his way to the shower.

“Congrats!” I yelled through the bathroom door. “But I just cleaned that bathroom and it better be clean when you come out—and hang up your wet towel too!”
Boys
.

But Paul still hadn't showed when Tanya and Sammy tromped in at quarter to six, carrying a hot dish for our in-house potluck. Was Philip waiting for me to pick him up? I thought he was going to send Paul home by taxi. I'd better check.

Sammy scurried to the front window to watch for Paul, and I grabbed the phone as I followed Tanya down the long hall to the dining room. I lifted a corner of aluminum foil on Tanya's dish. “Smells yummy. What is it?”

“Mac-an-cheese, of course.” The young mom looked at me scornfully. “Can't have a potluck without mac-an-cheese. Kids hardly eat anything else. What'd you make?”

“Scalloped potatoes and ham and a fruit salad—where're Precious and Sabrina?”

“She tol' me to tell you she'd be a few minutes late. Sabrina, she snuck out to see that deadbeat dude who knocked her up an' Precious be havin' a cow.”

“Paul's back!” Sammy yelled, clear from the front of the house. “Some other guys are with him!”

I hustled down the hall toward the front door, a sense of foreboding growing in my gut. On the way, I passed little Gracie Baxter, toddling as fast as her tiny legs would go, followed by Edesa carrying a hot dish. “Just put it on the dining room table!” I called over my shoulder as I darted into the foyer—only to run into Estelle Williams, Harry Bentley, and his grandson, DaShawn, standing on the other side of the glass-paneled door.

Ohmigosh
. I'd forgotten to tell Estelle we'd changed the potluck to be for House of Hope residents only! And here she was, big as life, dressed in a shimmery caftan and headdress, carrying a big pot—probably her famous greens or something. Even Harry had on a suit and tie, his hands full with a large Tupperware container.

I pulled open the door and put on a smile. “Come in, come in. You guys look ready to party! Take that on back to the dining room . . . Hi, DaShawn! Sammy's in the sunroom. You're looking good, Mr. B . . .”

But my smile faded as the trio passed me and another trio appeared, framed in the doorway of the outer door.

Paul. And Philip. And Will Nissan.

chapter 11

As Paul pushed the outer door open and led the trio inside the foyer, I heard footsteps thudding down the stairs. Josh Baxter loomed up beside me. “Hey there, Paul. Hi, Mr. Fairbanks. Good to see you out and about. And who's this?” He thrust a hand out toward Will Nissan. “I'm Josh Baxter. Live up on third. You all here for the potluck?” He laughed. “Save me from being the lone male in a pack of females—oh, except for Paul and P.J. of course.” He gave Paul a teasing poke with his elbow.

I gritted my teeth. Did Josh have to be so doggone friendly?

“This is Will, Mr. Josh. He's my dad's friend. They met at the hospital.”

Will shook hands with Josh. “You look familiar—haven't I seen you on Circle Campus? It's my first year, but I remember faces.”

Josh shrugged. “Could be. I'm taking classes there. Maybe I've seen you around.” He sidled toward my open apartment door. “Well, my wife wanted me to hurry up with these tortillas. I'm not late, am I, Miss Gabby?”

I shook my head and forced a smile. “Not yet. Just waiting for Paul here. Uh, thanks for bringing him home, Will . . . I see your grandmother's car out there.”

“Yeah, I thought she was getting discharged today, but now they're saying they want to wait till Monday, so I dropped in to see Mr. Philip. He was just about to send Paul home in a taxi, but I said, hey, no problem, I can give him a ride—then we're going to go out for a bite to eat. Between you and me, Mrs. Fairbanks, I don't think he's had a decent meal since you brought that soup a few days ago.”

Paul tugged on my arm. “Why don't they just stay for our potluck, Mom? There's always lots of food at these things.”

I started to shake my head, ready to protest that it was just for House of Hope residents—except that wasn't exactly true, since Estelle and Harry had shown up—when P.J. poked his head out the door. “Hey, Dad! Guess what! I beat my best time at the city championships today and Lane Tech came in second. Regionals next week . . . oh, hi, Will. You two coming to the potluck? That'd be cool.”

“Can they stay? Please, Mom.” Paul hopped up and down. “I told Will about the House of Hope we started here, and he said he'd like to know more about it.”

Oh, right. Of
course
he would. Will wanted to know everything about everything. I felt outnumbered. Philip and Will had been invited to stay three times now. “I . . . well, it's our first time eating together as residents, and others will be coming later for a house blessing. I don't know if you'd be interested—”

“Sounds great, Mrs. Fairbanks—if you don't mind. That okay with you, Mr. Philip?”

Philip had the grace to say, “It's up to Gabrielle. It's her party.”

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Why did all of my plans seem to skid off the runway, no matter how organized I was? I shrugged and nodded.
Wimp
, I told myself.

Gleefully, the boys pulled both Philip and Will into the apartment. I followed, fuming, realizing I needed to have a talk with both Philip and the boys about respecting boundaries and not putting me on the spot—and stopped short by the telephone table.

That message, still on the answering machine.

Philip was here, in the house—and
Lee
was coming!

Paul was right about one thing: we had plenty of food. Precious showed up with enough wings to feed the Cubs and the White Sox—though I don't think she realized just how much “heat” she'd put in the sauce, probably while she was fussing at Sabrina. The girl wore an attitude as obvious as her burgeoning tummy, parking herself in my mom's wingback rocker with a magazine and refusing to eat. “Ignore her,” Precious hissed in my ear, piling her plate with hot wings, mac-an-cheese, Estelle's smoky greens, Edesa's tasty tamales and deep-fried plantains, and even my not-so-exciting fruit salad and scalloped potatoes. Everyone else followed suit—though my stomach was in such a knot, I wasn't sure I could eat. How was Philip going to manage a potluck with one arm in a cast and sling? I didn't want to hover over him, serving up his plate—besides, I was still irked that he was even
here
—but I noticed Will Nissan had no compunction about loading a plate for him and getting him set up with a TV tray in the living room.

I was both relieved and annoyed. The kid unknowingly let me off the hook, but it bothered me the way he was weaseling himself into Philip's life. And now he was here in
my
house having an animated conversation with Edesa about ethnic foods from her native Honduras. Didn't the kid have a life?

Estelle bumped my ruminations off center stage by herding me into the kitchen. “Where is everybody?” She did not look happy. “I thought Mabel an' the Baxters an' some of the Yada sisters were comin' to this party. And you
didn't
mention you were invitin' your ex and his new sidekick. What's with
that
, Gabby girl?”

Didn't know why it should be a big deal to Estelle, but I tried to reassure her. “The others are coming at seven thirty for the house blessing. We decided to do potluck just for the House of Hope folks and I forgot to tell you about the change in plans—but I'm glad you came,” I hastened to add, “because I didn't invite Philip and Will. They just showed up, and the boys . . . well, you know. Still trying to get us back together, I think. Hopefully they'll leave before the house blessing.”
And before Lee gets here. Yes, yes, oh please, God. Yes!

Estelle's face relaxed. “Well. That's okay then.” She grabbed one of my dish towels, covered the large Tupperware container Harry had brought in, said, “Don't touch those brownies, they're for later!” and sailed out of the kitchen like the HMS
Queen Elizabeth
, leaving me staring at her back.
Humph
. Estelle was acting weird.

But a few quiet moments in the kitchen helped clear my head. I needed to be proactive. Refilling the pitcher of lemonade, I marched down the hall toward the living room. I'd refill people's drinks—a friendly gesture—and matter-of-factly tell Philip and Will that more people would be arriving soon for a work-related event, thanks for coming, good-bye.

But before I could get around the room with my pitcher, I noticed that Will hopped up, dug his cell phone out of his pocket, and walked out into the foyer to answer it. When he came back, he headed over to me. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Fairbanks, but I've gotta run. That was my grandmother—she wants me to stop back by the hospital before visiting hours are over.” He grinned indulgently. “She's got a whole list of stuff she wants me to bring so she can be decent when she gets discharged on Monday. I'd wait until tomorrow, but I need to spend the day on campus in the library. I was wondering . . . could somebody else give Mr. Philip a ride home?”