Where Do I Go? (12 page)

I was glad . . . but at the same time felt a strange sense of loss, like something had died. The Gabby I used to know would've volunteered to take Lucy. At age seven, that Gabby had brought home a cardboard box with a litter of abandoned kittens. The mama cat had been run over in the road. My mom let me keep them out on the back porch if I
promised
to feed them six times a day. I was all over those kittens, feeding them with an eye­dropper, watching them get fat and spill out of the box until they were old enough to take to the pet shop. And then there was the dog with only three legs, and the box turtle with the cracked shell . . .

What had happened to that Gabrielle? Weren't people more important than kittens and box turtles?

I tried to refocus. “So Estelle is not a resident here?”

“She was, once upon a time. Ask her about it sometime.” I noticed how Mabel's ready smile highlighted how attractive she was—smooth brown skin, straightened hair cut short but full and brushed off her forehead in a wave, simple gold loops in her ear-lobes, full lips colored with a creamy tangerine that matched her sweater. “Now she's licensed to do elder care, but between jobs she hangs out here and helps however she can.” Mabel extended her hand. “Thank you so much, Gabby. I'm afraid I don't have the budget to reimburse you for the cab fare you spent today, but I want you to know how much we appreciate it.”

I took her hand, afraid that if I spoke I might cry. Something was churning up inside me, and I didn't even know what it was. I just nodded and turned to go, then suddenly turned back. “Mabel.” The words pushed out in a rush. “The other day you mentioned you were looking for a program director. I . . . well, I'm a CTRS—Certified Therapeutic Recreational Specialist—and I directed pro­­grams for seniors back in Virginia. I'm wondering . . . I think I'd like to apply for the job.”

Mabel stared at me. “Well, well. If the Lord doesn't work in mysterious ways.” She went into her office, consulted an appointment book, and then looked up. “Could you come back tomorrow, Gabby? We can talk about it then, and I'll have an application for you to fill out. Eleven?”

I nodded without speaking and dashed out to the waiting cab.

Oh Lord, Oh Lord . . .
I didn't exactly know how to pray in the moment, but I knew I was going to need some supernatural help.
I'd really like this job. In fact, I
need
it. And if You help me get it, and
pacify Philip, I promise I'll go to church more often. And read my Bible.
If I could find it. Packed somewhere.
And P.S., please be with Lucy
and help her to get well.
There. That ought to cover my butt with Lucy.

But first I had to explain to Philip where I'd been all day.

“I just don't get it, Gabrielle.” Philip was pacing. A bad sign. “What in the world were you doing at that homeless shelter in the first place? Then you volunteer—volunteer!—to take a perfect stranger who has pneumonia, or bronchitis, or whatever, something contagious anyway, to the county hospital, of all places, which is probably full of who-knows-what diseases flying around in the air. Sitting in a roomful of sick people all after-noon!” He stopped pacing right in front of me and shook a finger in my face. “You don't
think
, that's what wrong with you, Gabrielle. You . . . you just up and
do
things, willy-nilly, whatever comes to your mind. Did you think about how this would affect me? Affect
us
, affect getting this new business off the ground if you got sick? Not to mention that it's seven thirty, and we haven't had supper . . .” He spiked the air with an expletive, rolled his eyes, and flopped down on the plush sofa.

“I'm
sorry,
Philip. I didn't realize it would take so long. I thought we'd be in and out in an hour or two. I tried to let you know, left a message on your cell phone.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. What was I to think? Maybe you'd been in an accident or something. All you said was you were at Stroger Hospital. Henry said it's the county hospital, over on the west side, not a good neighborhood.”

“That's not true. I told you I brought someone to the clinic. Didn't you listen to the whole message?”

“Whatever.” He pushed himself off the couch. “That's not the point. You still haven't explained what you were doing at this . . . this homeless shelter in the first place. Yeah, yeah, you ran into an old bag lady last week, you did the right thing and sent her to a shelter.
Period.
You don't need to go running over there to check up on her. Let them take care of the homeless. That's what shelters are for!”

I pressed my lips together. This was pointless. Telling him right now that I intended to apply for a job at this shelter would be like volunteering to be the human sacrifice in an ancient Aztec ritual.

chapter 11

The weather forecast still said rain, but today I didn't care. It was April, after all! The air was warm and moist, the kind of weather that sprung all the buds on the trees and sprinkled green kisses on the grass in the parks along Lake Shore Drive.

I allowed myself an hour to get to Manna House, but it was hard to wait until ten o'clock to leave. In spite of Philip's upset at me the night before, I woke up excited, my mind already spinning with ideas for activities and programs at Manna House. Job skills . . . word processing . . . parenting classes . . . cooking . . . maybe even field trips to the museums. Had Lucy ever been to a Chicago museum?

Well, probably. Surely she hasn't been homeless all her life.

I stood in the middle of our walk-in closet. It was a job interview . . . should I wear a suit and heels? But this was a homeless shelter; maybe that would be too spiffy. I finally decided to go with “business casual”—tan slacks, jade-colored blouse, black blazer, flats for walking, a bag roomy enough for a small umbrella. And I'd take the El. If I was going to be working at Manna House, I'd need an inexpensive way to get back and forth. Might as well learn how to do it on my own now as later.

I was actually whistling as I bounced through the lobby of Richmond Towers and headed for the west-side doors spilling out onto Sheridan Road.

“Where are
you
off to, Mrs. Fairbanks, all twinkletoes today?” Mr. Bentley's bald dome and grizzled chin beard made him look as if his head was on upside down.

I laughed. “I'm interviewing for a job, Mr. Bentley. Wish me luck!”

He eyed me suspiciously. “What are you up to now, might I ask?”

I paused at the semicircular desk, eager to let the excitement within me bubble out. “That shelter you told me about needs a program director—and I'm it!” I giggled at my self-confidence. “Seriously, Mr. Bentley, I'm a qualified CTRS, and this job seems just right for me.”

He peered at me over his reading glasses. “Oh, it does, does it?” He pursed his lips. “What do you know about homeless people, Mrs. Fairbanks?—no disrespect intended.”

My confidence wobbled. “Well, good point. Not much. But I'd like to learn. And one thing I do know, Mr. Bentley—
everyone
, rich or poor, male or female, young or old, needs to feel useful, needs purposeful activities or work to occupy their time.” I chewed on my lip. “Including me.”

His expression softened. “Good luck then, Mrs. Fairbanks. I'll be lifting up a prayer for you today. Want me to call you a cab?”

For some reason, his blessing buoyed my confidence again. “No thanks. I'm taking the El. I did it once, think I can do it again.” I waved and pushed through the revolving door for the three-block walk to the elevated station.

The Red Line.
That's what Josh Baxter had told me.
Take it
south to . . .
I squinted at the transit map on the platform at the Berwyn El Station, trying to keep my eyes from straying to the street below.
Sheridan. That's it. One . . . two . . . three . . . only four
stations. Shouldn't take long.

But I was still anxious once I was on the train, counting the stops, craning my neck at each one to be sure we hadn't passed it yet. The train bent around a big curve just before pulling into the Sheridan station.
Okay, that's my clue,
I thought, relieved to get out the door before it slid shut again.

Once back down on street level, I stood uncertainly, looking both ways. Did I turn right or left? Then I saw Rick's Café and the Wrigleyville Bar down the street to the right.
Aha. Back on course.
I glanced at my watch . . . only ten thirty. Good grief, I had a half hour to kill. Was there any place around here to get a cup of coffee?

I glanced around—and had to laugh. The Emerald City Coffee shop stood right under the El tracks next to the station, so close it could have bit me on the rear. Pushing open the door, I smiled at the decidedly casual décor. On one side, couches and comfy chairs circled around a beat-up coffee table. On the other, small tables were occupied by individuals busy at their laptops. At the counter I ordered a medium-size coffee with cream. The proprietor—a slender older woman with spiffy gray hair—looked at me oddly, as though trying to place me among her clientele as she poured the steaming coffee. “Just made a fresh pot. You want a muffin or anything with that?”

The lemon poppyseed muffins looked good. I took my coffee and muffin to a comfortable chair near the front window, sank into the cushions, and sipped the hot coffee slowly. Now that I was safely back on the ground, uneasiness niggled at the edge of my excitement.
I shouldn't be doing this without telling Philip.
Especially after he'd made his feelings about me just visiting the shelter abundantly clear.

But, darn it, what else am I supposed to do? He took me away from
a job I enjoyed back in Petersburg, left our boys in the academy there,
hung me in a penthouse like a pair of panties on a clothesline . . .

I snickered at my mental image of the penthouse panties and pushed the problem of Philip into the recesses of my mind. I'd deal with that
after
the fact. No point getting him all stirred up if I didn't even get the job.

After enjoying a refill, I paid my bill and walked the few blocks to Manna House. It had started sprinkling, but not enough to need my umbrella.
10:55
, I noted smugly, grabbing the handle of the heavy oak door. Early but not too early.

The door didn't budge. I tried the other one. Locked too.
What in the world?
I hunted for a doorbell and found a white but-ton beside the brass plate that said Manna House. I pushed and was rewarded by a shrill ring inside. But no one came to the door.

I pushed the button again . . . and finally the door cracked opened. “Oh, Mrs. Fairbanks!” Angela peeked around the door, her straight black hair swinging over her face. “Sorry the door was locked. I was on the phone and couldn't—oh, come on in. Did you want something?” She locked the doors behind me.

“Well, yes. I have an eleven o'clock appointment with Mabel Turner. Is she here?”

Angela grimaced. “Actually, no. I mean, she's not back yet. She had some kind of emergency with her nephew, C.J., at his school. But that was her on the phone. She's on her way. Do you want to wait in her office?”

Hiding my annoyance, I agreed to a seat in Mabel's office. I'd tried so hard to be on time, and Mabel Turner just blew me off. Did she go running to school every time her nephew had a problem? What about his parents? Couldn't they take care of whatever? Besides, I had a son about C.J.'s age and one even younger, and
we
didn't go running to school every time—

I stopped myself. I didn't even know if my boys
had
problems at school. Parents weren't supposed to call during the day, only in the evenings, before study hall, and weekends. But I no longer saw P.J. and Paul on weekends, either, because we'd moved a thousand miles away.
Admit it, Gabby, you're jealous of Mabel, that
she
can
go to school and check up on her nephew.

Reaching for a tissue box on Mabel's desk, I blew my nose, took a deep breath, and tried to think of something else. It wouldn't do for Mabel to walk in and find her new program director blubbering away.

Mabel Turner bustled in at eleven thirty. “I'm so glad you waited, Gabby.” She dumped her bag and umbrella on the floor and hung up her trench coat on the back of the door. “I didn't forget you. Did Angela explain?”

“Just said it was something about your nephew, C.J.”

Mabel nodded. “I'm his legal guardian, so when anything comes up at school . . .” She sat down at her desk, moved a few papers out of the way, and leaned forward, hands folded. “Now, tell me about yourself.”

I blinked. That wasn't exactly the question I was expecting to start the interview. “You mean, my qualifications and work experience?”

“No, just tell me about yourself. Let's get acquainted.”