Where Do I Go? (24 page)

I laughed and grabbed a pen. “Fire away.”

“Okay, first, you gonna get a bunch of well-meanin' stuff from some people, doing cut-an'-paste crafts, which, let me tell ya, it's just busywork any three-year-old can do. Just 'cause these women ain't got homes, don't mean they ain't got brains too.” She tapped her head, which was braided all over so tight it looked like it must hurt. “An' those pastors on the board, bless 'em, they probably gonna say we should be havin' group devotions at six a.m.—or maybe a Bible class from Genesis to Revelation.”

I repressed a smile. The Bible class idea had already come back from Pastor Stevens, whom I hadn't met yet.

“Nothing wrong with that, I'm just sayin'. But take it from somebody who's been there—correction, somebody who's been
here
—that ya really need to ask the women themselves what kinda things they like ta do. An' don't dis ideas like doin' nails and fixin' hair—yeah, I heard Hannah harpin' at you ta let her do nails. But when you been living on the streets, a bit of pamperin' is pretty nice. Homeless women need ta
feel
like women, too, ya know.”

I wrote down “Pampering—nails and hair,” feeling duly chastened. I had indeed totally ignored Hannah's harping about doing nails. In fact, I'd basically been ignoring Hannah in general, because for some reason her bored mannerisms bugged me.

“What about you, Precious? Supervising homework for the kids a few times a week is great, but I know you've got more talents hiding under the rug that could perk up the lives of the residents.”

“Hidin' under what rug? You talkin' 'bout my hair?” She patted her braided head.

I'm sure the color of my face clashed with my hair. “No, no, it's only a saying. I meant—”

Precious hooted. “Heh-heh! I'm just messin' with ya, Miz Gabby. I'll think about it. Meantime, didn't you say somethin' 'bout having a Fun Night where we could do dancin' an' stuff ? How 'bout next Friday?”

“Next week? Uh . . . sure. Let me look at the calendar.” I clicked the organizer icon on my computer, and a calendar popped up. “Week from Friday would be . . . oh, that's Mother's Day weekend. Maybe that wouldn't be such a good—”

“And why not?” Precious leaned both hands on my desk. “You think these women have someplace else to go Mother's Day weekend? Maybe fly to California, visit the grandkids? Huh.” She snorted. “Them that still got their kids—ain't too many of them here anyway—are the lucky ones. Them that don't, a Fun Night might be a good way to dull some of the pain doggin' the holidays.”

I bit my lip.
Mother's Day . . .
Last year, even though P.J. had been away at the academy, the school had scheduled a three-day leave for Mother's Day weekend. But this year, both boys were at the academy, and we were a thousand miles from Virginia. I wouldn't get to see either of them. Unless . . .

But I didn't say anything to Precious, just nodded my head and typed in “Fun Night.”

chapter 23

I took Precious McGill's advice and asked for a gab session with the shelter residents on Thursday evening. This was the first time I'd met some of the women who were out during the day, some of whom had jobs or sold the weekly
Streetwise
newspaper. Others, I'd been told, spent their days standing in lines at public aid or the Social Security office, or trying to get their names on the long waiting lists for subsidized housing. “ 'Course a little panhandling on the side comes in handy now an' then,” Precious said with a smirk.

I was disappointed when only a dozen or so showed up in the multipurpose room at seven o'clock, even though Mabel had announced it at both lunch and supper. She must have seen the look on my face. “I'm sorry, Gabby,” she murmured. “We can't make them come. You'll just have to make do with the ones who show up.”

“Why? Don't they want a say in what activities are offered here?”
Huh.
I'd left my husband to fend for himself that evening, probably using up some of my capital in the “good graces” department. The least these women could do was show up to make it worth my while.

The director shrugged. “Some are just tired, Gabby. They've been pounding the pavement all day. And I'll admit, some don't care. Food, shelter, clothing—that's the bottom line. The rest is ‘whatever.'”

Okay, then. Whatever.
I pulled some of the furniture into a semicircle, hoping for a cozy chat, but a few of the women—including Hannah the Bored—sat off to the side, arms folded. I was determined to make this work. I introduced myself as the new program director, thanked them for coming, and said I'd like to hear their ideas for activities. “And please say your name when you speak, since I haven't met several of you. This is a brain-storming session, so all ideas are welcome—”

“What she sayin'?” An old woman with a mouth so puckered it looked as if she'd swallowed her teeth turned to the person beside her and spoke loudly, drowning me out. “Can't hear a word!”

“Pipe down, Schwartz!” someone muttered, accompanied by several snickers. Mabel hustled over and sat down beside the old lady, patting her on the hand.

“—and I'll, uh, list them here.” I uncapped a black marker, indicating the pad of newsprint propped on a chair.

Silence yawned. Not even the old woman spoke.

I could feel my underarms getting wet. I should have told Precious to be here. She was so sure this was what I needed to do.
Huh.

In desperation I said, “Here are a few ideas to get us started. Carolyn suggested a book club . . .” I wrote it down and under- neath added
Fun Night/Dancing, Budgeting Your $, ESL (English as
Second Language), Trip to Museum,
reading off each one. “We want a variety of activities—some just for fun, others to help with practical skills, even some outings. Obviously, we won't be able to do everything, but let's brainstorm.”

It worked. A woman named Kim—slender, light brown skin, soft voice, neatly dressed—suggested “Typing Class.” Hannah the Bored wanted a “Spa Day” (no surprise there). Soon other ideas flew about—“Movie Night” . . . “Can we go see Oprah?” . . . “I like to make jewelry”
—
and I wrote them all down, in spite of a few arguments among the group. (“Why just ESL? Why not Spanish for gringos?” “Because this is America, stupid, not Mexico.” But I wrote down
Spanish for Gringos
and got a laugh.)

Kim timidly waved her hand. “Some of us work during the day but need more job skills. Can you do those on the weekend?” A few heads nodded.

Weekends.
I'd been hoping to keep my part-time hours to weekdays, when Philip was at work. But her suggestion made sense . . .

By the time we wrapped up at 7:45, I had a pretty good list. “That was, um, interesting,” Mabel deadpanned, offering to drop me off at the Sheridan El Station, even though it was still light outside. “But just so you know, tickets to see the
Oprah
show may be free, but you can spend a whole day on the phone trying to get a couple . . . let alone enough for a group.”

I laughed. “Really? Drat. That was my favorite suggestion.”

I showered quickly the next morning, eager to get back to work and sort through the ideas I'd been collecting, choosing a good balance of activities to start with and drawing up a possible calendar. Then I'd have a proposal to present to Mabel and could start to work on a budget.

Not bad for my first real week on the job.

As I was toweling my wet hair, Philip poked his head into the bathroom. “Gabby, tell the cleaning woman to be sure to wash the inside of the windows in the front room today. I deliberately specified inside windows on the contract with the cleaning ser-vice, but I don't think she's . . . what?”

I'd stopped toweling when he said “cleaning woman” and grimaced. “Uh, Camila isn't coming today. It's Cinco de Mayo—some kind of holiday for the Mexican community. She asked me about it last week. I'm sorry. I should have told you.”

He gaped at me. “What kind of holiday? You agreed? Gabrielle, she only comes once a week! Did you arrange for her to come tomorrow? What if we want to entertain this weekend? The place is a mess!”

“Philip.” I tried to keep impatience out of my voice. “The house looks fine. I thought missing one week wouldn't matter. Neither of us is here much during the week. If we entertain”—
Where did that
come from? He hasn't said anything about entertaining this weekend
—“I'll do whatever needs to be done to be presentable.”

You
thought . . . ! Did you remember I've already paid a “month ahead?” He withdrew his head, but I heard him cursing in the bedroom. “Stupid Mexicans. They come here wanting jobs and then don't show up when you need 'em.”

I pressed my lips together and turned on the hair dryer, staying in the bathroom longer than I'd intended to avoid getting into it any further with Philip.
What a jerk.
Good grief, Camila probably worked longer hours than both of us put together and undoubtedly deserved a day off, holiday or no holiday. Still fussing with my hair, I finally heard the front door slam. Good, he was gone.

But it was obvious
some
kind of holiday was afoot. As I walked to the El, cars flying green, white, and red flags zipped past, their sound systems blasting Spanish music as young people hung out of the windows, waving and shouting. Now I was curious. I still didn't know what the holiday was all about. As soon as I got to my office at the shelter, I turned on my computer, called up Google, and typed “Cinco de Mayo” into the search box. Lots of Web sites. I clicked on one, then another.

“Not to be confused with Mexican Independence from Spain on 16
September, 1810” . . . “Cinco de Mayo, the ‘Fifth of May,' celebrates the
victory of the 4,000 Mexican troops over 8,000 French forces in the
Battle of Puebla in 1862” . . . “A minor holiday in Mexico, but celebrated
in the U.S. by Mexican-Americans with parades and festivals with the
same cultural pride as St. Patrick's Day by the Irish.”

Parades? Shoot! Wish I'd thought of this sooner! It would've been neat to take some of the women from the shelter to the parade today. Still browsing, I clicked on a site that said, “Cinco de Mayo Festivities, Chicago 2006.”
Wait a minute . . .
The parade was on
Sunday?
Strange. I'd assumed Camila wanted the day off because the festivities were today.

My mind started spinning. If the parade wasn't until Sunday noon, I might have time to get it together after all! I'd need a car—no, a van. Didn't Josh Baxter say he used their church van sometimes? Maybe—

Excited, I went hunting for Edesa. I hadn't seen her since Tuesday, hadn't even heard how the meeting with the social worker went, but today was Friday, and she usually led the weekly Bible study. Sure enough, the young black woman was pulling chairs into a small circle with the help of Tina, who looked strong enough to pick up one of the overstuffed chairs and heft it over her head single-handedly. The two of them were talking rapidly to each other in Spanish as a few of the shelter residents started to straggle in.

“Edesa, I don't mean to bother you, but I need to get hold of Josh—” I suddenly realized she had no “papoose.” “Where's Gracie?”

Edesa made a face. “Sick. Home with Josh. Double ear infection. But at least you'll be able to find him.
¿Qué pasa?
”

Quickly I shared my idea of taking some of the shelter residents to the Cinco de Mayo parade on Sunday, but needing a van. “How about you, Tina? Would you like to go? Maybe you could tell the rest of us what it's all about.”

The big-boned Latina drew herself up, looked down her nose at me, and muttered something in Spanish. Edesa giggled.

“What?” I looked from one to the other.

Tina thumped her chest. “I am
Puerto Rican
, not Mexican. It is not
my
holiday.”

I could feel my ears getting hot, and Edesa laughed right out loud. “Cut Gabby some slack, Tina. She's new to Chicago. Besides, I know you'd love to go, right?” She gave the larger woman a playful poke in the ribs, then scribbled a number on a scrap of paper. “Here's our phone number, Gabby. See what Josh says about the van. What a great idea! I'd love to go, too, but . . . well, depends on Gracie.”

I skipped the Bible study to make my call. Thirty minutes later, Josh called me back and said the church van was available, but had I ever driven a fifteen-passenger van? “I could if I have to,” I said. “I learned to drive on my dad's utility van in North Dakota—he owned a carpet store. But I don't know Chicago streets. I was hoping you'd drive.” Talk about understatement.

“Can't promise,” he said. “Gracie's pretty sick. We plan to lie low this weekend. I could probably get the van down to the shelter, but don't count on me to be the chauffeur. But for what it's worth, I think this is a great idea, Gabby. Be sure to take in the festival at Douglas Park after the parade. Lots of great food and bands. In fact, Delores Enriquez's husband will probably be there with his mariachi band. Don't miss it!”