Where Do I Go? (9 page)

“Gabby, I'd like you to meet Avis and Peter Douglass and”— Mabel pulled the youth into a hug—“this is C.J., my nephew. Say hello, C.J.”

C.J. mumbled “hello” and shook my hand limply. Okay,
nephew
. That answered that.

“And this is Gabrielle Fairbanks, a newcomer to Chicago who stumbled on us by accident . . .” Mabel suddenly looked at me and then burst out laughing. “Oh! That was unintentional. But funny, oh yes, very funny.”

By this time, Avis and Peter were looking a bit bemused. So I had to explain about tripping over Lucy in the park and coming to the shelter later to see her. We all laughed, and Mabel finally finished her introductions. “Avis comes with the worship team from SouledOut Community Church once a month to lead our Sunday Evening Praise, and Peter is one of our board members. Oh—I think we'd better let Avis go. The praise team looks like they're about ready to begin. C.J., go sit down.”

We pushed through the double doors into the multipurpose room, following in Avis's wake, who excused herself with a whispered, “Nice to meet you, Gabrielle.” The couches and overstuffed chairs had been pushed aside and folding chairs set up, though many of the residents were still milling around, getting coffee from the coffee urn, or chatting loudly in their seats. Several men and women with instruments—an electronic keyboard, saxophone, and two guitars—were looking around as if wondering how to get everyone's attention.

Another window-rattling crack of thunder did the trick. “Praise the Lord, sisters—and brothers too!” Avis called out in greeting. “It's Resurrection Sunday!”

Several people responded loudly: “That's right! Hallelujah!”

“We can't let the rocks cry out in our place—or in this case, thunder.” Several residents snickered. “If Jesus Christ can sacrifice His own life so that we can live, we can bring Him a sacrifice of praise.”

Turned out that was the title of the song, but I didn't know the words, so I just hummed along as best I could. It was hard to make out the words over the saxophone, anyway. I wasn't alone. Only about half the shelter residents sang along, and many of those were mumbling.
Sacrifices of thanksgiving? Sacrifices of joy?
Hmm
. If the only bed I had was a bunk in a shelter, I might be able to drum up a sacrificial “thanks.” But joy?

When was the last time I felt joy?
A smile tickled the corners of my mouth. Running barefoot in the sand a couple of days ago, sending the gulls fluttering like dancing girls with gauzy white scarves.
Yes, that was joy.
My prelude to that strange encounter in the park with a metal cart belonging to a bag lady under a bush—

Lucy.
I glanced quickly around the room but didn't see her.
Oh Lord, she's not out in this storm, is she?
No, no, surely not. She'd find shelter somewhere . . . wouldn't she? But I did see lanky Josh Baxter and his cute wife, Edesa—a poster couple for racially mixed marriage. A white man and woman stood next to them, the woman holding baby Gracie and nuzzling her affectionately as the singing group launched into a new song. Josh's parents, if I had to take a guess.

Interesting.
Did the Baxter clan go to this SouledOut Community Church too? If so, this church certainly had a mixed group of people. The praise team had both blacks and whites too.

The next hymn was more familiar. “Up from the grave He arose!” I wasn't used to singing without a hymnbook, but I'd sung this one many times growing up, and it was also a staple when we made our Easter appearances in Petersburg. The guitars and sax gave it a rather funky flavor, though. Even the tinny piano at my home church in Minot, North Dakota—not to mention the majestic organ at Briarwood Lutheran—seemed more appropriate somehow.

We finally sat, and the woman who'd seen right through my claim to buddyness with Lucy in the lunch line two days ago—Carolyn, I think Precious had called her—stood up and read from a paperback Bible. “For we died and were buried with Christ by baptism. And just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glorious power of the Father, now we also may live new lives.” She read several more verses, which basically said the same thing in more words, then lifted her head. “That's from Romans, chapter six. Amen.” And sat down.

What was
her
story?
I wondered. Pallid skin, middle-aged, thirty pounds too heavy, slicked-back brownish-gray hair worn in a ponytail, but quick on her feet, and she read smartly. Obviously not a high school dropout. But why homeless?

After the Bible reading, Avis Douglass gave what she called a short devotional on the meaning of “new life.” She was certainly an attractive black woman—hair swept up into a sculpted French roll, black pantsuit, silk blouse, very professional looking. Her husband wasn't bad either. Salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, dark gray flannels, black open-necked shirt. I caught him eyeing his wife with a little smile.

“Jesus didn't rise from the dead just to prove He was God,” Avis was saying. “There was one reason, and one reason only, that Jesus came to earth, went to the cross, and rose from the dead—and that was to take the death penalty for our sins, so that we might have new life. New life for me, new life for you.”

Oh sure,
I thought.
Easy for you to say. You have a good-looking
husband, probably have a good job. You seem happy. But what about all
these women here? No man, no family to take them in, no home . . . not
much hope of a new life here.

I was startled by my thoughts. Good grief. Who was I to pit this Avis Douglass person against these women? Look at me . . . Philip and I lived on a six-figure income, we just bought a pent-house, I arrived here tonight in a taxi. I didn't grow up rich, but we weren't poor either. Never missed a meal in my life. So what in the world was going on?

Only later, after the service was over, after I met Josh Baxter's parents—a friendly couple who seemed to kid around with each other and laugh easily, even though they had to be married longer than Philip and me—and after I was back in the taxi alone with my thoughts, did I realize why I had reacted so cynically to Avis's devotional.

Even though we had just moved to Chicago, it didn't feel like a new start or a new adventure or a new opportunity or a “new life” to me.

In fact, I wasn't sure I had any kind of life at all.

chapter 8

Philip was in the den with the phone to his ear when I came in. I could tell he was talking to his mother. I waved a hand to get his attention.
“Boys okay?”
I mouthed.

“Just a sec, Mom.” He looked up with exaggerated patience. “The boys are
fine
, Gabrielle. Dad took them back to the academy this afternoon”—and then he turned back to the phone, his desk chair swiveling so that his back was to me.

What's wrong with this picture?
I muttered to myself, stalking off to the bedroom.
We
should be telling the grandparents that our boys are fine—not getting the news from them. And why hasn't Mrs. Fairbanks talked to
me
about the boys? . . . though I knew perfectly well the answer to that. Philip's mother had been less than enthusiastic about his son's rash decision to marry “that girl from North Dakota.”
“It was France,”
I overheard her tell a guest on our wedding day.
“Men don't think straight in France. The
place is so quixotic, the first girl they meet, they think it's love.”
And her friend had said,
“You'd think he would have fallen for a French girl.
I love a French accent, don't you?”

Well, howdy. I'd barely made it through France with my
Trav­elers'
Guide to English/French Phrases
. So what? I was the mother of the Fairbanks grandchildren, and that ought to count for
something
!

I slammed the bathroom door on “something” and decided I needed a long soak in the tub. Running the water as hot as I could stand it, I found a bottle of bubble bath and shot a stream of golden liquid under the gushing faucet. Sliding under the bubbles until only my head and my knees poked out of the water, I wondered if this was how a crocodile felt, poking its eyes up out of the water and scoping out the territory. My eyes traveled around the room, the marble wall tiles, the glass-enclosed shower, the marble counter with two sinks—and no windows, thank God. I didn't need any reminders that
this
crocodile pond was thirty-two floors deep.

I flicked a bubble that floated past my knees, then another, bursting all that came within fingernail reach.
Story of my life . . .
bursting bubbles.
First there was Damien . . . even now I got goose bumps remembering his dark lashes, lopsided grin, hair falling over his forehead like an Elvis clone. He was top banana of the pep squad at school, and had the same
rah-rah
attitude at the Minot Evangelical Church youth group. Even the mothers at church loved him, blushing when he paid attention to them.
“That color brings out the blue in your eyes, Mrs. Rowling”
or
“That's
your grandson? You don't look old enough to be a grandmother, Mrs.
Talbot!”
Oh, how puffed up I felt when he chose
me
—a mere junior—to go to his senior banquet. He used to love my curly hair, which I wore long in high school, twining it around his fingers, pulling my head back gently so he could kiss me . . .

I flicked another bubble. We got married the same summer I graduated high school. My dad even gave him a job at the carpet store as a salesman. I thought all my dreams had come true—married to the most popular guy at Minot High School's Central Campus, and his family went to our church, so my folks were happy. We had a little fixer-upper on the edge of town, with room for his hunting dog and my two cats. Damien said he'd take care of me so I didn't have to work, so I sewed curtains and mowed the lawn, joined the Junior League and impressed everyone with how I organized the Junior League Thrift Shop, and threw baby showers for my friends who were already starting families.

But Damien just kept flirting—old or young, it didn't matter. Women were like ice cream to him, his flattery dripping over their egos like thick chocolate sauce. And then one day he found a flavor he liked better than me, I guess. He decided we'd gotten married too young, quit the carpet store, and took a job on a fishing boat out of Puget Sound in Washington State.

I learned later that the boat was owned by Priscilla Tandy's daddy. Priscilla was the homecoming queen in the class before me. Damien's class.

I ran a little more hot water, then settled back into my pond. I'd been devastated. Cried for weeks. Married and
jilted
? Since when had they rewritten the fairy tales? My parents comforted me as best they could. “At least you didn't have a baby you're left to care for.”
Humph
. Small comfort. Right then, I would have welcomed a baby to be mine, to love me back, to love me forever.

“Hey.” Philip poked his head into the door, giving me such a start that I splashed water over the side of the tub. “How long have you been in there? You'll be a prune.” He snickered suggestively. “Don't want a prune in bed. But clean is nice . . . very nice. Maybe I'll take a quick shower.” He disappeared into the walk-in closet between bath and bedroom to strip.

I drained the tub, toweled off, and crawled into bed
sans
night-gown. I'd just have to take it off anyway. This had become Philip's intro to lovemaking. An announcement. “Hurry up and come to bed.” Sometimes I got the feeling we made love because he felt the urge and I was the available female. But was he making love to
me
?

Philip was off early again the next morning, tossing down his orange juice, pouring coffee into a travel cup, and grabbing the plain whole-wheat bagel I toasted for him. “Oh, can you come by the office this afternoon, Gabby? Like two o'clock? Henry thought you and Mona could give some decorating ideas—window treatments, wall color, plants, that kind of thing. Needs to look professional, but we want our clients to feel welcomed. Just take a taxi to the Aon Center downtown. Here's the address if you need it. Okay?” He handed me a brochure with a picture of a ramrod-straight building on the front. Peck on the cheek. “See you at two.” He disappeared into the gallery, and I heard the front door open. And close.

So Henry wanted my decorating ideas, did he?
I groaned. I couldn't imagine anything I'd rather
not
do than decorate the offices of Fairbanks and Fenchel with Mona Fenchel. Maybe I'd call in sick . . . plead female troubles . . . a migraine . . . a death in the family.
Something!
Let Mona do it.

Sighing, I embraced the inevitable.
Stiff upper lip, Gabby,
I told myself, tossing dishes into the dishwasher helter-skelter and heading for the bedroom to get dressed.
Think of it as a way to
support Philip's new business venture.
Besides, I had all morning to go online and familiarize myself with commercial decorating terms, ideas, and color schemes . . .