Who Do I Lean On? (26 page)

“Yeah, couldn't believe I found them at a garage sale. Too bad we only have four kids in the afterschool program. I'd love to give a whole passel of kids the love of reading.” She sighed and opened the next box. “Should've been a teacher instead of a librarian.”

I stared at her. “Carolyn! You just gave me an idea. Maybe we should open up our afterschool program to neighborhood kids too! I bet there are a lot of kids around here whose parents don't have time to help them with homework.”

Carolyn's pale eyes glittered. “You mean it?”

“Sure! But we'd need more volunteers.” The idea bounced around in my head like a pinball—we'd need more computers, I'd have to write up a proposal for the board, find more volunteers, budget for more supplies—and got hung up on a reality check.

“Okay, okay, maybe we're getting ahead of ourselves here. We're just getting this program started . . . We should probably wade in the water for a month or so, get our feet wet with the few kids we've already got before we expand the program.”

“Yeah, guess you're right.” Carolyn shrugged and started sorting another stack of books.

I reached over and grabbed her hand. “I still think it's a great idea, though. Why don't we pray about it—you and me?”

“Guess so.” She shrugged again. “That your cell phone ringing?”

Sure enough. I dug it out of my bag and flipped it open long enough to see who was calling—Lee Boyer—and closed it again. “I mean pray right now.”
After all, like Mabel said, unless the Lord builds the house .
. .

Carolyn let me do most of the praying, though she offered a hearty, “Amen!” Then I excused myself and took my cell phone outside where I could get a stronger signal, though I had to walk down the sidewalk to get away from the residents having a smoke on the front steps. “Lee? It's me, Gabby. You called?”

“Yeah. Just wanted to remind you that we've got a date in court this Friday for a judge to rule on your petitions. Philip and his lawyer got notices too.”

My petitions
. One for unlawful eviction and the other for custody of my sons.

“Lee . . .” I said slowly. “What happens if I win the one about unlawful eviction? I don't want to go back to the penthouse.”

“Don't worry about it. We'll request compensation, damages— some kind of financial settlement to help with your current housing.”

“But—” Given Philip's current gambling debts, I doubted I'd ever see a penny in damages.

“The important thing, Gabby, is to not let him get away with what he did. It's unconscionable! Personally, I can't wait to hear the judge ream him out.”

Somehow my own fantasies about “payback” had lost their glitter—especially since Estelle and Harry had prayed with me about doing what was right for me, the boys,
and
for Philip. “Lee, all I really want is legal custody of my sons.”

“I know. It's going to be all right. I'll see you Friday at the Richard J. Daley Center in the Loop. Got something to take down the address and courtroom number?”

I didn't but ran back inside and grabbed some notepaper from the reception cubby. I was scribbling the address for the Daley Plaza when the front door buzzer went off and Angela buzzed the person in.

Josh Baxter, all lanky and sweaty, a book bag slung over his shoulder, backed through the door saying to someone outside, “Sorry . . . sorry, don't have a light. Nope, don't smoke.” He swung around. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Fairbanks. Thought I'd stop in and make sure all the computer programs for the afterschool program are loaded and working before I head to class. Today's the first day, right?”

I grinned. Just the man I wanted to see. “Carolyn will be delighted. But, um, before you do that, could I talk to you a minute in my office?”

His perpetual grin faded. “Uh-oh. What'd I do?”

I laughed. He was still such a kid. “Nothing! Just an idea I want to throw your way.”

As we came out of my office ten minutes later, Estelle Williams leaned over the kitchen counter and watched Josh take the stairs back up to the main floor two at a time. “Now, what's that boy so happy about?”

I peered around the kitchen looking for other ears. “Where's your help?”

“You tell me. Mabel didn't post a new chore chart, so of course nobody showed up.” She gave me a wicked grin. “Except you. Grab a hairnet and a peeler, Firecracker.” She shoved a two-pound bag of carrots at me.

“I . . . oh, all right.” Josh Baxter was now helping Carolyn in the schoolroom. I guessed I could spare half an hour to help Estelle get lunch out. I picked up the vegetable peeler and double-checked for stray ears. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Ha,” she snorted. “Question is, can
you
keep a secret? You're just dying to tell me.” Estelle snapped a hairnet over my curls and snickered. “Now you look like a white turnip instead of a head of escarole.”

Ignoring her teasing, I eagerly rehearsed the possibility of Josh and Edesa renting one of the apartments in my six-flat in exchange for becoming part-time property managers for the House of Hope. “He's going to talk to Edesa, and we'll have to figure out a fair exchange of hours-for-rent, but . . . oh, Estelle. Wouldn't that be wonderful? Not to mention”—another perk fell into my spirit like a shooting star—“having Josh around as a ‘big brother' would be wonderful for my boys. You know, since their dad isn't around that much.”

“Mm. Yes.” But Estelle gave me a funny look.

“What?”

She frowned. “What you said about the boys' dad. If that man ain't careful, he won't be around at all.”

“Estelle! What are you talking about? What does Philip have to do with this?—Wait a minute. Does this have anything to do with you going bonkers when I mentioned that client Philip was talking to? That Fagan person? Why? Do you know him? Does Harry?”

Footsteps clattered down the stairs. Tawny, the “new kid” who'd landed at Manna House after DCFS washed its hands of her, and a thirtysomething black woman with a hard face I'd noticed smoking outside with some of the others this morning, sidled up to the counter. “Mabel said we're on lunch today,” Tawny said. “This is—what's your name, lady? . . . Oh yeah, Bertie. Whatchu want us to do, Estelle?”

“Humph. Wash your hands at that sink back there and get you both a clean apron and hairnet. I'll be back in five.” Estelle took me by the elbow and propelled me toward my office, shutting the door behind us. “Sit,” she ordered, plopping into my desk chair.

I sat in the extra folding chair. “What's this about?”

Estelle shook her head. “Don't know yet. But Harry's trying to find out. Because if this Fagan person is who we think he is, Philip has got himself in a heap o' trouble.”

“But who is he?”

“Rogue cop, got himself indicted by Internal Affairs of the police department.” Estelle shook her head and clucked her tongue. “From what Harry's told me, you don't want to mess with Matty Fagan.”

chapter 25

What Estelle said didn't make sense to me. Why would Philip do business with some cop who was being indicted by the Chicago Police Department?

Had to be some other guy named Fagan.

But I felt uneasy the rest of the day. In spite of everything, Philip was my sons' dad and I didn't want them to suffer any more drama than they had already. I pulled out one of my “desperate Gabby” prayers and kept it going all afternoon: “Please, God, don't let Philip get mixed up in any mess with this Fagan character— for P.J. and Paul's sake at least.”

At three o'clock, I walked to Sunnyside with Tanya and the other shelter moms to pick up our kids since it was the first day, but realized the kids could soon walk back to Manna House as a group in a few days—including Paul. Seemed like a win-win situation to me. Paul could hang out where I worked after school, could even get help with his homework from Carolyn in the afterschool program if he wanted to—and there was always Ping-Pong, board games, and the DVD player when he got done. I made a mental note to mention this when I went for my custody hearing on Friday.

I poked my head into the rec room when it was time to pick up P.J. and Jermaine at five, but Paul and ten-year-old Keisha were doing battle with the foosball paddles and he waved me off. “Pick me up on your way home! . . . Ha! You just knocked the ball into my goal, Keisha!”

Fine with me. I'd rather not have Paul along if I had to deal with any mess involving P.J. and Jermaine. I pulled into the parking lot at 4:55 and waited at the designated spot for the boys. P.J. had cross-country practice after school, and Mabel said Jermaine would either be using the library to study or signing up for one of the afterschool clubs.

Jermaine was the first one to show up, wearing skinny jeans and a Lane Tech T-shirt, his head neatly braided in tiny cornrows with short braids-and-beads hanging down the back of his neck. I waved at him and leaned over to open the front passenger door. “Hi! Get in!”

Jermaine hesitated and leaned down, peering at me through the open door. “That's okay, Mrs. Fairbanks. P.J.'s gonna want to sit in front.”

“It's fine, Jermaine. You got here first.” I gave the boy a warm smile.

Somewhat reluctantly, Mabel's nephew lowered himself into the front seat. He had such big eyes, as pretty as a girl's. I started to ask if he'd signed up for any clubs when I spotted P.J. coming across the wide front lawn toward the parking lot, walking with a handful of other lanky boys, all wearing baggy shorts with gym bags slung over their shoulders.
Good
. He was beginning to make some friends. I resisted tapping on the horn, sure that he'd seen the red Subaru.
Don't embarrass him, Gabby
, I told myself.

P.J. stopped a good twenty feet away from the car and stood talking to the other kids. Once his eyes darted our way, but he quickly looked away.

That rascal. He's pretending he doesn't see us. What's he waiting for?

I got out of the car and stood with the door open. I was just about to shout, “P.J.! Over here!” when he glanced over his shoulder once more, caught my eye . . . then deliberately turned his back to us, moving slowly in the opposite direction, almost as if he was herding the knot of kids away.

A shot of anger surged through my body like a lit fuse. I opened my mouth to screech, “P.J. Fairbanks, get over here right now!”—but I shut it again, got back in the car, and turned on the ignition. Enough of this nonsense! Whatever Philip Fairbanks, Jr., thought was going to happen—maybe wait until his buddies got picked up and he could hop in the car unnoticed by anybody that mattered—he had another thing coming.

Wheeling out of the parking lot, I turned onto Addison and headed east toward the lake. Jermaine stared at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “You just gonna leave P.J. back there?”

“Mm-hm,” I murmured through gritted teeth. And no, I was
not
going to go back and get him on a second run.

“But . . . it's okay, Mrs. Fairbanks. I don't mind waitin'.”

I
mind. He's being rude.” I took a slug from the water bottle “in the cup holder to douse the fuse still sparking in my spirit. “So.” I glanced at Jermaine as I slowed for a red light and put on a smile. “Did you find any clubs you're interested in?”

I listened with half a mind as Jermaine told me about signing up for the drama club, though he'd really like to join the jazz ensemble and play keyboard, but designing sets for the school plays sounded like fun. The other half of my mind spun like a top. How
was
P.J. going to get home? Take the bus? He had money. I'd given both boys five bucks “just in case.” Or walk. Couldn't be more than a mile and a half, maybe two to our apartment. Would he be safe? It was still light for several more hours, and Addison was a main street . . .

I dropped Jermaine off at the shelter—Mabel's car was still parked across the street—and asked him to send Paul out. I left the car running, my resolve starting to waver.
Maybe I should go back. Maybe leaving him standing there was enough to teach him not to mess with me
. . . when my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the caller ID.

“Mom!” P.J. shouted in my ear. “You just drove off and left me! How am I s'posed to get home?” He must have borrowed another kid's cell.

My resolve resumed its backbone. “You figure it out, kiddo.” I flipped the phone closed just as Paul ran down the Manna House steps and hopped into the backseat.

“Where's P.J.?” Paul leaned forward to peer into the front seat.

“Thought you went to pick him up.”

I second-guessed myself the whole time I put together the ham-burger roll-ups—a kid-friendly recipe Jodi had given me—for supper. Was I doing the right thing? What if P.J. didn't get home soon? I wouldn't even know where to start looking for him!