Where Do I Go? Page 12

  I blinked my eyes open in astonishment at her prayer. Thank­ing God when our car was held captive miles from home? Praying for my “poor husband” who would be “inconvenienced”? I squirmed. What if Philip heard us out here?

  Edesa’s prayer, though intense, was quiet and short. I said thanks and unlocked the door, but realized they were still standing there. “Uh, do you want to come in?”

  “No, no.” Josh shook his head. “But maybe we can help explain.”

  “Gabby?” Philip’s voice sailed from somewhere within. “That you?” He must have heard our voices, because he actually came to the door. “Oh. You have visitors.” He stood there in his robe and slippers over sweats and a T-shirt, newspaper in his hand.

  “Uh, yes. Um, Philip, this is Josh Baxter and his wife, Edesa, um, from Manna House. Volunteer staff,” I hastened to add, remembering Philip’s decree to never bring people home from the shelter.

  Josh stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fairbanks. We just wanted to make sure your wife got home safely. When we left Manna House tonight, cars had parked so tightly in front and back of your wife’s SUV, she couldn’t get it out. A real bum-mer! But that block empties out during the day, so she should be able to get it easily tomorrow morning.”

  Before Philip had a chance to react to this information, Edesa also shook his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Señor Fairbanks. We have so enjoyed getting to know Gabby.”

  I wondered what my husband was thinking, seeing this tall, white college kid and his dark-skinned wife—who looked African-American but spoke with a Spanish accent—at his door. Virginia born and bred, mixed couples were not “the usual” in Philip’s world. Mine either, for that matter.

  “And this,” Edesa continued happily, pulling back the blanket from the baby’s face, “is Gracie, who needs to get home and get to bed. So we will go now.” She gave me a hug. “I’m so sorry for this problema, Gabby. But it will all work out. Dios te bendiga.”

  The young couple said their good-byes, got back into the elevator with a wave, and the doors slid closed behind them. Philip had not said a word.

  We were still standing outside our front door in the large foyer of the top floor. Finally he spoke. “You mean . . . you didn’t bring the car home.”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s parked somewhere down around that homeless shelter, jammed in like a sardine, and it’s gotta stay there all night.”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, for—” He whacked the doorjamb with the newspaper. “So what am I supposed to do in the morning, Gabby? Huh? Tell me that.”

  For some reason, my anxiety was gone. Sucked down the elevator shaft with Josh and Edesa. “Take a cab, I guess. Believe me, Philip, I’m really upset about this! But . . . I’m supposed to go back to the shelter tomorrow to begin my training, so I’ll get the car first thing, park it where it won’t get hemmed in, and bring it home tomorrow afternoon.”

  That got his attention. “Training?”

  I nodded, and couldn’t help the smile. “Yes. They offered me the job. Just waiting on references. And good news! They agreed to part-time. The hours are flexible too.”

  “Oh.” He seemed confused by the turn in the conversation. “Guess you got what you wanted.” He turned abruptly and disappeared inside the door. But a moment later a parting salvo flew back at me. “That car better be in one piece when you get back tomorrow!”

  I lay in bed that night, thanking God for Josh and Edesa Baxter, who had somehow defused the whole situation . . . and I was still thanking God the next morning when I got off the El at the Sheridan station in bright sunshine, walked to where I’d parked the car the night before, and there it was. Still parked, but now lovely in its loneliness. And as far as I could tell, no scratches, bumps, or dings. Edesa would be squealing “Gloria a Dios!” or something like that.

  I moved the Lexus and parked it in front of the Laundromat next to the shelter, making sure I was in the last parking space on the corner so I could back out. The sun warmed my back a few moments later as I rang the doorbell and was let in by a disgruntled Angela. “New policy. Doors always locked. Sure keeps me running.”

  “You need a buzzer or something you can push from your desk.”

  She looked at me, almond eyes widening, her mouth making an O. “That’s it! I’ll ask if we can do it at the next staff meeting.” She gave me a playful poke with her elbow. “You’re the bomb, Mrs. Fairbanks!”

  There we go again. “If you’re going to be so formal, I’ll have to call you Miss . . . Miss . . . ?”

  She laughed. “Kwon. Angela Kwon. But don’t you dare. Angela is just fine.”

  “Then call me Gabby. Staff is on first-name basis, right?”

  Angela nodded, then tilted her head. Soft, straight hair swung forward like a lady’s silk scarf. “You working here now?”

  I grinned. “Hope to be. This is my get-acquainted week, or something like that. In fact, do you mind if I hang out with you a little bit? Find out what you do?”

  She laughed again. “Feel free! Here’s the key to the staff closet—you can store your coat and purse in there if you want.” She pointed. “Multipurpose room, far side.”

  I wanted to roll my eyes. Precious is right. We’ve got to find a new name for the gag-awful “multipurpose room.” Mabel Turner’s office door across the foyer was closed, but I knocked anyway, thinking I should check in. She might have other plans for me.

  “She’s not in,” Angela sang out from behind the glass of the receptionist’s cubby. “Out strong-arming local businesses to cough up funding for the shelter.” The phone rang. “Manna House . . .”

  O-kay. Guess when Mabel told me to come “just hang out,” that’s what she meant. I pushed through the double doors into the large sitting area, threaded my way around the couches and chairs and their occupants to the closet on the far side, stowed my stuff, and turned . . . suddenly realizing several pairs of eyes had followed me.

  The woman closest to me peered up at me from the depths of an overstuffed chair, with small eyes in a rough, brown, leathered face. “Seen you here before, woman.” Her accent was heavily Jamaican. “De city send you or someting?”

  “No.” I smiled and sat down nearby. I couldn’t guess her age—somewhere between thirty and fifty. Wiry hair pulled back into a stubby ponytail with a rubber band. Fifty extra pounds encased in a sweatshirt and faded jeans. “I’m volunteering this week. My name’s Gabby.” I held out my hand. “Yours?”

  She left my hand hanging in midair for a few seconds longer than was comfortable, but she finally shook it. “Go by Wanda . . . Gabby? What kind o’ name is dat? You talk jabba-jabba or someting?”

  I grinned bigger. “Something like that. Short for Gabrielle.”

  “Ah!” Recognition flickered in the tiny eyes. “Like de angel.”

  “Have you been at the shelter long, Wanda?”

  She scowled. “Long enough. Waitin’ to get me state ID so me can get a job. Dey get you coming an’ going, ya know. Can’t get a job witout an ID. Can’t get an ID witout an address. Can’t pay for a place to live witout a job. Dat’s de drill.”

  I blinked, not knowing what to say. Getting an ID had never been an issue for me. Once you learned to drive and got your license at sixteen, that was it. “I’m sorry, Wanda. That’s tough.” I stood up. “See you around, I guess. I’ll be here all week.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Me too. Cha!” She waved me off.

  I wondered if I should introduce myself to the handful of women scattered around the room, but I’d already asked if I could hang around Angela’s den and figure out how to work the front desk. So I just smiled, nodded, and said, “Hi,” until I was back in the foyer with a folding chair I’d grabbed on my way.

  The phone seemed to ring every few minutes. But during short lulls, Angela tried to acquaint me with the phone system. Extension one for Mabel Turner . . . two for the kitchen/dining room on the lower level, which supposedly also covered the re
c room . . . another in the childcare room on the first floor . . . a fourth upstairs on the sleeping rooms level.

  “Everybody who comes in or out needs to sign that day’s log.” She hefted the big notebook sitting on the shelf of the cub-by’s “talk-through” window.

  “Oops.” I grimaced. “I forgot.” I signed my name and time in. A lot of names were signed out already that morning. Reason given: job . . . job hunting . . . job interview . . .

  “Mrs. Fairbanks? I mean, Gabby. Would you mind taking over the phone for twenty minutes or so?” Angela stood up and squeezed past me. “I need to pick up some things at the drugstore on my break. Want me to bring you some coffee or something?”

  “Uh, sure. Coffee would be great, a little cream. But answering the phone . . . I don’t know people’s names or where they are in the building.”

  Angela bent over the log, her long, dark hair flowing. As a kid I’d envied straight, silky hair like that. Mine was always a curly mop top. “Estelle should be coming in to make lunch today . . . lucky us. That woman is one good cook! As for the rest, maybe just take messages. I’ll run them around when I get back.”

  The young woman grabbed her sweater and purse, and disappeared through the front doors with a wave.

  And there I was, at the front desk of Manna House, without a clue what I should be doing. The phone rang. For Mabel. That was easy: took a message. Two more calls—one, a volunteer who couldn’t come in to help with lunch that day, and the other for someone named Diane. I glanced at the log. Diane . . . out. I took a message on both.

  The door buzzer rang at the same time as the phone. I grabbed the receiver. “Manna House . . . Ms. Turner? I’m sorry, she’s not in right now. Can I take a message?”

  Blaaaaat. Someone was leaning on the buzzer. “All right, all right,” I muttered under my breath as I scribbled the number for Mabel and hurried for the door. If that was Estelle—

  It wasn’t. A young woman stood on the stoop, a mass of tangled hair tucked up under a baseball cap, hands shoved in the pockets of her skinny jeans, and jiggling nervously. A ring pierced the side of her nose, and strings of hair streaked brown and blonde escaped the cap and fell around her ears and neck. Her gray eyes darted at me uncertainly.

  “This the women’s shelter?” Her voice had an edge. “They told me to come over here, I could get some help.” She hunched her shoulders and shivered as if she were cold, although the day was mild and temperatures were supposed to head into the low seventies today.

  What in the world was I supposed to do? Mabel wasn’t here, and Angela was off who-knew-where. And who was “they”?

  I swallowed and swung the door open wider. “Yes, this is Manna House Women’s Shelter. Come on in. I’ll try to find some-one to help you.” Where was Angela? Oh God, send her back soon!

  The young woman followed me inside, slinking like a feral cat. Get her name, something . . . Glancing around Angela’s desk for a pad of paper and a pen, my eyes fell on a clipboard with a folder that said “Intake Forms.” I grabbed it, pulled out a sheet, and stuck it back in the clipboard. “Here, fill this out. You can sit over there.” I handed her a pen and pointed to the folding chair now sitting just outside the reception desk.

  The phone rang. Another message for Mabel.

  “What if I ain’t got no current address?” The woman was frowning at the page in her lap.

  The door buzzer made us both jump. “Whatever . . . fill out what you can.” That better be Angela—or Mabel Turner. “Just hang out” indeed!

  Estelle Williams loomed in the doorway, plastic shopping bags hanging from both hands. “Here, take these quick,” she huffed, slinging a couple of bags at me. “I need to get one of those little shopping carts on wheels—oh. Who do we have here?”

  The fifty-something black woman glanced at the newcomer tapping her foot so hard she was making the chair shake, took in the clipboard, then looked back at me. “Lord have mercy, you’re learning quick,” she muttered under her breath. “That girl is high on somethin’. Amphetamines, likely. Keep her busy here till we can get someone to stay with her.”

  She trundled through the swinging doors, lugging her plastic shopping bags, then called back. “Oh, yeah. Sign me in, will ya?”

  chapter 16

  High? On what? Was she going to do something crazy? I wanted to call out, “Wait! Don’t leave me.” But Estelle was gone.

  Oh great. I knew diddly-squat about the aftereffects of addictive drugs. Fortunately for me, Angela came back five minutes later while the newcomer was still tapping and frowning over the clipboard. “Good, you found the intake forms.”

  “What happens next?”

  Angela shrugged. “Right now, just stay with her till Mabel comes in. Stephanie Cooper’s our case manager, but she’s usually only here Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  I got another folding chair from the big room and set it up next to the tapping foot. The young woman handed me the clipboard. Most of it was still blank, but she’d filled in her name. “Naomi?” I tried a smile on her. “That’s a pretty name.”

  “It’s okay.” She tucked her hands under her jean-covered thighs, as if sitting on them to keep them still.

  “My name’s Gabby. Sorry you have to wait. The director should be here soon.”

  As if on cue, the buzzer went off. I practically vaulted out of my chair to get the door. Mabel Turner, a bit more dressed up than usual in a pale green suit and heels, stepped in. I handed her the clipboard. “Thank goodness it’s you. You have a new guest.”

  Mabel glanced at the intake form. “Naomi Jackson?”

  “Yeah. That’s me.” Jiggle, jiggle. Tap, tap, tap.

  “Come into my office. Let’s talk, okay?”

  The young woman followed Mabel into the office and the door shut behind them.

  I looked at Angela back in her cubby. “Is Mabel going to be okay in there?”

  “Oh, sure. Someone will stay with her while she comes off her high. Then she’ll be assigned a case manager—Stephanie’s good—she’s a social worker, also one of our board members. Mabel does case management, too, but I think we could use a few more.”

  “So what’s Mabel doing in there right now?”

  “Probably getting more information out of her, then going over the rules for staying at Manna House. No drugs, for sure. It all depends on whether she actually wants to get help.” The phone rang. Angela picked up. “Manna House . . . Yes, she’s here, but she’s in a meeting. Can I take a message?”

  Messages! I better tell Estelle her lunch volunteer isn’t coming.

  I found her in the kitchen downstairs, putting away the groceries. “Guess that makes you my helper then,” she grunted, dumping a ten-pound bag of flour into a large container. “You okay with that?”

  “Sure.” Making lunch would seem like a vacation in the Bahamas after manning the front desk.

  “Here.” She handed me a pair of latex gloves and an ugly hairnet cap. “Better tuck that mop of yours under this. Don’t want no hair spicin’ up the soup. They gonna know the red ones are yours, for sure.”

  For the next hour Estelle kept me busy peeling and chopping vegetables for a vegetable-beef soup, while she mixed up several batches of biscuits and a large flat pan of brownies. But she caught me off guard when she said, “Mabel tell you I used to be homeless?”

  “Just that you were once a resident here.” I didn’t admit I’d assumed she was homeless now when I first met her.

  “Oh, yeah . . . before the fire took this place down.” She laughed. “But, Lord, Lord, He is so good, because that fire turned out to be a blessing for me.”

  My knife paused in midair. “What do you mean?”

  She chuckled. “This white girl, Leslie Stuart, kinda like you, ’cept she’s got long blonde”—wink, wink—“California hair . . . anyway, she took me in after the fire. Turned out she was lookin’ for a housemate and, knock me over with a cotton ball, we hit it off like the Odd Couple, so . . .” She laughe
d again, a big hee hee hee, while she slid the pan of brownies into the commercial-size oven.

  “Did you know her or something?” I couldn’t quite imagine the scenario. “Or did she just show up on the sidewalk the night of the fire and invite you to sleep over?”

  Estelle scooped up my chopped carrots and potatoes, threw them in her soup pot, and handed me a bag of onions and a bunch of celery. “Nope. Didn’t know her. But this church north of here, SouledOut Community, took all of us in the first night, then farmed us out to various church members till the city could find other shelters that had room.”

  “SouledOut?” The name was familiar. “Isn’t that the church that did worship here on Easter? Avis Somebody preached. I think her husband is a board member here.”

  Estelle’s shoulders shook with amusement. “That’s the one. That’s where I worship now. Not only that, I’m part of this prayer group called Yada Yada. Stu and me and about ten others, more or less. If you hang around here long enough, you’ll meet most of them at one time or another. Edesa Reyes—I mean Baxter . . . she’s a Yada too.”

  My eyes were swimming from cutting the onions. I grabbed a paper towel and dabbed. “Sounds weird,” I sniffed. “Like a Greek sorority or something.”

  “Nah, it’s Hebrew. From the Old Testament—uh-oh. Time creepin’ up on us. Can you run upstairs and see if these two are around?” She pointed at names on a chore sheet. “They need to get down here to set up. And—hee hee hee—you better fix your face. You look like one of them raccoons we had back in Mississippi.”

  So much for waterproof mascara. As I repaired my makeup in the common bathroom, a thought popped into my head. Funny. She didn’t say anything about why she’d been homeless . . .

  I left at three o’clock, anxious to get the Lexus home and safely in the parking garage before I got tied up in traffic. Besides, I was exhausted. I’d helped serve lunch, which was fun, giving me a chance to chat with each resident and staffperson who came through the line, trying to memorize names and faces. Many were out for the day—Mabel said some of the residents at the shelter had jobs of one sort or another, or had appointments at public aid—so it didn’t take long. Then I took my soup to a table and sat with Wanda, who turned out to be a lot more talkative the second time around while she polished off seconds on brownies. Took me a while to understand her patois accent, but it was fun trying to catch the gist.