Who Do I Lean On? Read online

“Guess we better get busy.” Jodi jumped up and tossed her paper plate in the kitchen wastebasket, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re making a separate cake for your boys, right? I don’t think they’d appreciate this teddy bear cake I’m trying to decorate for Gracie. Ha. It’s been so long since I’ve put together one of these things, it might look like a mud-covered snowman by the time I’m done.” She mopped perspiration off her face with a paper napkin. “Say, any chance you could move all three of those fans in here?”

  By the time five o’clock rolled around, we had two cakes on the counter and two kinds of pasta salad in the fridge. The other guests were supposed to bring food too.

  Jodi’s teddy bear cake had turned out perfect: chocolate icing “fur,” Oreo cookie ears, chocolate mint eyes and nose, licorice rope mouth, a white icing tummy with a heart-shaped “red hot” for a belly button. “Too cute,” I murmured. “Hope P.J. and Paul don’t mind a plain old layer cake.”

  “Mind?! It’s three layers of chocolate fudge! Besides, you’ve got those trick candles—” The front door buzzer sounded. “Whoops. Somebody’s here. Want me to get that?”

  But I was already halfway down the hall. “Yikes! Hope it’s not the boys already. I told Philip six!” Instead of buzzing the intercom, I opened the front door a crack and peeked out. “Oh good! It’s Estelle and Harry. And DaShawn!” I flung the door wide.

  That was the nice thing about a first-floor apartment—I could actually see who was standing in the outer foyer beyond the glass-paneled door. I crossed the hall and pulled it open. Estelle Williams—one of my coworkers at Manna House and my personal “mother hen”—swept right past me in a loose yellow caftan. “Too hot for a hug, honey. I’ll make it up to you this winter. C’mon, Harry. You too, DaShawn. Bring in those wings and stick ’em in the oven.”

  Harry Bentley, his brown dome shining with perspiration, gave me a wink and obediently followed his ladylove into the apartment with the aluminum pan he was carrying. His grandson trailed behind with an identical pan. “Hi, Miz Fairbanks. Your kids here?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. We want all the guests to get here first.” As the trio disappeared toward the kitchen, I wondered how Mr. Bentley was adjusting to suddenly having custody of the nine-year-old grandson he hadn’t even known existed until a few months ago. So far so good, as far as I could tell.

  The Baxter crew was next to arrive. Denny Baxter, Jodi’s husband, lugged two shopping bags into the apartment and mopped his face with a handkerchief. “Uh, tell me again how Jodi got to drive the minivan by herself, while the four of us”—he tipped his head at Josh and Edesa coming in behind him, wrestling Gracie’s stroller into the apartment—“had to take the El and walk . . . how many blocks?”

  Jodi swooped Gracie out of the stroller and gave the tiny girl a big cuddle. “Tell your grandpa he helped me load those boxes for Gabby’s boys himself, so he knows I had to get them here early.” She handed Gracie to me and motioned to Edesa to follow her back to the kitchen.

  The buzzer rang again. “C’mon, Gracie,” I murmured to the sweet-smelling toddler in my arms. “Let’s go see who’s coming to your party.” With my free hand I opened the foyer door for Mabel Turner, the director of the Manna House Women’s Shelter—a woman with steel nerves covered in brown velvet. “Oh, hey, C.J.” I beamed at her fourteen-year-old nephew, whose tight cornrows all over his head didn’t do much to toughen his “pretty boy” features.

  The boy hunched his shoulders, not meeting my eyes. “I go by Jermaine now,” he mumbled. “My real name.”

  “Oh! So the J in C.J. stands for Jermaine. What does—?” But C.J. had already disappeared inside before I found out what C stood for.

  “Don’t close that door!” someone hollered. I peeked out to see Precious and her daughter Sabrina—sixteen and pregnant—climbing out of Mabel’s car, along with Tanya and her eight-year-old Sammy. Both moms and their offspring were long-term “guests” at the Manna House shelter.

  “Get in here quick! Paul and P.J. might get back any minute— ouch! Let go of my hair, sweetie.” The toddler in my arms had grabbed a fistful of my corkscrew curls and squealed.

  “Oomph. Sabrina don’t do quick anymore.” Precious practically pushed her gorgeous teenager—too cute for her own good, according to Precious—up the short flight of steps. “An’ she only five and a half months gone. Girl, I’m gonna need a wheelbarrow for you by the time that baby gonna pop.”

  Sabrina arched her eyebrows in that exaggerated patience teens reserve for their parents, but she coyly held her arms out to Gracie as the knot of new arrivals came into the apartment building. The baby let go of my hair and willingly threw herself into the girl’s arms. I shooed Tanya and Sammy inside, but hung back with Precious. Waving my hand at the building, I dropped my voice. “What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” Precious practically snorted. “Sista girl, if these apartments have a hot shower an’ a front door and a back door I can lock, they beautiful. What I want to know is what you thinkin’. You gonna buy this building or not? When can we move in?”

  “That’s what I want to do, Precious. But the boys just came back this week. I’ve been busy getting them registered for school and haven’t had a chance to talk to my lawyer. Or the Manna House board. Hopefully next week, though. Just . . . pray, okay?”

  “Pray? Gabby girl, my knees got dents in ’em from all the hours I been spendin’ praying ’bout this crazy idea of yours.”

  “You haven’t said anything to Tanya yet, have you?” Tanya had been a teen mother herself, and she and Sammy had never had a home of their own.

  Precious tossed her head full of tiny twists. “Whatchu think I am? You ask me not to say nothin’, so nothin’ is what I’m sayin’. ’Cept to God, of course. He gettin’ an earful.”

  A familiar car turned the corner. “Quick, get inside. There’s Philip with the boys.” We hustled inside. “They’re here, they’re here, everybody! Come out of the sunporch, away from those windows, okay? . . . Where’s Jodi? Oh, there you are. Jodi, you take care of the apartment door, okay? When they buzz the intercom, I’ll go out and let them in from the foyer, but when the boys get to the apartment door, you pull it open and everybody yell ‘Surprise!’ Okay?”

  Laughing and jostling, my guests obediently crowded into the not-too-big living room while we waited for the front door buzzer. A hot minute went by. Then two. What in the world was taking the boys so—

  Blaaaaaat.

  “Quiet! Quiet. I’m going out.” I slipped out the front door. Rats! What was Philip doing in the foyer? He was supposed to just let the boys out and drive off, wasn’t he?

  I hesitated, but the mirage didn’t disappear, so I pulled the foyer door open partway. “Uh, hi, guys!”

  “What’s the matter, Mom? Doesn’t the buzzer work? You could’ve just buzzed us in.” P.J. shouldered his way past me.

  “Uh, yeah, it’s fine. It’s just . . . well, since the apartment is right here on the first floor, it’s almost as easy to—”

  Paul squeezed past me next, so I had to step back and open the door wider. I shot a glance over their heads at their father with a what-are-you-doing-here frown.

  Philip Fairbanks, cool and debonair as always in his aviator sunglasses, held up two mammoth plastic shopping bags. “Got some gear for the boys—belated birthday gifts, you know.”

  My eyes widened in panic. The Sports Authority logo splashed across the bags in big bold script. Double rats! If Philip had preempted my birthday gifts, I’d . . . but I couldn’t go there right now. I had to get rid of Philip.

  “Uh, I can take those.” I reached for the bags. “Thanks for bringing the boys back on time. We—”

  “No problem. They’re heavy. I’ll take them in.” Philip pushed past me with the bags. “The boys want me to see their ‘new digs’ anyway, as they say.”

  At that exact moment, the front door swung wide open and a chorus of voices from inside yelled, “Surprise!” . . . “Ha
ppy birthday!” . . . “Welcome home!”

  The boys looked startled but slowly advanced into the front room, where they were mobbed with handshakes and hugs. Philip stopped just short of the open doorway and looked at me. “What’s this?”

  I stepped in front of him, barring his way. “A surprise birthday party for Paul and P.J. obviously. Now, please—”

  The corners of Philip’s handsome mouth tipped up. “So . . . am I invited?”

  I glared at my estranged husband. What in the world was he thinking?! But before I could tell him to disappear and take his Lexus with him, his quip must have carried into the living room, because Paul suddenly darted between us. “Oh, could Dad stay too? Please, Mom? That’d be great! Please?”

  My mouth hung open as my brain synapses ricocheted inside my skull, searching for the right words that would make Philip leave—now—but not hurt Paul, who was already confused by our separation. But my silence, which couldn’t have lasted more than two seconds, must have been interpreted as permission, because Paul grabbed his father by the arm and dragged him past me into the party.

  My party. My party for my sons.

  chapter 3

  As the tall figure of my husband and Paul stepped inside, the jolly living room buzz hiccoughed and disappeared, as if sucked up by an invisible vacuum cleaner. Suppressing the urge to pull out fistfuls of my Orphan Annie hair and scream like a two-year-old, I hustled after them—but did not close the door. “Uh, everyone, this is Philip, the boys’ dad. Paul, uh, wanted him to stay for a few minutes.”

  Get that, Philip? A few minutes!

  Flustered, I tried to make introductions. “P.J. and Paul, you remember my boss, Ms. Turner, the director of Manna House. And this is her nephew, uh . . . Jermaine. He’s starting ninth grade at Lane Tech too, same as you, P.J. Thought you might like to meet a few kids before you start school.”

  The slender black boy gave a hopeful nod, but P.J. didn’t react.

  Estelle’s lips were pressed together as though barely restraining brickbats she’d like to rain down on Philip’s head, so I skipped her for the moment and rushed on. “And you boys remember Mr. Bentley, the doorman at Richmond Towers . . .” I almost added, “. . . where your dad lives,” but wisdom said don’t make a point of it. “And this handsome young man is his grandson, DaShawn.”

  DaShawn was all sunshine. “You dudes got a cool crib here. Thanks for inviting us to your party!” The boy looked up at his grandfather and stage whispered, “We gonna eat soon, Grandpa? I’m hungry!”

  That broke the ice and people laughed. Bless DaShawn. “You’re right, DaShawn. The rest of you can introduce yourselves. Food will be in the dining room in five minutes.” I beckoned to Jodi, eager to flee.

  “I’ll do it.” Estelle brushed past me. “You stay here and play hostess. C’mon, Jodi.”

  Oh, thanks a lot, Estelle. But I couldn’t blame my friend for weaseling out of the situation. What in the world was I going to do with an uninvited guest who just happened to be the man who’d kicked me out of house and home barely two months ago?

  Correction. The penthouse at Richmond Towers had been a house, but certainly not a home.

  I turned back to my hostess duties in time to hear Philip say, “Bentley. Haven’t seen you around the past couple of weeks. You working the night shift now?”

  “No, Fairbanks,” Mr. Bentley said evenly. “I quit the job. Now that I’ve got custody of my grandson here, I want to spend more time with him before school starts.”

  I covered my mouth to keep from laughing. On the job at Richmond Towers, Harry Bentley had always called Philip “Mr. Fairbanks.” Oh, Mr. B, you got him good. Still, I was surprised by the news.

  “Mr. Bentley! You quit your job? How—” I stopped. Maybe it was rude to ask how he was going to support both himself and a kid.

  But the middle-aged black man winked at me as if he knew what was on my mind. “It was just a job to supplement my retirement anyway.”

  Retired? Mr. Bentley was pushing sixty, but he didn’t look old enough to be retired yet. But before I could satisfy my curiosity, he said, “By the way, DaShawn and I are going to go to the zoo and some of the museums before school starts. Was going to ask if P.J. and Paul might want to come along too.”

  I almost forgot Philip was standing right there. “Oh, Mr. B! That would be great! I’m only working half time at Manna House until school starts—maybe we could go together.”

  Estelle appeared in the doorway. “Food’s ready. Somebody want to say a blessing over the food and over our birthday boys?”

  “It’s Gracie’s birthday too, don’t forget!” Precious piped up.

  “That’s right, and you just volunteered to say the blessing. C’mon now, everybody join hands.”

  Join hands? Did the woman know what she was doing? I ducked into a space between Mr. Bentley and DaShawn, so I wouldn’t be forced to hold hands with Philip. But who would? Everybody here knew our story, and Philip’s name might as well be Mud. But Paul and P.J. crowded on either side of their dad—oh my, God’s angels must be working overtime in the neighborhood—not exactly holding hands, but at least filling a chink in the ragged circle.

  I lowered my eyelids but peeked through my lashes as Precious grabbed Gracie’s small hand—still in Sabrina’s arms— and raised her other hand like a Pentecostal preacher. “Precious Jesus! Thanks be to God! This is a mighty good day, and we give You all the glory. Bless this bunch, every one of ’em, an’ especially bless Paul and P.J. on they birthdays, even though the days is past, an’ bless lil’ Gracie, this precious baby girl You’ve given to all of us, who’s got a birthday sometime here in August even if we don’t know the exact—”

  “Precious,” growled Estelle. “Bless the food.”

  “—day,” Precious rolled right on, “’cause You got our days numbered, Jesus, an’ that’s all that matters. Now we thank You for the food we’re about to eat, an’ remove all impurities so nobody gets sick. Aaaa . . .”—Precious opened her eyes and simpered at Estelle—“. . . men!”

  With grins and chuckles, the party threaded through the long hallway to the dining area in the back, where the pasta salads, a pot of smoky greens, hot wings, enchiladas, crusty bread, bowls of chips, and lemonade were set out on one of my mother’s flowered tablecloths. I knew no one in this crew would mind the makeshift table beneath the cloth, made from a plywood board sitting on two sawhorses I’d found in the basement—but that was before Philip invited himself. Rats. I steeled myself for a joke about decorating the place in “Early Alley” or something. But Philip just filled his plate and took a tour of the boys’ bedrooms along the hallway. At least those rooms were filled with the good maple beds and dressers I’d hauled out of the penthouse.

  I avoided Philip as much as I could, but I was distracted out of my mind by his presence. Why is he still here?! I noticed Denny Baxter talking to him in the living room—bless that man. Had Jodi snapped up the only decent husband in the universe? The two men could have been cut from Sports Afield and GQ. Denny, midforties, rugged-looking, salt-and-pepper brown hair, school T-shirt, shorts, gym shoes, very much the high school coach or athletic director—whichever—but with two amazing dimples that creased his cheeks whenever he smiled, making me want to go “kitchy koo” under his chin. Philip stood half a head taller, tan and slender beneath his polo shirt, slacks creased, dark brown hair combed back, though it sometimes fell over his forehead in a boyish moment, brown eyes and dark lashes that could melt my insides like butter in the sun.

  Denny—casual. Philip—cultured.

  Why is my heart pounding?

  Why is Philip here?

  Why is he being so . . . decent?

  “Time for birthday cake!” Estelle hollered into the living room. “Gabby, get in here and light those candles before this heat melts the frosting. Everybody else, give us one minute!”

  The woman had taken over my house. She probably noticed that I was a complete zombie, needing my button
s pushed like an obedient robot.

  Jodi Baxter was sticking a big candle “1” in the teddy bear cake’s stomach.

  “I’m sorry, Estelle. You and Jodi are doing all the work.”

  “Humph.” Estelle handed me the kitchen matches. “You better be glad we are. Otherwise I might just punch that man’s lights out. Lord, help me!”

  I grinned, struck a kitchen match, and lit the fourteen skinny sparkler candles on the triple-layer chocolate fudge cake I’d made for my boys, which was starting to lean in the heat. I knew Estelle was just sputtering, but I kinda wished she’d go ahead.

  “Y’all get in here!” Estelle called again, and the noisy guests once more crowded into the small dining room.

  “Look at the teddy bear cake, Gracie!” cooed Grandpa Denny.

  Sammy bounced excitedly. “Two cakes, Mama! Can I have a piece of each?”

  “Who’s got a camera?”

  Somebody started a ragtag version of “Happy Birthday,” and we managed to get P.J.-Paul-and-Gracieeeee in there in one breath before Precious screeched, “C’mon, blow out those candles ’fore that chocolate tower topples over!”

  Paul huffed and puffed, but the sparkler candles wouldn’t blow out, of course.

  “Ha, I got it.” Smirking, P.J. snatched them out of the cake and doused them in a glass of lemonade.

  Estelle handed P.J. a knife. “At least there’s a real cake under all that frosting, young man—unlike a certain birthday cake that shall go unmentioned.” She leveled a tattletale eye at Harry Bentley to the knowing chuckles of guests from Manna House.

  DaShawn hooted. “Yeah! My grandpa fooled Miss Estelle with a foam pillow cake on her birthday. He better watch out. She aimin’ to get him back.”

  “Really, Mr. Bentley?” Young Paul was obviously impressed, seeing a new side of the unflappable doorman. “Cool. You want some real cake, Miss Estelle?”

  “No, no.” Mr. Bentley threw up his hands. “She’s not safe around cake. I got the last one dumped on my head. Here, let me cut that cake. How big a piece you want?”