Who Do I Lean On? Page 8

  I gritted my teeth and barely hissed the words, not wanting the boys to hear. “None of your business.”

  “Grandma left Mom and her sisters a bunch of money when she died,” Paul piped up helpfully from the living room, where he was struggling to put on his backpack stuffed with clothes for his overnight.

  “Ah.”

  That’s all Philip said. And when they were gone, I leaned against the front door and banged my head against it. The last person in this world I wanted to know about my proposal to buy this building and create a House of Hope was Philip Fairbanks.

  When I met Jodi Baxter at Manna House the next morning, I vented. “He saw the proposal, Jodi! He knows I want to buy the building! What am I going to do?”

  “Is that bad?”

  I stared at her. “Yes! I mean . . . sure, he’d find out eventually, but I’d rather he found out when it was a done deal instead of just an idea. He . . . I don’t know, what if he tries to buy it himself just to throw a monkey wrench in my plans?”

  Now it was her turn to stare at me. “He’d do that? Just to be mean?”

  “I don’t know! I wouldn’t have thought so a couple of months ago. But the way he’s been acting . . . it’s all crazy. I just . . . I just wish he didn’t know about it yet.” I covered my face with my hands and moaned.

  “Gabby.” Jodi took my hands away from my face and held them. “Gabby, we’re here to pray about this proposal, and that’s still what we’re going to do. Remember, if this is God’s plan, if God is in it, then nothing Philip does will be able to thwart it. You need to trust God with this. Here, let me read you something.” She grabbed my Bible sitting on the desk and flipped pages. “Here it is, Proverbs three, five and six. ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways’—including this House of Hope proposal—‘acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.’” She closed the Bible. “See? It’s a promise!”

  I wagged my head. “I wish I had your faith, Jodi.”

  She gave a short laugh. “Well, I give you permission to quote me the next time I’m fussing and worrying about something. It’s usually easier for me to trust God for other people’s problems than it is for my own. But that’s why it’s good to have a prayer partner or a group of praying sisters, Gabby. To hold up our shaky faith, to remind us of God’s promises, to stand with us when we don’t feel so strong by ourselves.”

  I nodded and sniffed, grabbing for a tissue from my desk. “Well, that’s what I need right now. For you to pray with me about this proposal, because I’m definitely quaking in my shoes right now.”

  Twenty minutes later, fortified by the prayer time with Jodi, I took my stack of proposals—a copy for each board member— and made my way to the schoolroom on the main floor, where Mabel was arranging chairs in a circle. Within minutes, the board members trickled in, a diverse assortment of professional men and women. Besides Mabel, two others were women—Rev. Liz Handley, the former director of Manna House, now retired, and Stephanie Cooper, a social worker for the city’s Department of Child and Family Services, both of whom doubled as case managers here at the shelter. Two were local pastors, Pastor Stevens and Rev. Álvarez, whose churches—New Hope Missionary Baptist and Iglesia Cristiana Evangélica—led Sunday Evening Praise on various weeks here at the shelter. The board member I knew best was Peter Douglass, an African-American businessman who sold computer software, better known among my Yada Yada Prayer Group friends as “Avis’s new husband.”

  Mabel asked Rev. Handley to open with prayer, which she did, short and to the point. I hid a grin. The shelter’s former director and its current one couldn’t be more different—even besides the fact that Liz was white and Mabel was black. Mabel’s prayers, even in a staff meeting, were straight from the heart and often long. Rev. Handley’s prayer sounded formal, as if she’d memorized it. Mabel’s face had a classic mature beauty, her warm brown skin always perfectly made up, and she wore her clothes well. Liz Handley was more of a “character”—squat and dumpy, salt-and-pepper hair cut as short as a man’s, a round face with twinkling eyes and a hearty laugh.

  But my thoughts were interrupted when Peter Douglass, the board chair, spoke my name. “—Fairbanks has joined us with a housing proposal she’d like us to consider. We have a number of items on our agenda today, but since Gabby is here, let’s move this item to number one. Gabby?”

  I glanced at Mabel, hoping she’d go first and introduce the board to my idea for second-stage housing, and I’d follow with my specific proposal about a building. But she just gave me an encouraging smile to go ahead. So I took a deep breath and launched into my story.

  “I think all of you know that, um, my mother and I found ourselves suddenly homeless this summer, and we spent several weeks here at Manna House as residents.” I allowed a self-conscious grin. “Actually, I might recommend the experience for all staff personnel and board members—it gives one a whole new perspective.”

  A few chuckles around the room helped put me at ease, so I continued. “Since I was separated from my children and couldn’t get them back until I found suitable housing, I became painfully aware how desperately some of our single moms need to find a place to live where they can be a real family. But the process is often tediously slow, given the long waiting lists for some of the subsidized housing in the city. I know I’m fairly new to the staff here, but I . . . um, I think I have an idea for how Manna House could provide that kind of environment . . .” I stopped, feeling flustered. “Actually, my proposal only concerns one aspect of this idea, and that’s how to obtain a building. After that, well, I need your expertise and ideas how to make this a vital part of Manna House’s ministry to some of our residents.”

  I handed out the proposal I’d written and gave time for the board members to read it, sweating profusely in the lightweight pantsuit I’d worn to be suitably dressed to speak to the board. I saw a few heads nodding and heard murmurs around the circle.

  “Mm, ‘House of Hope’ . . . nice concept.”

  “Not a bad price for a six-flat.”

  “On-site staff living in one of the apartments . . . that’s good.”

  “I suppose rent from the apartments would cover the monthly mortgage? But—”

  To my relief, Mabel jumped in. She’d been doing research on Chicago’s Low-Income Housing Trust Fund, which provided rent subsidies to the poor. I didn’t understand all the agencies and examples she mentioned, but the gist was clear: renters who qualify pay 30 percent of whatever income they have—zero if they have no income—and the trust fund pays the rest. “The program actually requires a three-party arrangement,” she said, a smile playing on the corners of her mouth. “The city, via the Trust Fund. A housing provider or private landlord—which is what Gabby’s proposal is about. And a service provider. In our case, that would be Manna House.”

  For a brief moment silence fell on the group circled in the schoolroom of the Manna House Women’s Shelter. And then a gasp—mine—as the weight of what she’d just said sank into my heart. “Oh. Oh! Then . . . it’s really possible?”

  chapter 9

  A lively discussion about “possible” followed that took my breath away. The board was really trying to figure out how to make this House of Hope work! But the discussion was pulled up abruptly by a knock at the door of the schoolroom, followed by Jodi Baxter poking her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s almost eleven and I’m supposed to teach typing in the schoolroom here. You know, using the computers. Should we, uh, cancel class today?”

  “Oh, no, no, Jodi, we thought we’d be done by eleven.” Mabel looked around at the group. “Should we table the rest of the agenda until next month? Or—”

  Rev. Handley heaved herself up out of her chair. “No, I’d rather keep going as long as we’re here. How about the chapel? It’s usually empty this time of day.” The former director marched out the door, but not before giving me an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder. “Hang in
there, Gabby. You’ve got some spitfire under that mop of yours.”

  The board members trailed out of the schoolroom—so named in hopes of having a full-blown afterschool program one of these days—some of them still talking among themselves about how to apply to the city’s trust fund and what the criteria should be for House of Hope applicants.

  Jodi stared after their retreating backs and then turned to me, her mouth hanging open. “Did they . . . did I just hear . . . ?”

  I nodded, feeling as if my grin was going to reach both ears.

  “Whoa!” Jodi sat down with a plop in one of the chairs. “Why am I always so surprised when God answers our prayers?”

  I laughed nervously. “Yeah, me too. But you said if it was God’s idea, it could happen even if it looked impossible.”

  She eyed me sideways. “Yeah, I know what I said. But believe me, this faith business takes a lot of faith sometimes! Oh—I gotta go tell Kim and the others they can come in now before they get sucked into some blithering talk show in the TV room. But call me later! I want to hear all about the meeting.”

  I left Jodi to her typing class and ran downstairs to my office to get my things, mentally running through the list of tasks I wanted to get done the rest of the day before Philip brought the boys back that evening. Did I have time to call my sisters before Mr. Bentley came to pick me up to go car hunting at one o’clock? Celeste and Honor and I were still trying to find a time all three of us could talk on a conference call in three different time zones.

  Still planning my to-do list, I headed out the front door—and ran right into Lucy Tucker bumping her wire cart up the front steps of Manna House.

  “Hey, hey, hey! Watch where ya goin’, Fuzz Top.” Lucy glared at me as she pointed at Dandy’s food bowl that had bounced out of the cart and was clattering down the steps. Her head was wrapped in a scarf that looked like one of my mother’s, one of several we’d given her from my mother’s things.

  “Sorry, Lucy!” I scurried down the steps to pick up the bowl, stopping to shower some love on my mom’s dog, who was running circles around my ankles until I sat down on the steps and gave him a good scratch on the rump. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Humph,” Lucy snorted. “Gotta fill my bucket with some more dog food.” She pointed at a bright yellow plastic cat litter bucket tucked down in her cart among her usual assortment of plastic bags. “Dog eats more’n I do, an’ he only half my size.”

  I stifled a grin. A third her size or less was more like it. “You filled it up just last Monday. Why don’t you take a whole bag of dog food, Lucy? There’s a twenty-five-pound bag stored in my office.” And I’d love to get it out of there.

  She looked at me as if I were crazy. “Don’t you know nuthin’ ’bout livin’ on the street, Miss Gabby? Gotta keep ever’thing in plastic. Otherwise, one good rain soak it all. An’ how you think I’m gonna fit that big bag in here? Humph.” The old lady bumped her cart up the last step and rang the doorbell. “Some people don’t use the brains they was born with.”

  I waved good-bye as the door opened and Lucy and Dandy disappeared inside the shelter. “Must be a bad hair day,” I chuckled to myself, though as long as I’d known Lucy, I couldn’t actually remember a good hair day. Even when it got washed—which was seldom enough—Lucy’s hair still looked like a gray squirrel’s nest.

  I was still smiling when I pulled up in front of the six-flat in my rental car, thinking about Lucy’s head wrapped in one of my mother’s head scarves—a replacement for the purple knit hat she used to wear, which had disappeared the day of my mom’s Manna House funeral. Just before the burial back home in North Dakota, I’d found the hat hidden inside my mom’s casket. I never told Lucy I’d found her sacrificial gift. So. Mom has Lucy’s purple hat, and Lucy has my mom’s scarves. As far as Lucy was concerned, wearing those scarves probably had nothing to do with a bad hair day.

  As I got out of the car, I stood on the sidewalk looking at the wide stone lintel above the outer doorway of the six-flat. New excitement flickered in my chest as I tried to imagine how we could put House of Hope on that lintel in big letters. Chisel it in? Paint it on? Wooden letters?

  “Huh! First things first, Gabby!” I told myself, using my keys to let myself into the building and then into apartment 1B. Like buying the building. I dumped my bag and tossed my keys into the basket on the hallway table. And, yikes, coordinating that with Manna House and the city so I’m not stuck with empty apartments and paying a hefty mortgage . . .

  That last prospect unnerved me, so I reheated a cup of cold breakfast coffee in the microwave and sank into a chair at the kitchen table. Suddenly “possible” looked a lot more complicated than it had an hour ago. Not to mention that the coffee tasted terrible. I made a new pot, and while it dripped, leaned my elbows on the table and pressed my fingers to my eyes. God, I know I can’t do this on my own! Please, if it’s Your idea, if this is something You want to use to bless single moms like Precious and Tanya and even me when they find themselves homeless, help me to trust You to work out the details and the timing and . . . and everything!

  The coffee timer dinged. Smelled wonderful. And I was proud of myself for obeying Rule One about prayer, according to Jodi Baxter: Pray first.

  My conference call to my sisters only half worked. I tried at noon Chicago time and got Celeste on her landline at the ranger station in Denali National Park. It was only nine o’clock there, but her husband, Tom, was already out chasing down a report of campers trying to feed bears. “And then they wonder why somebody gets mauled!” Celeste fumed.

  At least I didn’t have to deal with bears here in Chicago. I put Celeste on hold and dialed Honor’s cell in Los Angeles, but only got her voice mail. “Huh. You think she’s out already or still in bed?” I asked Celeste when I got her back on the line. Our middle sister was a tad unpredictable.

  “Who knows? She’s doing that jewelry thing, you know. Maybe she’s got an art fair or something. We can try again tomorrow. How are you doing, Gabby? Did P.J. and Paul get the package I sent them for their birthdays? What’s up with Philip these days?”

  We commiserated for nearly an hour until Mr. Bentley rang my door buzzer, and a few minutes later I hopped into the front seat of his RAV4. I still wasn’t used to seeing Mr. B in his “civvies,” but that tweedy slouch cap really did suit his shaved head. “What are you grinning about, Firecracker?” he asked, glancing at me sideways as he pulled out.

  “Just feeling glad. I talked to my sister in Alaska. We’re trying to keep in touch better since Mom died. It feels good to have family right now.” A sudden lump caught in my throat. Oh dear, Mr. B was going to think I was an emotional yo-yo, up one minute, down the next. But talking to my sisters again after years of emotional distance was like a miracle. I blinked back some happy tears. “And,” I rushed on, “I met with the Manna House board this morning, and guess what?” I spilled it all—the crazy idea Jodi and I had come up with for me to buy the six-flat and turn it into a House of Hope for homeless single moms. “In partnership with Manna House, of course.”

  Mr. Bentley stared at me so long, I was afraid he was going to run a stop sign or something. Finally he wagged his head. “Young lady, do you know what you’re doing?”

  I snorted. “No. Not really.” But I was still grinning.

  Mr. B threw back his head and laughed. “Good! You might just have a chance with this crazy scheme if you realize that.” And he chuckled all the way to the Toyota dealership, where he said we wanted to look at the pre-owned Subaru wagon they’d advertised online. “But let me do the talking,” he murmured as the salesman led us past the new Toyotas—my eyes lingered on a silver Prius like the one Lee Boyer had—to the cars they took as trade-ins.

  The Subaru Forester wasn’t bad. Only three years old with twenty-seven thousand miles on it. Sticker price said $16,999. A nice burgundy red, clean inside, automatic transmission, fairly roomy space behind the second seat, even a rollback luggage cover
to keep the area nice and neat. Mr. Bentley spent a long time looking under the hood, inspecting the tires, even getting down and looking under the chassis while I wandered a bit, looking at some of the other, sportier cars on the lot. I was tempted by the new Toyotas . . . I mean, why not? Wouldn’t have to be a Prius. Some of those Camrys were really nice—sunroof, leather seats . . .

  “Come on, Gabby!” Mr. Bentley called. “Let’s take it for a drive.”

  I drove. It handled pretty nice. When I tried to say something, Mr. B held up his hand for silence, as if he was listening to the motor or something.

  I felt a little annoyed. Sure, I’d asked him to help me look for a car. But what if I didn’t want to buy a pre-owned? Someone got rid of it for a reason, right? Maybe I’d just be buying someone else’s problems.

  We drove it back onto the lot. Mr. Bentley steered me away from the salesman and pretended to look at some of the other cars. “It’s a steal, Gabby. Good, solid car. I know a mechanic who can check it out for you, to be sure. But as far as I can tell, somebody probably just wanted to upgrade. A lot of people do that, even though the car they got is still perfectly good.”

  I got stubborn. “But shouldn’t we look at some of the new Toyotas? You drive a RAV4 and like it. Wouldn’t a new car be smart in the long run?”

  He scratched the horseshoe-shaped beard along his jawline. “Well, sure, if that’s really what you want to do. But a new car in the Wrigleyville neighborhood . . . well, just more of a temptation for car thieves. You’ll spend a whole lot less on a pre-owned and still get a good car for you and your boys. No shame in that. All my cars are at least a year old when I buy—even the RAV4. And pardon me saying so, but you’re on your own now, Gabby girl. Doesn’t hurt to cut your expenses where you can.”

  My face heated. Mr. B was right. Sure, I had Mom’s insurance money right now, but it was going to have to go a mighty long way—especially if I was going to take a leap of faith and buy an honest-to-goodness Chicago six-flat! I sighed. “You’re right. Guess I got a little greedy. Should I—?” I dug my checkbook out of my purse.