Derailed (19 page)

I hurried to the top of the stairs and put on my warmest smile. “You must be Grace. Estelle's been telling me about you.” As she neared the top, I extended my hand, introduced myself, and invited her in to take a seat on the couch. She had medium-long dark hair,
brown eyes, and was wearing black slacks and a turquoise knit top with some silver-and-turquoise jewelry—very attractive, I thought. But what did I expect for a singing celebrity?

I realized I'd been staring when Estelle rescued me by hustling in carrying a tray with several small glasses.

“There she is!” Estelle said. “No, no, don't get up, young lady. Would you like some cranberry juice? It's nice and cold, feels good on a warm day like this.”

Estelle sent me downstairs to call DaShawn and Rodney, but when I introduced Rodney to our guest, he just mumbled, “How ya doin'?” followed by a quick handshake, and then sat on the edge of a chair as though he were about to leave. Even after Estelle called us to the table, Rodney didn't say a thing during the meal except to ask for the food to be passed or say thanks when someone handed him something.

When we were all seated, Estelle asked me to say the blessing and my mind went blank. What could I say that would be appropriate for a singing celebrity? And then it came to me. I cleared my throat as Estelle reached for the hands on either side of her. “Lord God, for food in a world where many walk in hunger, for faith in a world where many walk in fear, and for friends in a world where many walk alone, we give you thanks. Amen.”

When I looked up, Estelle's eyes were wide. “Harry Bentley, where'd you get that prayer? Never heard you pray like that!”

I reached for the fried chicken. “Don't you remember? Last Thanksgiving, at the Manna House dinner, that Canadian pastor prayed it. When I looked around at all those women at the shelter, I thought,
That says it all
. Been bouncing around in my head ever since.”

Estelle had outdone herself—chicken, ham, cornbread, green beans. Grace—she insisted we call her Grace instead of Miss Meredith—really seemed to enjoy the meal and complimented Estelle on it. “But you shouldn't have gone to so much trouble.”

Kind of to get back at Estelle for acting so surprised at my prayer, I said, “Trouble? My wife lives to cook! She cooks for the Manna House Women's Shelter, you know.”

“Is that why you married Miz Estelle, Grandpa?” DaShawn piped up. “So's you could eat good?”

I glanced at Estelle, not sure how far to carry this, but her expression was as peaceful as could be, so I pointed my fork at DaShawn. “Now there's a smart young man.”

“So you cook for a women's shelter?” asked Grace. “I'd like to hear more about that.”

Estelle shrugged. “Not much to tell. Stayed there myself for a time, till it burned down. Bunch of good sisters at SouledOut Community Church helped me get back on my feet, so I decided one way to give back was to volunteer at the shelter when it got up an' runnin' again, which turned into a job—”

I couldn't leave it alone. “ 'Cause they liked her cookin'.”

“You . . . just eat.” Estelle let me know I'd better drop the subject. “What I want to hear about is Grace's singin'. I'm just sorry we don't have a piano, 'cause I sure would love to hear you sing.”

Grace flushed. “Well, I did bring one of my CDs as a gift for you. Mostly praise and worship music. Several are my own songs.”

DaShawn's eyes got big. “You got a CD? Can I listen to it? I got my own CD player. An' I already got fifteen CDs. But Grandpa won't let me listen to—”

“DaShawn! You're interrupting,” I said. “That's real nice of you, Miss Meredith. We'd love to hear it. My wife tells me you travel 'round the country giving concerts, said you just got back from someplace and got another trip comin' up this weekend.”

That loosened her up a bit. She told us about her most recent tour in the Southeast states, an upcoming concert in St. Louis, followed by a ten-day tour on the West Coast. But I got this funny feeling there were some things she'd rather not talk about. Not surprised. It had to be a hard life for a young woman.

“What about you, Mr. Bentley?” she asked abruptly, like we were tossing a ball around the table and saying, “Catch!” At least she hadn't thrown the ball to Rodney. I told her I'd just taken a new job with Amtrak Police and was going to leave it at that, but DaShawn nearly blew my cover by saying, “Yeah, an' now we got a dog—”

I stopped him with a kick under the table, and Estelle changed the subject. “Rodney, you and DaShawn done? Why don't you two go in the living room and watch some TV. I'll call you back when it's time for dessert.” As they left, she called after them, “And don't turn it up too loud either.”

Grace insisted on helping us clear the table and said how nice it must be to have our son and grandson living so close downstairs. Had to explain that DaShawn lived with us, but Rodney's presence was temporary. “He's looking for a job so he can get a place of his own.”

“That's right,” Estelle added. “That's something you can help us pray for.”

We cleared the table as Estelle started a pot of coffee. “So, tell us about this upcoming concert. How can we pray for you?”

Grace suddenly got tears in her eyes. “I—I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I do need some prayer.”

“Now, now,” Estelle clucked, “you sit down there at the kitchen table, honey . . . that's it. Harry, hand her that tissue box. Now, tell us what needs some prayer.”

Dabbing her eyes, Grace blurted out that her last tour had ended rough—she'd come down with a virus, lost her voice, and had to cancel some concerts. Sounded like the stress had gotten to her and she'd begun to fall apart.

“My agent added the St. Louis concert kind of last minute as a way to make up for the ones I had to cancel. But I—I'm having a hard time getting my confidence back. Was supposed to fly to Cincinnati for a concert last weekend, but . . .”

The tears returned, and I handed her another tissue.

“It's all right, baby, it's all right.” Estelle patted her hand.

Grace shook her head and then let her shoulders sag as if she were releasing a great burden. “Okay, see, I . . . I had a pretty awful experience with airport security back in January coming home from the tour, and last weekend . . . well, guess the memory of my last experience was too fresh. I backed out at the last minute. So my assistant had to rent a car and drive us to Ohio. We're going to drive to St. Louis this weekend too.”

“Well, now, that seems wise,” Estelle said kindly.

“Except,” she sniffed, “the West Coast tour is coming up. Once the tour starts in Seattle, we'll have a tour bus. But I've got to get there first. I just—” She gritted her teeth. “—just
don't
want to fly anymore.” She rolled her eyes apologetically and blew out a long breath. “So guess I could really use some prayer about that.”

Estelle patted her hand again. “Well, we can sure pray about—”

“Why don't you take the train?” I said.

“What?” Grace looked at me as if I'd been speaking a foreign language.

“The train. They handle security a lot different on the trains. You hardly know they're there. Like I said, I just started workin' for Amtrak, but they've got trains goin' everywhere. I know, we think everybody flies these days, but that ain't the only way to get from here to there. In fact, they got trains runnin' several times a day to St. Louis. You could try it this weekend, see if you like it.”

Grace stared at me like she was waking up from a long dream—or maybe a nightmare—to find the day wasn't so frightening after all.

At noon on Thursday, Sergeant Sayers declared
us ready for recertification. “So, let's spend the rest of our time seeing if you and Corky can play blind man and guide dog. Okay?”

“I know Captain Gilson had that wild idea for my cover, but it seems kind of crazy to me. Don't you think so?”

Shouldn't have asked a question, because that gave her the opportunity to tell me how creative she thought it was. She grinned at me. “Besides, that's part of what Amtrak contracted us for. If I skipped it, we might not get paid. So go out to your vehicle and get that harness with the D-handle.”

We spent the rest of the day and all day Friday stopping at curbs and going up steps with me trying to scuff my feet as though I were “feeling” the surface. “But Corky's not guiding me,” I protested. “She's just heelin' and obeyin' like she always does.”

“You know that, and I might have noticed it because I used to train guide dogs. And of course blind people would know the difference, but most of them can't see well enough to notice. So just work with me here, Bentley.”

“But can Corky go back and forth? Captain Gilson wants me undercover when I ride the trains, but there'll be a lot of days I'm in the station, in uniform. And Corky won't be on a D-handle.”

“Shouldn't be a problem. When she's on a D-handle, she heels. When she's on a leash, she can roam a little. She's going back and forth around here. You'll be okay.”

When we finished Friday evening, Sayers declared our ruse “passable,” and handed me our recertification papers as we went out
the gate. As I drove home and glanced at them sitting on the seat beside me, I realized that the student I'd busted in Union Station might've beaten the charge if I'd arrested him, because even though Corky and I were trained, our certification wasn't up to date.

Oh well, maybe the guy learned his lesson.

Corky and I got home Friday evening barely in time for me to go with Estelle to the Good Friday service at SouledOut. I was tired, and though the service was short, it was somber and kind of depressing. While we sang that old spiritual, “Were You There,” I kept replaying in my mind the gruesome scenes from Mel Gibson's movie
The Passion
. But it helped me realize how much Jesus loves us. And at the conclusion of Pastor Cobbs's sermonette, he reminded us of our hope: “It's Friday, but Sunday's comin'!” And that's just what I needed.

I had Saturday off, so I helped Rodney finish painting the first-floor apartment—the sunroom and the back entrance. The bathroom was finished, and the appliance people had promised to have all the kitchen appliances installed by the coming Wednesday.

It was time to say something more to Rodney about finding a place of his own.

After I mentioned it to him, he continued to cut in the pale-yellow paint around the sunroom windows with the patience of an artist. “Hasn't been much time to look,” he said between strokes.

“Oh, I know, I know. No rush. You've been a great help. Estelle and I are rock-solid grateful. But, you know . . .”

“Yeah. You're lookin' for me to move on.”

“It's not that. We just want to make sure you have a place you can afford.”

“And a job, right? But I've kinda had a job, ya know?”

“Exactly, and I'm not complaining. Believe me, son . . .” My voice drifted off. I didn't know how to take my foot out of my mouth, and I couldn't even imagine what to say anyway. I stood there with my mouth open.

“Look,” Rodney said, “I know what you're sayin'. We're almost done here. Monday I'll start beatin' the streets for a job. If you can
give me some time to find one and build up a little reserve, I'll move on as soon as I can.”

That wasn't what I was trying to say, but I still couldn't think of a way to put it that didn't sound like we didn't want him around or didn't appreciate all his help.

Finally, I shrugged and looked down at all the tiny paint spatters on my hands. “That's good enough. Take your time. Find something good . . . in terms of a job and a place to live. DaShawn loves havin' you around.”

“Yeah, I think he does.” Rodney didn't say anything else, but I could almost hear his next phrase:
But I'm not sure about you!

When would I ever get it right with my son?

My
Law and Order
ringtone woke me from a sound sleep in a room lit only by the glow of the iPhone's screen. My eyes were so blurry I couldn't see the caller ID, so I just answered, “Yeah, Bentley,” realizing that my groggy voice didn't sound authoritative enough to deter even a rooky telemarketer.

It wasn't a telemarketer.

“Mr. Bentley, this is Saint Francis Hospital. I'm afraid your mother's taken a turn for the worse.”

I came fully awake. “What happened?”

Estelle sat up in bed and switched on the reading lamp on her bedside table.

“That's why we're calling, Mr. Bentley. It's too soon to tell, but she's unconscious. It may have been another stroke.”

“Another stroke? We'll be right there.”

It took nearly twenty minutes for Estelle and me to throw on our clothes, get to the hospital, park, and find out where Mom was. To my surprise, she was still in her same room, lights dimmed, and only the slow beep of the monitor obscured the rasp of her labored breathing.