Derailed (45 page)

“Grace! So glad to see you. Here are the words for the song. Estelle said you're gonna lead us, right?”

She nodded as she glanced over the sheet.

“So how's it goin'? You finally recoverin' from your West Coast tour?”

“Yes, doing fine.” The flickering light from the luminaries gave her face a vibrant glow. She gestured toward the dark-haired man beside her. “This is Jeff Newman . . . Jeff, this is Mr. Bentley—”

“Just Harry.” I extended my hand to the newcomer. “Good to meet ya.”

“Jeff's my . . .” Grace stole a nervous glance at the man. “. . . he's my agent.”

“Oh, so you're the one who sends this young lady all over the country.”

Jeff returned a near-schoolboy grin, with a quick look at Grace. “Well, Grace is very special. We all love her at Bongo.”

“
Bongo
? As in . . . ?” I mimed patting a pair of small drums.

“Yep, that's the name of our agency. Bongo Booking.”

“And Harry's the man who saved . . . who encouraged me to take the train. He works for Amtrak.”

“Really, now? Well, she seemed to have a good trip.”

“Better'n good.” Grace flashed Jeff a shy grin that made me think they were becoming an item.

“Speaking of your trip,” I said, “Estelle mentioned you're still worried about that young girl you met on the train.”

“Oh, yes, Ramona. Your wife really encouraged me to pray for her every day, and I've been doing it too. Did you ever find her?”

“As a matter of fact, we did. That's what I wanted to tell you. I think we were able to pry her away from that man who'd been . . . hassling her. Turned out she was basically homeless, except for him. I was able to get her into the Manna House Shelter just yesterday—same place Estelle works. So she's in a good place now, at least temporarily. They have programs to help someone like her get back on her feet, maybe even get her back home to her family in LA.”

“Oh, I'm so glad! I was really worried about her. Guess my prayer times with Estelle will hit a new level of praise now.”

I chuckled. “Estelle will be all for that. And Jeff,” I turned to Grace's . . . uh, friend, “it's good to meet you. You take care of this young lady now. We're tryin' to learn how to be good neighbors around here, so we'll be checkin' up.”

Jeff smiled easily. “You've got nothing to worry about, Mr. Bentley.”

“Harry. Just Harry'll do.” I moved on to speak to the Jaspers, aware that helping Ramona hadn't been as easy as I'd explained to Grace. We'd had to arrest her as an accomplice to the robbery and drug transportation and because she was seventeen, Ramona was too old for the Juvenile Detention Center and spent over a week in Cook County Jail—very sobering, I'm sure. But I was able to convince the State's Attorney to drop the charges against her if she'd enter a facility that could help her. The word to Ramona was that if she were ever picked up again, she'd be prosecuted. So she was pretty happy to go to Manna House.

“Here they come! Here they come!” The word spread through the group, and we all turned to watch a car glide slowly up the
street, its headlights shining in our eyes. It passed our house and turned around in the cul-de-sac to return and park on our side of the street. The headlights went off, and Don Krakowski got out, came around to the passenger side, and opened the door for a wide-eyed old lady. The son helped Mattie Krakowski stand up, which she was able to do without a cane. And then a clear soprano voice led out. Following Grace's lead, a motley crew of Beecham Street neighbors began to sing.

Should old acquaintance be forgot
,

and never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot
,

oh, not this friend of mine
.

For our dear friend of days gone by
,

has been away too long
.

We'll take a cup of kindness yet
,

and toast her with a song
.

And here's a hand our trusty friend

that we once failed to give!

Grant us the chance to make it right
,

in peace among us live
.

For our dear friend of days gone by
,

has been away too long
.

We'll take a cup of kindness yet
,

and toast her with a song
.

I looked over at our new renter. Tears were streaming down her wrinkled face.

1.
Aside from affordability and the physical adequacy of the dwelling, what other factors mattered most to you when you considered a move (church, schools, shopping, proximity to family, beautiful surroundings, parking, ethnic diversity, threat of natural disasters, threat of violence, etc.)? Did any of those factors change in importance after you moved? How and why?

2.
Like Harry and Estelle Bentley, has concern for extended family (elderly parents, adult children, grandchildren) played a major role in your life decisions about where and how you live? Describe.

3.
Have you ever believed God was leading you in one direction but later concluded that you'd been “derailed”? How did you deal with that? In what ways did it affect your willingness to seek and follow God's leading?

4.
After moving to Beecham Street, Estelle baked cinnamon rolls to share with their neighbors—kind of a reverse Welcome Wagon approach to getting acquainted. She cites Proverbs 18:24, which in the King James Version says, “A man that hath friends must shew himself friendly.” What do you think of the idea?

5.
Harry and Estelle consider letting Rodney rent the first-floor apartment to give him a second chance. But later when Corky finds a joint in Rodney's jacket, he declares his innocence and says, “I was hopin' for a second chance,
Dad!
But I see I ain't gonna get one around here.” Are there conditions for giving someone a second chance? What might they be? Has God ever given you a second chance? According to 1 Corinthians 13:7, what is God's attitude toward second chances?

6.
Harry thinks some of Captain Gilson's ideas about his job as an undercover detective are over the top, unworkable, and perhaps dangerous. Describe a situation where someone in authority over you had unreasonable expectations. How did you deal with that? What do you think about Harry's response?

7.
What do you think of Harry's decision to conceal from Grace what he found in her luggage? What might have happened if he had confronted her? What do you think about his keeping the whole story from her right through the end?

8.
As Harry listens to Grace sing, “You may have all the world, give me Jesus,” he wonders,
Was that all that mattered? How do you give up everything else? How do you give up your responsibilities—even for Jesus—without becoming irresponsible?
How would you answer him?

9.
What do you think of Harry's continuing suspicion of Rodney and the possibility that he might be involved in drug trafficking? Was Harry being wisely cautious or unduly suspicious?

10.
Harry often felt God derailed his life by not giving him direct instructions concerning what he should do—and yet later realized God was leading him to a greater purpose. Can you think of a sequence of seeming reversals in your life by which God took you from point A to point B, not by a straight route, but by the only path you would have followed? In what ways has that deepened your trust in God in situations you don't understand?

Michelle woke briefly when Jared's alarm went
off at five, but she didn't move. She needed the extra hour of sleep before she had to get up. But it seemed like only minutes before her own alarm went off at six.
Uhhhh
. If only she could sleep in . . .

Forcing herself to throw back the covers and get up, she almost stumbled out into the hall to go to the bathroom, but remembered in time that they'd made love last night and she was still naked. Slipping on her robe and slippers, she headed for the basement. They'd put in a second bathroom a few years ago when trying to make do with just one for a family of five became a major headache. Even though it was farther away, she preferred the newer bathroom for her morning shower—no tub, just a big shower with a glass front and glass sliding door, two sinks, and a large mirror with vanity lights. She wasn't as likely to wake the kids before six thirty either.

Michelle let the hot water run over her head, waking up her brain. Today was Jared's craziest day, working the control tower from six till two, then again from ten tonight till six Friday morning. But at least he'd be home for supper. And the weekend was coming up. Maybe they could even get a night out. And Memorial Day weekend was coming up too . . . if they planned ahead, maybe they could take a couple days away as a family. Wouldn't that be great?

But she couldn't just stand in the shower. She had to get dressed, get the kids up, throw lunches together, set out breakfast—cold cereal on weekdays—and get out the door herself if she wanted to get to the office by eight.

Even though the day was overcast, the temperature had climbed into the seventies by noon. Made her glad she'd packed a sandwich and could eat her lunch in a park near her next client visit. She
dreaded this one. The Department of Children and Family Services had received at least five calls from neighbors in an apartment building about a baby crying for hours, what sounded like drunken fights, people coming and going who weren't on the lease. DCFS had passed it on to Bridges Family Services and her supervisor had dropped it on her desk.

“Just check it out. Might not be anything we can do. Use your judgment.”

Right. Not serious enough for DCFS to intervene. And the parents themselves weren't asking for help. One of those dysfunctional families that so often fell through the cracks. But . . . she'd “check it out.”

Michelle parked her car on a nearby residential street and found a bench where she could eat her lunch. The park was fairly empty for such a warm day. But it was only late May. Kids were still in school. Most adults were at work. Still, a cluster of young men loitered near the playground equipment, smoking, drinking beer, talking loudly. Walking around like ducks in their low-slung pants. Doing nothing. Why weren't they in school—or at work? She shook her head.
O Lord
 . . .

Sometimes the dysfunction in the city threatened to overwhelm her.

But once her sandwich, apple, and snack-size bag of Fritos were gone, she couldn't put it off any longer. She walked back to her car . . . 
darn it!
A parking ticket! She snatched it off her windshield. What in the world for? There weren't any parking meters . . . and then she saw the fire hydrant on the other side of the car.
Oh great. Just great
. How could she have been so stupid? She squinted at the fine print on the yellow ticket.
A hundred dollars?!

Now she felt like crying.

By the time she found the address of the apartment building she was supposed to visit—after encountering half a dozen one-way streets—her mood was as sour as spoiled sauerkraut. Standing in the foyer of the apartment building and staring at the names above the two rows of mailboxes—several of which hung open or
otherwise looked busted—she finally located the name and apartment number she'd been given.
Blackwell 3B
. Two other names had been scrawled beside it.
Owens . . . Smith
. She pushed the button. Heard nothing. She pushed again.

Just then a man barged out the inner door, looked startled to see her in the foyer, but just kept going. Seemed in a big hurry. Michelle caught the inner door before it wheezed shut.
Okaay
. Not exactly legit, but she'd make one more try at contacting the Blackwells.

No elevator—but she wouldn't trust one in this old apartment building anyway. The stairwell smelled musty, stale. She walked up the stairs to the first-floor landing . . . then second . . . finally third, feeling out of breath. Was she that out of shape? Locating 3B, she rapped loudly on the door and listened. A baby was crying somewhere, but she wasn't sure from which apartment. She knocked again, even louder.

The lock clicked. The handle turned and the door opened a few inches. But nobody was there . . . until she looked down and saw the cute face of a girl about seven. Nappy hair caught up in three pigtails, one on either side, one high in back. Michelle smiled. “Hi, sweetie. Is your mommy home?”