Derailed (7 page)

Well, that was Estelle, always doin' for someone else, but I shook my head. “What am I supposed to do? Sit around the apartment all evening and worry?”

“No. You get yourself on over to Bible study. You need the brothers more'n ever tonight.”

“But—”

“No buts about it. DaShawn'll be fine. He can do his homework, then watch TV.”

After we ate supper, I ran Estelle up to the hospital and then drove over to Peter Douglass's apartment for the Bible study. Denny Baxter was out of town for a coaches' training event, and his son, Josh, was tied up with an emergency water heater replacement at the House of Hope, so there were just five of us: Peter; Carl Hickman, who worked at Peter's software company; Ben Garfield, a retired Jewish guy with six-year-old twins; Pastor Cobbs, from my church, who could only attend the Bible study occasionally; and myself.

We'd been going through the book of Psalms and were up to Psalm 27. I was pretty distracted, thinking about my mom, until we came to verse 11: “Teach me your way, O L
ORD
; lead me in a straight path.” Some of the other translations said “right path” or “smooth path.” But when Pastor Cobbs read “plain path” from his old King James Version, it grabbed me. That's exactly what I needed—a plain path—and frankly, I'd thought God had been showing us a plain path, buying the two-flat with all the affirming signs along the way. But suddenly we'd crashed, and it didn't seem like he'd been guiding us at all.

I wanted to talk about it, wanted to tell the brothers how confused I felt. I wanted to ask if any of them had sensed our decision was wrong, and if so, why hadn't they said so when I was asking for their wisdom weeks earlier?

But Peter was already reading the next verse. “ ‘Do not turn me over to the desire of my foes, for false witnesses rise up against me, breathing out violence.' ”

“Oh, that's me!” Ben Garfield snorted. “We got enemies, Ruth and me. And they've been lying about us.” Everyone looked at him in shock. “That's right,
lying
enemies, and they want to get Havah and Isaac in trouble.”

“The twins? What are you talkin' about, Ben?” Peter Douglass asked.

Ben tipped his head back, frowning at the ceiling as though expecting some kind of revelation to be written there. “Yeah, it's no secret, it's hard trying to keep up with two kids at our age. Ruth's fifty-six, and I'm nearly seventy. But they're no
vilde chaya
—they're not hooligans. Just kids, you know. But our neighbor called the police, accusing our Havah and Isaac of stealing his trash bin. Now I ask you, what would two six-year-olds want with a trash bin? Nothing! But he's lying to the police and to the neighbors. And for some, it's like a bandwagon. Now they're saying the kids make too much noise. And they run through their flowerbeds. It's barely spring, after all! So where are the flowers?” He threw his hands up. “What difference does it make?”

Ben went on and on, monopolizing our whole time together with this tale about his kids irritating a couple neighbors, as though real enemies were about to drive him and Ruth from their home. When it was time to gather up prayer requests, I told the brothers about my mom's stroke and asked prayer for her, but there wasn't time to get into how confusing the whole event was for me. Ticked me off . . . but maybe my issue would sound as trivial as Ben's. Stuff happens. Did God care about any of this stuff anyway?

Had to face it. We'd still purchased a building that needed immediate attention, especially functioning furnaces if we were going to move in on Saturday. I spent most of my time the next few days working with a heating contractor. He brought in three men who worked twelve-hour days to finish installing both furnaces and rerouting all the ductwork. I snuck away for short visits with Mom when I could.

They had moved her out of the critical-care unit and into a double room to begin her rehabilitation. The nurses said she was doing well, but I couldn't see any improvement other than the fact that she seemed calmer. That allowed me to come and go more freely to oversee the work on the two-flat without feeling so guilty.

At first Estelle had protested that we couldn't possibly move Saturday, given the crisis with Mom. But we'd negotiated that move-out date with our very reluctant apartment landlord, and I was afraid he'd slap us with a penalty if we extended it.

So Estelle put out a call to our church asking for volunteers. We'd both put in our time helping other people move, so we were hoping there'd be a generous turnout. She took the rest of that week off work and spent every minute she wasn't at the hospital packing.

It wasn't long before Estelle had the living room piled high with stuff.

“I put all the stuff on the top of your dresser into a box, but once we get moved, you've gotta sort through it. And I declare, Harry
Bentley, you had more stuff hiding in that basement locker of ours than would fit in one of those big containers they load on ships. What're we gonna do with all this stuff?”

I was inclined to tell her to throw it all out, but she had my fishing tackle piled on there—Hey! Maybe I should take DaShawn fishing this spring!—and there were my dumbbells. Couldn't let those go. “What about these suitcases, Estelle? Why don't we just pack clothes in 'em? And these garden tools. We'll need them in our new place.” I opened an old cardboard box. “Hey, my college yearbooks! Haven't looked at these for years.”

Estelle snorted. “And this ain't the time. Don't you sit down, Harry Bentley. Just put 'em back in the box. You can dig 'em out this summer.”

DaShawn packed his stuff in one evening, but then he didn't have to deal with sheets and blankets, dishes and canned goods. Seemed like the list would never end.

But . . . the furnaces were installed and functioning by Friday as promised, and by midnight we were more or less packed.

A whole crew of volunteers from SouledOut Community Church turned out on Saturday to give us a hand. In spite of gray clouds that spit snow off and on all day, by three in the afternoon, we were unloading the third and—thankfully—last load from the U-Haul, mostly stuff from the locker that was getting stored in our new garage. But I was pretty bushed, so the ring of my cell phone was a welcome interruption.

I flipped over a plastic bucket in the corner of the garage and sat down. “Yeah, Bentley.”

“I'm here.”

I froze.
Rodney
. What did he mean,
“I'm here”
? But just then young Josh Baxter came up right in front of me. “Where should we put this, Mr. Bentley?” He and another young man were carrying the box springs from my old single bed before Estelle and I got married.

I pushed the mute button on my phone. “Uh, just lean it over there against the wall, but try to put something under it to keep it up off the concrete. Didn't we have a sheet of plastic over it?”

The phone was making noise. I put it to my ear to hear Rodney say, “You still there?”

“Yeah, yeah . . .” I held the phone out and saw it was still on mute. “Sorry 'bout that. I was tryin' to give some instructions to people here. What was that you said?” I got up and walked out into the alley, away from the moving truck and the people who were still unloading.

“I said, I'm
here
. Bus just got in, so what's the best way to get up to your place?”

“Ha! Funny you should ask. We hardly know where we live anymore. We just moved today. That's what you were hearing, a bunch of people helping us.”

“You mean you're not in that same apartment? You still got DaShawn, don't you?”

“Of course we got DaShawn! I just meant I'm not sure how to tell you the best way to get here. Lessee . . . If you came up by ‘L' on the Red Line, you could get off at Jarvis. Or if you wanna take the Metra train, you could get off at Rogers Park. Either way—”

“Just give me the address, Harry. I'll get there on my own.”

So now it was “Harry” instead of “Dad”? I told him our address, and he hung up—and then it hit me. Rodney was coming. To stay with us. Man! He couldn't have picked a worse day. I sucked in a breath and blew it out. Figured I'd better go tell Estelle before I lost my nerve.

I found her putting away dishes in the kitchen. She stared at me. “He's
what
? He's coming this afternoon?”

“That's what he said.”

“Lord have mercy. What're we gonna do?”

“Uh, guess we better go out to eat tonight. No way you can cook in here yet.”

She rolled her eyes. “I
mean
, is he plannin' on stayin' with us?”

I shrugged. “I presume that's why he's here.”

“But . . . but we're not even set up for ourselves.”

“I
know
, babe. Didn't think it'd be this soon. But . . . he's on his way.”

Estelle sank down into a kitchen chair, looking very tired. “Oh, Harry, I don't know. First your mom havin' a stroke, then all this movin', and now Rodney showin' up . . . it's all a bit much.”

I snorted. “Tell me about it. Nothin's turnin' out.”

We just looked at each other. Finally she said, “Well, it is what it is. Guess you better tell DaShawn. But we're clear it's just gonna be a few days, right?”

“Estelle, he's not even here yet, so don't be on my case to kick him out.”

“I'm just sayin' . . .” She shook her head. “I'm just sayin', things have a way of takin' root, like weeds.” Pushing herself up out of the chair, she went back to shoving dishes into the cupboards, a little harder than necessary, I thought.

I watched for a moment, letting my mind escape thoughts of Rodney. Sure was nice to have enough room for everything. The kitchen in the old apartment had only half this much space.
Thank you, Jesus
—

Wait a minute.

I knew we're supposed to thank God about everything—there's a Bible verse about that somewhere—but here we were suddenly facing another derailment.

It was no longer as simple as Rodney sleeping on our couch for a few nights. How was I going to insist he leave when we had an empty apartment downstairs?

The movers had left by the time the doorbell
rang, but before either Estelle or I could respond, DaShawn came running out of his new room. “That's probably my dad!” He raced out the door and down the stairs.

I walked out on the landing where I could see the action below as DaShawn opened the front door. Rodney stood there in the porch light with a few errant snowflakes swirling around. He pulled his head back inside his hoodie in feigned surprise. “Who's this young man? I'm lookin' for an old dude by the name of Harry Bentley who's carin' for my son, a little kid 'bout so high”—he held his hand out even with his waist—“with an Afro so big he might'a blown away like dandelions on the wind.”

“It's
me
.” Suddenly DaShawn assumed a far more mature demeanor. “I ain't had no Afro for years, Dad. C'mon, you saw me after I got it cut.”

Rodney opened his arms wide. “I know, son. You're growin' up, and I've been missin' out. But I'm here now. Know what I'm sayin'?”

The hug was quick, and DaShawn pulled away first, talking excitedly about our new house. But the interaction I'd witnessed cut deep. There we were, three generations of Bentleys . . . but I hadn't been there to be the father Rodney deserved. And now it was Rodney who hadn't been there for DaShawn.

Two generations.

It had to stop. I'd stepped in and done my best with DaShawn, actually considered it an assignment from God. But had it been enough? Was there any way a substitute dad could take the place of a kid's real father?

Rodney glanced up at me as he neared the top of the steps. “Thanks, Harry.”

He looked good, not like someone who'd ridden the bus all day. His hair was neatly trimmed and he sported a pencil-thin mustache that made him look downright dapper. The tiny scar above his right eye was hardly noticeable against his otherwise smooth dark skin. I'd passed on some pretty good genes.