Where Do I Go? (15 page)

With no cleaning chores to do Saturday morning, I decided to make brownies for the boys and get them in the mail if I could find the closest post office . . . and tried not to feel too anxious about the Manna House Board of Directors meeting that morning to discuss my job application.

Mr. Bentley wasn't on duty in the lobby when I came out of the elevator and pushed through the security door just before noon with my packages. This doorman was practically a kid, a white guy somewhere in his twenties, shirt collar unbuttoned, cracking gum, and twirling in the swivel chair behind the desk as if bored out of his mind.

“Excuse me. Sir?”
Humph. “Dude” or “whippersnapper” would
be more like it.
“Can you tell me where to find the closest post office?”

“Nope. Don't live around here.” Another swivel.

Good grief.
What good was a doorman who couldn't help the residents? I managed to finagle a Chicago phone directory out of him, but that was a dead end because I didn't recognize the street names and had no idea which one was close to Richmond Towers. Finally, I walked to the small branch bank down the street and asked for directions. Didn't sound like such a long walk to me . . . but I hadn't counted on the wind whipping off the lake. By the time I mailed the two boxes of carefully packed brownies and got back to Richmond Towers, I felt as though I'd run a marathon.

No messages on the answering machine. Should I call the boys? But what if Mabel called? Besides, it was already afternoon. The boys would probably be out and about . . .

That set off a good cry, realizing I had no idea what my sons were doing that afternoon. And Paul was only eleven! Still just a kid who should be watching Saturday morning cartoons or playing his PlayStation 3 or imitating the older boys on his skate­­board. For that matter, Philip Junior was still a kid, too, though what thirteen-year-old didn't think he or she should have all the privileges (but none of the responsibilities) of adulthood?

I snatched up the phone. We had call waiting. If Mabel called, I'd just tell the boys I'd call back.

No luck. I just got Marlene Fairbanks' charming voice mail telling me to leave a brief message.
Beep.
“Paul and P.J.? This is Mom. Please give me a call as soon as you get in this afternoon. By the way, I sent you something special in the mail today. Should get to school by Monday or Tuesday. Love you!”

Mabel hadn't called by the time Philip got home from the office at eight. I didn't say anything—I was pretty sure I wouldn't get any sympathy if I wailed,
“Why hasn't she called?!”
—but I did wonder out loud why the boys hadn't called back.

“The boys? Oh, sorry, Gabby, I forgot to tell you. Mom called me at the office yesterday, no, maybe it was Thursday . . . anyway, she said she and Dad were taking the boys on a quick trip to Colonial Williamsburg and spending the night in a hotel. It sounded like fun.”

My urge to send a book sailing at his head was stifled by a stronger urge not to sink the boat, not when I had his tacit per-mission to accept this job if it came through.
(“Use words to say
you're angry, Gabby,”
my mother used to say when I was throwing a tantrum.
“You don't have to yell and slam doors.”)

“You
forgot
?! Good grief, Philip! I've been dying to talk to them all day, wondering if they're okay! You could have told me—better still, why doesn't your mother ever call
me
and talk to me about the boys?” By the end of my little rant, I'd worked up a decent mad.

“Calm down, Gabby. Good grief. I said I was sorry. Besides, you worry too much. They're fine. They're probably having a blast with their grandparents.”

That wasn't the point. I needed to hear my sons' voices, to tell them I loved them, to hear them say they loved me. But I dropped the conversation, went into the bathroom, and bawled silently into a towel.

I finally heard from the boys on Granddad Fairbanks' cell phone as he was taking them back to the academy on Sunday afternoon. They passed it back and forth, telling me all about Colonial Williamsburg, how they got to whittle a whistle, and the cool indoor swimming pool at the hotel. “So what did you send us, Mom? Our own cell phones?”

I shouldn't have told them I'd mailed something. Let it be a sweet, simple surprise.

It was all I could do not to call the shelter to see if Mabel was there after the call from the boys. I didn't want to seem too eager . . . though why not? It'd been twenty-four hours since the directors met. Surely she could tell me something.

Philip was watching baseball on the big plasma TV, kicking back with a bag of chips and a jar of mango salsa. I settled at the kitchen counter with a cup of chamomile tea to soothe my nerves and dialed.

Hola!
Manna House. Can I help you?” “

Definitely not Angela. “Uh, hi. This is Gabby Fairbanks. Is—”

“Oh, hello, Señora Fairbanks! This is Edesa Baxter. How nice to hear your voice.”

Edesa's lilting sunshine seemed to spark from the phone and brighten the room. “Hi, Edesa. So they've got you on the desk this afternoon, I see.”

She laughed into my ear. “Actually, I came to translate for the worship service this evening. Iglesia Cristiana Evangélica is doing our Sunday Evening Praise—the pastor is on the Manna House board.”

I glanced at the clock. Ten past five. “It starts at six?”

“Give or take.” She laughed. “Depends on when the band arrives. Are you coming? We'd love to see you.”

Band? Maybe she just meant the musicians, like last week. “Thanks, Edesa. Maybe I will! But I called to see if Mabel is there. She around?”

“Mm, haven't seen her, but she usually shows up for Sunday Evening Praise. That woman doesn't know how to take a whole day off!—oh, must go, Mrs. Fairbanks.” I could hear Gracie screaming in the background. “Precious is waving wildly. Where Josh is, I have no idea. Adiós!”

The phone went dead. But I was already making up my mind. I quickly changed into a black jersey dress, multicolored cinch belt, and dress boots, touched up my makeup, and grabbed my trench coat. “Philip?” I poked my head into the living room. “Mind if I take the car? I'd like to go to church tonight.”

He half turned his head as a batter swung. When the ball sailed out of bounds, he looked my way. “Church? Now?”

No sense beating around the bush. “Actually, it's a worship service at Manna House. Different churches come in each Sunday evening. A Spanish church tonight. Could be interesting. Would you like to come with me?”
Did I really say that?
For a nanosecond, I panicked.
What if he said yes?

“Honestly, Gabby. Isn't this a bit much? Good grief, if you want to go to church that bad, I'm sure there are decent churches around Chicago—oh! Oh! Oh! That's a homer! Go, man! Go!” The action on TV grabbed his eyeballs and let me off the hook.

I crossed to the couch, kissed him on the cheek, and grinned. “I assume that's a no. Don't worry, I won't be late. I have my cell.”

This would be my first time driving in Chicago, but I wasn't worried. Straight down Sheridan Road . . .

It was just the parking that was bad. I had to park the Lexus two blocks away from the shelter. The dense residential neighbor­hood, mixed with small businesses and eateries, had few garages, just street parking. Not a problem now, but it might be dark when I started home.

The band must have arrived in good time, because the music was already loud and joyous when I entered the foyer at six fifteen. From the doorway I saw a lively group of young Latinos playing guitars, tambourines, a trombone, and a conga drum. The multipurpose room was packed tonight, and everyone was on their feet, moving and clapping. I didn't recognize the song—they were singing it in Spanish—but my feet certainly felt like tapping.

To my left, the door to Mabel's office suddenly opened and she came out, followed by a stocky man in a dark suit and tie, clutching a Bible.

“Oh! Gabby!” Mabel said. “I didn't know you were coming tonight. But I'd like you to meet Reverend Carlos Álvarez, pastor of Iglesia Cristiana Evangélica
,
who is leading our worship tonight. Reverend Álvarez is a member of our board . . . we were just praying together before he speaks tonight. Reverend Álvarez, this is Mrs. Gabrielle Fairbanks.”

A wide smile showed off two gold teeth hiding among his molars. The pastor tucked his Bible under his arm and took my hand in both of his. “Ah! Señora Fairbanks. I'm delighted to meet you.” Still holding my hand, he turned to Mabel. “So this lovely woman is our prospective program director?”

chapter 14

Prospective program director?
My eyes darted to Mabel as the pastor took his leave for the multipurpose room. Did he mean—?

Mabel held me back a moment. “I was going to call you tomorrow morning and ask you to come in for a second meeting.” Her tone was low, confidential. “But since you're here, can you stay a few minutes after the service? We can talk then, save you a trip.” She smiled, gave me a little squeeze, and left me to find my own seat.

Now I was thoroughly confused. Rev. Álvarez acted like I had the job—or practically.
Prospective
was the word he'd used. But Mabel said we needed a second meeting. Was that why she hadn't called?

Precious, standing in the back row with her teenage daughter on one side, was waving at me, pointing to the empty chair next to hers. Josh Baxter was walking back and forth behind the last row, bouncing a wide-awake Gracie in his arms. He nodded hello and smiled as I slipped past him—stepping over the feet of Hannah the Bored, who had confiscated one of the overstuffed chairs pushed against the back wall and was sitting on her tail-bone, feet stuck out, arms crossed, eyes closed—and dumped my shoulder bag and coat on the chair next to Precious.

“Hey ya, Miz Gabby. Ain't this great?” Precious grinned at me, clapping along to the beat of the band and joining in on the occasional
aleluya
s that peppered the Spanish gospel song. “One of these days I'm gonna get Miz Edesa to teach me Spanish.”

I nodded and smiled. But my mind was such a jumble, I didn't really pay much attention to the worship going on around me for the next fifteen minutes. Hardly any of the music was familiar, even the songs sung in English. But when Rev. Álvarez stood to speak and people settled into the odd array of folding chairs, I tried to focus. No sense getting myself stirred up. What was so unusual about two interviews for a job, anyway? Actually, it was usually a good sign when you got called back.

Rev. Álvarez called out something in Spanish as the band put down their instruments. Edesa Baxter, looking very American in her skinny jeans and nubby green sweater over a black tank top, translated. “How many of you have ever been hungry?” Murmurs and nods went around the room. Nearly all the residents held up their hands.

The pastor spoke again, and Edesa translated. “There are many kinds of hunger—hunger for food, hunger for love, hunger for God . . .”

Back and forth they went, first in Spanish, then in English. “Ever notice how what you feed on affects you? . . . If you eat junk food, your body suffers . . . If you're starved for love, your spirit dies . . . If you don't feed on God's Word, your soul shrivels up.” Heads nodded, and a few
amén
s popped around me.

Rev. Álvarez opened his big Bible, then nodded at the band members, who dug into a box and started passing out paperback Bibles. “These Bibles are a gift to you from Iglesia Cristiana Evangélica,” Edesa translated, “so that we can all feed on the Word of God together. Some are in Spanish, some in English. Just say which one you want.”

The teenager I'd seen on the nurse's visiting day—last name was Menéndez, I remembered that much—eagerly waved her hand until she got one of the Spanish copies. Precious leaned over at me. “You got a Bible, Miz Gabby?” she stage-whispered.

“Uh, at home, sure. Still packed, I'm afraid.” Good excuse, anyway. To tell the truth, I wasn't sure where my Bible was—the one my parents had given me for high school graduation with
Gabrielle Shepherd
embossed in gold on the leather cover. Still in mint condition, if I could find it. It hadn't occurred to me I'd need a Bible tonight. Hardly anyone carried their Bible to church back at Briarwood Lutheran. The text was always printed right in the bulletin.

Precious caught the attention of the trombonist, who was still handing out English Bibles, and held up two fingers. She handed one to Sabrina, slouched in the seat beside her, and the other to me. I took the paperback, but my face heated up like a hot flash. Precious was just a bit too zealous looking out for me, as far as I was concerned.

The text was Psalm 103, verses 1 through 5. It took people helping each other or looking it up in the table of contents at least five minutes to find it. But Rev. Álvarez was patient, pointing out something in his Bible and talking quietly in Spanish to Edesa, who nodded eagerly. I sighed.
Why don't they just get on
with it?