Where Do I Go? (27 page)

“Mrs. Fairbanks! Wait a moment . . .”

Mr. Bentley had been busy giving directions to a trio of Japanese men, who seemed to be having trouble understanding their Chicago map. But the men nodded and bowed and waved as they pushed through the revolving door to the sidewalk, where they stood in a huddle, looking at the map and pointing in different directions.

“They thought this was a hotel,” the doorman explained, shaking his head. “I'm glad they have all day to find what they're looking for. They're going to need it.” He looked me over, noting my khaki jeans, tooled leather belt, and ankle boots. “How's the job going? Is this Casual Monday?”

I laughed. “Pretty much. Manna House is casual seven days a week. Besides, my office is a former broom closet.”

The house phone on the half-moon desk rang; he answered, but held up a finger for me to wait. I tried to stem my impatience. I really did need to get to work. But a moment later he came back. “I just wanted to tell you I saw your, uh, friend Saturday—you know, the old bag lady.”

“Lucy?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Where was she? I haven't seen her for a while. I've been kind of worried.”

He scratched his graying beard, which outlined his jaw and chin. “Behind the Dominick's grocery store, just south of here. My nephew works in the back unloading trucks, and I was sup-posed to pick him up. So I drove around back, and the old lady was picking through the Dumpster. The stuff they throw away could feed an army, I tell you! And she was stuffing her bags left and right.”

“Was she all right? How did she look?”

He shrugged. “I guess she was all right. I didn't talk to her, didn't want to scare her. She kept lookin' around, like somebody was goin' to tell her to get out of there. Just thought you might want to know I saw her.” His voice softened. “Ever since you brought her in here soakin' wet that day . . . well, wouldn't want that to be my mother, livin' like that.”

“Is your mother still living?”

“Eighty-eight, goin' on ninety, and feisty as ever.” Now he laughed.

“That's great.” Would my own mother live to be ninety? She was only in her seventies, but my dad had died at seventy-two. And I had no idea how old Lucy was . . .

“I don't know why Lucy doesn't stay at the shelter! She could sleep in a bed, get three decent meals a day.” I shook my head. “Anyway, thanks, Mr. Bentley. I better go. I've got a new program to implement and a Fun Night to plan for Friday night.”

“A Fun Night! What's that?”

I laughed. “Just what it sounds like! Having fun, playing games, doing group dances . . . you know.”

He grinned. “You mean, like the Mashed Potato, stuff like that?”

I grinned back at him. “I don't know about that. Wasn't that a sixties craze? You're showing your age, Mr. Bentley. But maybe you ought to come, show some of our residents a good time. Not all of them are old ladies, you know.” I gave him an exaggerated wink.

The bearded doorman shook his head. “Nah. I'd be the only guy—”

“Oh come on. There'll be some other men there.” I was sure Josh would come, and Mabel had said she was going to ask Peter Douglass to bring a few other “brothers” to give security. I laughed. “Just think about it.”

But Mr. Bentley didn't look convinced.

chapter 26

The week seemed to fly by quickly. My spirits had lightened considerably—partly because I was going to see my boys in a few days, partly because I'd stood up to Philip and bought a plane ticket, whether he liked it or not. Was it that easy? I mean, it wasn't like I wanted to be at odds with my husband, but in this case,
he'd
been the one who hadn't been acting reasonable. Good grief ! I hadn't seen my boys for a whole month! Mother's Day was coming up! I'd be gone all of two days.

It made perfect sense to me.

But for some reason I forgot to tell him I would be staying at work Friday evening too. Forgot? Or was some part of me still scared to upset him? He'd grumbled about me “going off and doing things on your own,” but he'd seemed to accept that I was going to see the boys. I was reluctant to push my luck.

I'd busied myself all week putting the first few programs in place. Josh Baxter said his mother was an elementary teacher in the public school system and could probably get me some ESL materials. When I talked to her—her name was Jodi, and she sounded friendly enough on the phone—I found out that Avis Douglass, the beautiful black woman who spoke at the Sunday Evening Praise the first time I'd shown up, was the principal at her school, and between the two of them, they could surely come up with materials, both basic English and basic Spanish. Since she's a teacher, I got brave and asked Jodi if she might consider coming in on Saturday to teach typing to some of the women like Kim who wanted to increase their job skills. She said she'd pray about it.

That took me aback. I expected her to say she'd think about it. It made me feel funny. Had
I
prayed about anything this past week? Edesa had said she'd pray that I'd trust God and He'd show me “the right path.” But had I prayed about the sailing-or-parade dilemma?

Maybe not. I did what I thought was right . . . or had I just gambled on who would be madder at me if I let them down—Philip or the shelter residents? To put it bluntly, would Philip have forgiven me like Aida did if I'd disappointed him?

There was no way I was going to disappoint the residents
this
weekend. I screwed up the courage to tell Philip on Friday morning that I'd be late getting home that evening because I'd organized a Fun Night.

“Tonight? Good grief. You're going to be gone clear till Monday, Gabrielle. The least you could've done was save tonight so we could go out to dinner or a movie or something.”

“I'm sorry, Philip. That's just the way it worked out. I should have told you sooner.” I felt like gritting my teeth. I was so sick of apologizing.

The intercom interrupted, and I hustled to open the front door for Camila, leaving him muttering, “So what am I supposed to do all weekend while you're off gallivanting?”

A few minutes later, the short, squarish cleaning woman came into the gallery bundled up in a jacket, her head scarf and round face glistening and damp. “Good morning, Camila! Oh dear, you're wet. Is it raining this morning?”

Sí,
Señora Fairbanks. And getting colder again. Be sure to “ dress warm—”

“And where were
you
last week?” My husband's voice cut her off as he came into the gallery with his suit coat and briefcase. “I heard you asked for the day off because it was a Mexican holiday last week. But the parade and festivities weren't until Sunday!” He glared at her.

Her eyes rounded in fright. “No, no,
señor
, it wasn't for the parade.
Mi esposo
is a cook for a restaurant, good Mexican food, and I help him cook food in the restaurant booth during the whole festival—Thursday to Sunday! I did not even get to see the parade.”

I smiled smugly. I knew she'd have a good reason.

“Well . . . don't expect me to pay you for work you didn't do.” Philip grabbed a felt dress hat from the hat rack and huffed out the door.

Camila looked at me, her eyes frightened. “Oh,
señora,
I did not expect you to pay!”

“I know you didn't, Camila. Don't mind him; he's just in a bad mood this morning.” I helped her out of her jacket and hung it up in the coat closet. “I wish I'd known you had a vendor's booth at the festival. I would have loved to come.”

“Oh, you should have come! We would have cooked
carnitas
or
chamorros
for you special.” As we chatted, I felt a little guilty and grateful at the same time. Her arrival had deflected Philip's rant at me and given him something else to be mad about.

Camila was right. The warm temperatures of the past several days had taken a dive, and it was barely in the forties again—and raining, to boot. Forewarned, I took along an extra pair of slacks, socks, and shoes to work, as well as my umbrella, and by the time I got to Manna House, I'd determined to forget about Philip and his infantile behavior. Which I did, because a pleasant surprise came walking through the door right after the morning Bible study . . .

Lucy showed up again.

“Lucy!” I gave the old woman a hug, though she was badly in need of a bath. “I see you decided to show up for our party!”

“What party? Who has time for a party?” But her eyes glittered.

The old woman's cough was back; otherwise, she was as feisty as ever. After lunch, Estelle Williams rounded up several of the other residents who were “in” that day to help make snacks for the evening, while Lucy poked her nose into their business and snitched a sample of everything. Precious McGill and her daughter Sabrina showed up after school and organized the after-school kids to twist crepe paper decorations and tape them to the walls of the multipurpose room. By the time supper had been cleared away—a simple affair of macaroni and cheese, sausage links, and applesauce on paper plates—excitement for the evening ahead had pumped up, and the multipurpose room was filled with chatter long before seven o'clock.

Josh and Edesa Baxter showed up with Gracie, who was always a hit with the shelter residents. I was surprised how easily they let the baby be passed from person to person. Wasn't Gracie just getting over ear infections? Estelle, who'd changed into a royal blue caftan she'd made herself and put on dangly gold ear-rings, finally stole Gracie and kept her. “You just want an excuse not to dance and get all sweaty,” I teased.

She arched an eyebrow. “Exactly. This has to be dry-cleaned.”

Peter Douglass showed up with another “brother” named Carl, and Josh said he thought his parents might come too. I felt good. This party was getting a lot of support.

To kick off our Fun Night, we started with a game of Steal the Bacon for anyone who wanted to play, and ended up with two teams of eight big-and-little people each. I numbered off each team, put them behind masking-tape lines at opposite ends of the room, tossed a dish towel tied into a knot into the center, then called a number—“Six!”—and the two “Sixes” ran toward the middle, danced around and around the knotted towel, trying to grab it and run back to their masking-tape line without getting tagged by the other “Six.” The kids were better at this game than the adults, snatching the rag and darting back to their line to the hoots and cheers of the rest of us on the sidelines.

When one team was declared the winner with ten “steals,” Precious put a CD on the Manna House boom box, turned up the volume, and within minutes, had nearly everyone in the middle of the floor doing the Macarena—even me. Right arm forward, then left. Right palm up, then left. Right hand to left shoulder, ditto left . . . right hand to neck, then the left . . . hands to hips, wiggle the pelvis, turn ninety degrees and start all over again . . .

I was laughing, getting lost, trying again, slapping the wrong hip at the wrong time, when I heard the door buzzer. Probably Peter Douglass and his friend Carl—they'd slipped outside a while ago—now wanting back in. I was closest to the foyer, so I ducked out of the multipurpose room and opened the big oak door. Peter and Carl came past me, but a third man stood on the steps, wearing slacks and a sport coat, with a dark open-necked shirt and a gold chain circling his neck. He nodded a polite greeting, revealing a familiar bald dome. Brown face, short gray beard running from one ear around his chin to the other . . .

My face burst into a grin. “Mr. Bentley!”

Flying was not one of my favorite activities. I avoided window seats—or closed the shade if I had no choice—squeezed my eyes shut during takeoff, and kept telling myself I was just inside a big, long, noisy building. But I couldn't help grinning to myself on the American Airlines flight to Richmond the next morning. Mr. Bentley had been a big hit at the Manna House Fun Night. Once I introduced him as “a friend of mine,” he was dragged into the middle of the Macarena—and his popularity skyrocketed when he insisted on teaching us the Mashed Potato. “Who else knows this oldie but goodie?” he'd teased.

His gaze had zeroed in on Estelle, who protested, “Hey, I was only ten when that one came out!” But then the two of them cut the rug with such hilarity that everyone else jumped in, filling the multipurpose room with music and laughter.

Everyone said the Fun Night was a huge success. It made me wish I'd invited Philip to come. Maybe it would have changed his attitude about my job and given him a chance to meet the staff firsthand.

Or not. But I'd never know unless I asked him . . .

The flight landed on time at 1:55 Eastern time, but it was nearly three o'clock by the time I got my bag, picked up my rental SUV, and headed down Route 295 toward Petersburg. Four o'clock by the time I drove into the countrified hamlet of Briarwood just outside Petersburg and into the winding driveway of the Fairbanks home.