Where Do I Go? (32 page)

The SUV hummed its way back to the Fairbanks' “country suburban” home near Petersburg in the warm night air, still in the midseventies. Mike Fairbanks rode in the front seat with Philip, while Marlene and I chose our corners on the soft leather seat in back. Chatter about the award ceremonies and how proud we were of “our boys” turned to polite questions about Chicago. With a note of pride, Philip confidently described the accounts he and Henry had been able to land in the last six weeks.

“That's right,” I chimed in. “I'm proud of Philip. Fairbanks and Fenchel has gotten a good footing in Chicago in a short time.”

His father
harrumph
ed. “Well, that's good, Philip. I'm real happy for you. Just don't lose those accounts by getting cocky and trying designs that are more fluff than functional.”

“Fluff !” A flash of anger hardened Philip's voice. “I don't do
fluff
, Dad. I do bold, I do cutting-edge . . . I just don't do old and tired.”

“Watch your mouth, young man!” the senior Fairbanks snapped. “The Fairbanks name means something here in Virginia. Quality. Heritage and tradition.”

Even in the dim interior, I saw Philip's mouth turn into a thin line and his eyes dart to the rearview mirror, where he caught his mother's eye. Marlene blew her son a silent kiss. “Don't you worry, Mike dear,” she purred. “Philip is going to make a name for himself in Chicago.”

“
Humph
. Make a name for himself . . . He already had a name here to live up to—if he could.”

The tension in the car thickened until I thought I might suffocate. I pushed the button to roll down my window, inviting a snap from Philip. “Gabby. I've got the air on.” I rolled it partway up.

We rode in silence through the winding roads. Then Mike Fairbanks growled, “I'm just thinking about the boys, Philip. It's one thing for you to have your fling, get some of these newfangled ideas out of your system—”

I saw Philip's hands tighten on the steering wheel at the word “fling.”

“—but what are the boys going to do in a big city like Chicago? They've already got a good start at George Washington; they've got their friends
and
a family business to take over when the time is right.”

Philip's mother took over. “Well, of course they'll continue their schooling at George Washington, darling. Philip knows the boys love it here, and he knows they're always welcome to stay with us.”

Of all the—!
How dare they talk as if I had no say in my sons' future! I opened my mouth, ready to blast them all.
“Forget it! The
boys aren't coming back to Virginia in the fall. They're our sons, and
they belong with us!”
But all I got out was, “I'm sorry. We haven't made that decision yet—” before Marlene interrupted, still purring, but more like a bobcat than a kitty.

“I'm not worried about Philip, darling. He'll do the Fairbanks family proud . . . if certain people don't tarnish the name with their own foolish ideas.”

I stiffened in the darkness.
Wait a minute.
What did she mean by “certain people”? Did she mean Henry Fenchel? . . . or me?

chapter 31

Even after we unloaded our suitcases and squirreled away in the guest suite of his parents' beautiful home, Philip was still fuming. “The old fart! I thought he'd be over his little tantrum about me starting my own business by now. Well, he can just stuff his opinion up his you-know-where—”

It wasn't a conversation. I let him rant while I brushed the snarls out of my Orphan Annie hair, wishing I had the nerve to complain about his mother's little dig. I did suggest maybe we could change our tickets to leave Friday instead of Saturday, but he just rolled his eyes. “No way. I'm not going to let him run me off.” He flopped on the bed, the steam dissipating. “Let's just make the best of it and enjoy the graduation tomorrow. I don't want to dis-appoint my mom. They do adore the boys, you know.”

Argh!
Now I was fuming. Why didn't he just stand up to his parents? His father goaded him, made him feel like a failure waiting to happen, while his mother dripped sweetness that stuck like flies on flypaper.

Only later in the darkness, listening to Philip's soft snoring, did I realize that the little interaction in the car between father and son was a mirror of how Philip treated me.

Summer temperatures settled over Virginia the next day like a wool blanket with no sheet. Hot. Sticky. Scratchy. We sweated in the ancient hall that still boasted no air-conditioning, fanned our way through the graduation ceremonies with our programs, and glared at the families who cheered when their son's name was called even after the headmaster requested that applause be held until
all
the graduates' names had been called . . . Then it was over, and the four of us stood outside under a shade tree, watching indulgently while P.J. and Paul tussled with their friends on the wide lawn, acting out because all the adults were watching.

Philip and I did the final room checks with the boys in their dorms. Good thing, since we found an overdue library book, a single dirty sock, and a wadded-up T-shirt under P.J.'s bunk, and Paul's suitcase wouldn't close because he'd just stuffed everything into it willy-nilly. But the resident assistant finally stamped their room inspection cards, which the boys and I had to have in hand at the registrar's office in order to pick up their report cards. When we got back to the car, waving cards that were mostly Bs sandwiched between an occasional A and C, Philip and his father had loaded the boys' suitcases, trunks, and sports equipment . . . and then we were off.

“Can I play lacrosse next year, Dad?” P.J. hollered from the third seat as we headed down the long drive that led off-campus. “Most of my friends are going to sign up for the Upper School's junior team.”

“Don't see why not, son.”

I turned in my seat. “What Dad means, P.J., is that we'd love to see you play lacrosse. But with the move to Chicago, we can't make any promises about anything just yet.”

“But, Mom! Dad just said—”

“We'll talk about it, okay, P.J.? Just not now. Hey, I'm hungry. How about you boys? What would you like? This is a special day. P.J., you choose.”

But P.J. had flopped back in his seat, arms folded, lips tightly pressed, glaring out the window.

“Pizza Hut!” Paul offered.

Philip groaned from the driver's seat. “At least let's do Sal's and Brothers pizza.”

I tried to laugh off P.J.'s sulk. “Hey, did you boys know Chicago has the best pizza in the world?”

I let out a long sigh of relief once our American Airlines flight to Chicago was in the air on Saturday. Paul was in the window seat next to me in business class, playing with a handheld electronic game, a gift from his grandfather. Philip and Philip Jr. sat across the aisle. Finally it was the four of us. A family again.

I leaned my seat back and closed my eyes. The rest of our visit with the Fairbanks had gone reasonably well, I thought, with the exception of a conversation between Philip and his mother I'd overheard the previous night . . .

“Of course the boys will be returning to George Washington
Academy in the fall, Philip! You said that was the plan before you moved
to Chicago. They're already registered! I don't understand why
Gabrielle—”

“I know, Mother. But she's their mother, and of course she misses
them. Right now she doesn't want to think about them coming back. But
things may look different after a couple of months. Give her time. And
like you said, they're already registered. It won't hurt to look at the
Chicago academies and consider our options.”

I glanced across the aisle, where P.J. was plugged into his own iPod world—a graduation gift, also from his grandparents. Of course the boys were already registered at George Washington Academy, but so what? We'd done that last January, before moving to Chicago had even blipped onto the family radar. All we had to do was tell the school we'd moved out of state and get our deposit back . . .

A flicker of uncertainty licked at the edges of my thoughts.
What if it's too late to register for any of the Chicago-area private
schools?

No. I wasn't going to let doubt make me afraid. Didn't Philip say it wouldn't hurt to consider our options? Said it to his mother's face, in fact! But why hadn't Philip and I talked about this before?
Really
talked, and come to a decision. Decided who was going to check out the Chicago schools, make applications . . .

“When I am afraid, I will trust in God . . . I trust in God, why
should I be afraid?”

I let slip a small smile. I wasn't used to thinking Scripture verses, but Edesa's Bible studies at the shelter seemed to stick on me. Okay, I was afraid. I wished I'd brought my Bible so I could look up those verses in the Psalms, but that was a habit I hadn't revived.
Yet.
I needed to get one of those travel-size Bibles I could tuck in my purse so I wouldn't look like some fanatic Bible-thumper . . . if that mattered. What was a “Bible-thumper” anyway? People like Edesa Baxter, who loved to study the Bible? Mabel Turner, who always had the right scripture for me? Avis Douglass, the classy elementary school principal who preached at the shelter once a month, encouraging women on the down-and-out?

I felt a tad guilty. Okay, forget whether I'd look like a Bible-thumper or not. But a travel-size Bible would still be a good idea.

Paul seemed awestruck by the view from the penthouse's glass wall in the front room. “We
live
up here? Wow! Is that really a lake? It looks like the ocean!” Then my youngest turned eyes of concern on me. “Don't you get a little, you know, queasy up here, Mom?”

I nearly melted.

His brother was already staking out territory. “Awww-riight! My own room. Mom, I want a lock so I can keep Punkhead here out.”

I delighted in all the noise and chatter, giving the boys time to explore while I started a “welcome home” dinner sure to please—Southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes, creamy gravy, buttered green beans. Philip called for a cart to get the boys' lug-gage up the elevator, then disappeared into the den to check phone and e-mail messages and go through the mail, which was fine by me.

“Hey, P.J.! Paul! Come set the table, okay? Supper's almost ready!”

Twin groans radiated from both bedrooms down the hall. “Aww, do we have to?”

Philip appeared, waving an envelope. “Oh, give 'em a break, Gabby. It's their first night in Chicago. But I think they'll like what Henry sent us . . .”

Philip handed the envelope to P.J. as we sat down to dinner. Our oldest crowed. “Cubs tickets! Hey, look, Punkhead! Four tickets to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field!” P.J. squinted at the fine print. “Tomorrow? Against Atlanta? Aww-riiight. Thanks, Dad!”

“You're welcome, buddy. Now, how about passing some of that chicken over here?”

I flinched. The Cubs tickets were
my
surprise. Why did Philip take the credit?
Well, just say so, Gabby. It's not a big deal. “Actually,
boys, the tickets were my idea—but they're from both of us.” Or
something.

But the opportunity passed, and the more seconds that ticked away, the more awkward I felt bringing it up.
So let it go, Gabby.
I did, smiling as the boys poured too much gravy over everything. But a too-familiar crack tore wider in my spirit.

The boys were totally berserk with excitement as we joined the crowd of Cubs fans on the Red Line El Sunday afternoon. Ninety percent of the riders got off at the Addison El Station, where Wrigley Field towered just a block away. The weather cooperated, draping Chicago with a bright, sunny day and temps heading into the nineties. I smiled happily. Looked like Chicago's rainy season might be over.

I had brought a backpack full of water bottles and snacks, but a security guard wouldn't let us in unless I dumped it all. “No food or beverages allowed inside the park,” he growled. “Club rules. You can buy it inside.”

I started to argue, but Philip took the backpack away from me and dumped the offending contents into the nearest trash can. “Come on, Gabby. That's just the way it is.”

It was all I could do to keep from diving back into the trash can to retrieve it. Dump perfectly good food and water just so we could pay twice as much for it inside? When there were people like Lucy digging through Dumpsters, hoping for something to eat? Felt downright sinful to me.

Let it go, Gabby.

The game was exciting, even though I didn't follow the base-ball teams much. Wrigley Field roared with happy fans as the score nudged upward, first the Cubs ahead, then the Braves. Between innings, Philip and the boys put away three hot dogs each, plus nachos and peanuts, washed down with soft drinks and two large beers for Philip. Well, at least he wasn't driving.