Where Do I Go? (33 page)

At the close of the ninth inning, the Braves won by one measly run—13 to 12. But the loss didn't dampen the boys' gusto. Philip bought Cubs caps and pennants for them on our way out of the stadium, and Chicago suddenly had two new Cubby fans.

I felt pretty smug. A Cubs game was a perfect way to help our sons own the move to Chicago. Even the ride on the El was exciting to them, in spite of having to stand in the swaying car, jammed like human sardines. I tried to think . . . was this Philip's first time taking public transportation? Well, good. Now he had some idea of how I got to work each day.

As the train passed the Sheridan El stop, I nudged P.J., who was hanging on to the nearest pole. “This is where I get off to go to work.”

He looked at me funny. “Where do you work?”

“At a homeless shelter. You know. I told you. I'm the program director.”

He wrinkled his face. “That's weird.”

“I'll take you sometime—so you can see where I work.” I looked at my watch. Sunday Evening Praise would be starting in an hour or so. Pastor Álvarez's Spanish church would be there. I was halfway tempted . . .

No. One step at a time.

The four of us got off at Berwyn and walked toward Richmond Towers, which rose in the distance. My mind was tumbling over things Philip and I needed to talk about in the next few days. Sailing camp didn't start till mid-June, but then ran for four weeks. If I took the boys to see their grandmother in North Dakota next week, that just left the rest of this week—four measly days after the Memorial Day weekend—to juggle between us. But even before we planned the boys' summer, we had to talk about school—

“
Streetwise
! Get your new issue of
Streetwise
right here!”

Just ahead of us on the first corner, a black man in a knit hat and a few missing teeth was peddling the newspaper. “
Streetwise
! Only one dollar!
Streetwise
!”

I rummaged in the backpack for my wallet, pulled out a dollar, and got a copy of the newspaper and a “God bless you, lady!” in exchange. I hurried to catch up to Philip, who had already walked ahead several yards, then realized the boys had fallen behind. Turning, I saw P.J. mimicking the man, covering his teeth with his lips as if he were toothless and pretending to call out,
“Streetwise!”
while Paul snickered. Before I even thought about it, I grabbed my firstborn by the collar, practically jerking him off his feet.

“Ow!” P.J. yelped, trying to pull away.

I put my face nose to nose with his thirteen-year-old mug. “Don't let me
ever
catch you doing something like that again, young man!” I hissed.

chapter 32

Hustling the boys out of earshot of the
Streetwise
vendor, I turned both of them to face me. “That man has had troubles you can't even imagine, but he's working for a living and trying to make a better life. He deserves to be treated with respect. He has a
name
. It's on his
Streetwise
badge. Maybe he has kids your age he's trying to support. Did you ever think of that?”

“You don't have to yell.” P.J. looked at me beneath sullen eyelids.

“You think this is yelling?” I had deliberately lowered my voice to avoid embarrassing the boys in public. “Yelling is what I'm going to do if you
ever
disrespect someone like that again.” I turned on my heel and marched off to meet up with Philip, who had turned around, frowning.

Behind me I heard Paul mumble, “Gee, if that homeless guy has kids, I bet they don't want anyone to know
he's
their dad.” I ignored it and marched on.

Philip didn't see what the big deal was. “Good grief, Gabby,” he said when I told him what happened. “They were just goofing around. They're kids!”

“That's no excuse! Philip, I work with homeless people like that—not with men, but some of the women at Manna House sell
Streetwise
too. What if that had been one of the women I know by name, someone I've eaten lunch with, who's told me her story, someone who's excited about some of the program ideas I've started?”

Philip looked back to be sure the boys were still following, then started to push through the revolving door of Richmond Towers. “Ah. I get it. This is about you. You don't want the boys to embarrass you.”

My mouth hung open as the door swallowed him and spit him out on the other side. I pushed myself through to make sure he didn't get away. “No! I just made it personal, because it's easy to mimic someone or laugh at them when you don't know them, don't know anything about them. It doesn't have anything to do with me being embarrassed.”

We passed the weekend doorman—“door dude” was more like it—who ignored us as Philip swiped his security card for the inner door. As he held the door open, waiting for the boys to catch up with us, Philip leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Maybe not, Gabby. But did it ever occur to you that your choice of company might embarrass your
sons
?”

The boys, being boys, forgot about our little spat by the time we got to the top floor. Philip rode above it as though it had nothing to do with him. But I was upset. Upset that the boys had behaved so rudely—P.J. in particular, with no apology—and upset at Philip's insinuation. It just made me determined: I was going to take the boys to the shelter this week, introduce them to the staff and residents, let them hang out, and find something they could do to contribute.

Memorial Day turned out to be a bust, holiday-wise. Big clouds rolled up over the lake, throwing lightning darts and growling thunder just as we were getting ready to go downtown to see the Memorial Day parade. The boys stomped off to flop in front of the TV, but Philip didn't seem too disappointed. “I've got a lot of catch-up work to do anyway. You and the boys do . . . whatever.” He headed for the den.

“Philip, wait a minute.” I followed him into the den and shut the door behind me. “We need to talk about school for the boys next fall. I don't want to send them back to Virginia, not with us so far away. So we have to do something
now
.”

He was already booting up his computer. “So what's stopping you? You're the one who's hot to find an alternative. When you find something that compares to George Washington Prep, then let's talk.”

That took me aback. I thought for sure Philip would want to be in the driver's seat when it came to choosing a school for any child of his carrying the Fairbanks name. I'd held back, not wanting to step into territory he'd already claimed. But I wasn't about to question this turnabout.

“All right. I will. Thanks, Philip.”

He was already calling up his spreadsheets and opening files. “Mm-hm. Shut the door behind you, Gabby.”

Oh my goodness.
If I'd known it would be this easy, I would have started weeks ago, as soon as he'd set his sights on Chicago. Today was a holiday, so schools would be closed. But at least I could get the phone directory and start making a list—

“Mom. I'm bored. There's nothin' to do.” Paul drifted into the kitchen, right behind his whine.

“How about . . .” I racked my brain, then picked up the phone and dialed 0-1. “Mr. Bentley? Oh, good, you're here today. Be right down.” I turned to Paul. “Where's P.J.? I have somebody I'd like you to meet.”

I managed to pry P.J. away from the widescreen TV in the living room, which was televising the rather wet Memorial Day parade, and we rode down to the lobby in the elevator. Mr. Bentley was standing in front of the half-circular desk, spiffy as usual in his blue uniform. I gave him a wide smile. “Boys, I'd like you to meet my friend, Mr. Bentley. You'll see a lot of him. He
rules
this roost.”

“Mrs. Fairbanks,” he said, doffing his cap. “You're back from Virginia, I see. And this must be the young man who just graduated from middle school.” Mr. Bentley held out his hand to P.J. “Congratulations, young man. And welcome to Chicago.”

P.J. shook Mr. Bentley's hand with all the enthusiasm of a limp noodle. Mr. Bentley didn't seem to notice—or chose to ignore it. He turned to Paul. “What about you, young man? Do you have a name, or should I give you a street name? Like your mom.” He looked side to side, as if casing the lobby for spies. “Her street name is Firecracker.”

“Wha—what?” I giggled, feeling my cheeks flush.

Mr. Bentley leaned closer to Paul's eye level and patted his own bald head. “You know. The, um, hair.”

Paul laughed out loud. “Nah. My dad calls her Mop Top. But only when he's in a really good mood.” He held out his hand. “I'm Paul. He's P.J.”

Mr. Bentley's eyebrows went up. “Ah. Now, what would that stand for? Pearl Jam? Para Jumper? . . . I know. Peter Jackson!
Lord
of the Rings—
”

Uh-oh.
I saw P.J.'s eyes flash. “No. It stands for Philip Fairbanks,
Junior.
” P.J. turned to me. “Come
on
, Mom. I thought we were going to do something.”

Mr. Bentley straightened. I wanted to apologize for my humor-less son, but Mr. Bentley pulled a couple of coupons out of his pocket. “Well, then. Maybe these will come in handy. Good for free doughnuts or ice cream at the Dunkin' Donuts a couple of blocks north of here.” He gave one to each of the boys. Paul's eyes lit up. P.J. gave a grudging nod of thanks. “And it seems to have stopped raining. Just in time.”

The doorman smiled, put his cap back on, and turned to greet another Richmond Towers resident coming in. I headed for the revolving door, eager to get out of there to cool off my flaming cheeks. I had so looked forward to introducing Mr. Bentley to my sons. Why was P.J. acting like such a jerk?

Give them time, Gabby. Give them time.
Right. They'd been in Chicago all of two days. They'd grown up in Deep South Suburbia. Had to be some culture shock.

We found the Dunkin' Donuts on Bryn Mawr and used the coupons to get ice cream for the boys while I splurged on an iced latte. As we came out of the shop, the sun was drying up the puddles, and the thunderheads were drifting westward. “Hey, guys. I know what let's do. Come on!” I headed for Richmond Towers once more—only this time, we skirted the high-rise for the park on the other side. Feeling a tickle of excitement, I started to run, leading the boys through the pedestrian tunnel beneath Lake Shore Drive . . . and introduced them to kicking off our shoes and splashing in the gurgling edges of Lake Michigan.

After all, I giggled as I chased first Paul and then P.J. along the wet sand, the boys and I were still dressed in the shorts and T-shirts we'd planned to wear to the parade. Even if we ran into Lucy Tucker—Miss Beach Police herself—she couldn't fuss at me.

Philip wasn't happy about my plan to take the boys to North Dakota for a week. “Good grief, Gabby, they just got here.”

“Yes, but you said yourself sailing camp doesn't start for another two weeks, and you wanted me to take time from work to spend with them. So I'm taking that week off.”

“I meant give up the stupid job, Gabby.”

I tensed. The boys were finally in bed and we were heading that way, but I didn't want to fight with Philip. I chose my words carefully. “Don't be unfair, Philip. You've already got them signed up for sailing camp, and after that there'll probably be something else. It doesn't need to be either-or. Besides, I need to go see my mom, and this would be the best time to take the boys too. It all works out.”

Philip pulled off his gym shoes and tossed them. “What about this week? You taking this week off too?” Socks came off, then his T-shirt, all ending in a pile with the shoes.

I bought time picking up his clothes and putting them into the laundry hamper. “No-o. But it's only four days. I thought I'd take them to work with me one day and show them around, then maybe do one of the museums for a half day. If you took them to work with
you
one day, why, that's three days already—”

“Take the boys to work with me?” Philip looked at me as if I'd suggested hanging the boys by their thumbs.

“Well . . . sure. I thought you'd want the boys to see your new office, meet your partner, and, you know, get a feel for what their dad does.”

“Sure. But that would take, what, one hour? Why don't
you
bring them to the office one day, on your way to the museum or something. And let me know exactly when you're coming. I've got a busy week.”

I kept back the tears until I was in the bathroom by myself, door locked, water running in the sink as I washed my face.
Oh
God, why is this so hard?
I looked at my face in the mirror—snarly curls askew, cheeks sunburned from our afternoon at Wrigley Field, mascara smudged from tears. Was I being stubborn? Should I have taken the job at Manna House? It had seemed like such a God thing. Mabel even said as much. But maybe I
should
quit—