Who Do I Lean On? (25 page)

Well, let him go hungry. He wouldn't forget tomorrow.

Scattered clouds dotted the sky over Chicago, but the temperature was a pleasant seventy degrees as Paul and I walked toward Sunnyside Magnet School. Suddenly my heart felt so full, I felt like doing a little jig right there on the sidewalk . . . but I settled for giving Paul a sudden sideways hug.

“Mo-om!” My twelve-year-old pulled away, looking around in a panic. “What if somebody sees you?”

“Sorry, kiddo.” I meekly resumed walking straight ahead, but couldn't help the big grin on my face. “I'm just so . . . so grateful that you're here, that I get a chance to walk you to school today, that I might just burst—and then you'll have a big mess to clean up right here on the sidewalk.” I laughed and he rolled his eyes, but I was rewarded with a grin as he shook his head at his hopeless mother.

“Hey, Paul!” a youthful voice yelled. “Wait up!”

We turned to see Sammy and Tanya hurrying to catch up with us a block from the school. Sammy was so excited he ran at the mouth. “I didn't know you was goin' to Sunnyside too! What grade you in? Man, I hope I don't get ol' Bean Face for anything this year—she the strictest P.E. teacher ever. You probably on the third floor with the older kids. You gonna do band? I wanna do band, but they don't let you start till sixth grade . . .”

The two boys walked ahead of us, then Paul turned and waved us off. Tanya and I stopped and let them go into the school yard alone. “Oh, Miss Gabby,” Tanya breathed. “If we get to move into your building like you say, maybe Paul can walk Sammy to school every day. That would make me so happy . . . mm-mm. Jesus, Jesus! Thank You, Jesus!” Tanya gave me a spontaneous hug. “Things be lookin' up for us now, Miss Gabby. I just know it.”

Yes, thank You, Jesus
. Even as I waved good-bye to my young friend from the shelter and walked home to get my car—I'd need it later that day to pick up P.J. and Jermaine at Lane Tech as Mabel and I had agreed—I was convicted by Tanya's spontaneous thanksgiving to God. I felt so grateful to have a home for my sons, so glad they were with me and enrolled in school here in Chicago instead of a thousand miles away in Virginia, so excited about the future of the House of Hope . . . but was I giving thanks to God for how far He'd brought us in the past two months? For how far we'd come from those first few terrible weeks after Philip had abandoned me?

Philip .
. . A messy stew of anger, confusion, and sadness threatened to boil up and consume my glad heart. He'd gotten so
weird
lately, almost as if he'd forgotten that he'd kicked me out of house and home, and was wrestling with some monkey on his back. And what in the world did Estelle mean by saying, “That man of yours is in real trouble now!” when I mentioned Philip's meeting with Fagan-somebody. She'd taken off like a shot to tell Harry, of all people. Why would they care who his clients were?

I put a lid on the stew. I didn't want to think about Philip. Today was a happy day and I wanted to sing some praises to God, like Jodi Baxter and Edesa and their Yada Yada sisters did. I stuck a CD in the player of the Subaru as I drove the few blocks between my six-flat and Manna House, and there it was. My song. The song that had been a spiritual lifeboat to me in those first dark days at the shelter. I belted it out along with the CD . . .

Where do I go . . . when the storms of life are raging
?

Who do I talk to . . . when nobody wants to listen
?

Who do I lean on . . . when there's no foundation stable
?

I go to the Rock I know that's able, I go to the Rock! . .
.

I was still humming and doing a white-girl jive to the gospel song as I came into the shelter. Angela Kwon eyed me suspiciously as I signed in at the receptionist's cubby. “What are you all happy about, Mrs. Curly Top?”

“First day of school.” I grinned.

“Oh yeah. No kids. Maybe it'll be quieter around here during the day now.”

“Nope, that's not the reason. I'm just thankful that God”—
there, I said it!
—“gave my kids back to me and I got them into decent schools!” I swiveled my head. “Is Mabel in yet?”

At Angela's nod, I crossed the foyer and knocked at the office door, still humming. But when I heard the director's familiar, “Come!” the song in my heart suddenly twitched and died, replaced by an uneasy misgiving. Mabel and I hadn't actually talked since a week ago, when she'd suddenly turned tables on me and said I bore some responsibility for the demise of my marriage. We'd both backed off the touchy subject, but I'd basically avoided getting into another actual conversation.

Still, I opened the door and peeked in. “Got a minute? I have something I want to run by you regarding the House of Hope plans.”

Mabel looked up. “Yes. I need to talk to you too.”

Uh-oh
. Feeling even more uneasy, I closed the door behind me and sat down in the chair beside her desk. “Oh. Okay. What's up?”

“About our conversation last week . . .”

I squirmed. I really did
not
want to talk about Philip and me right now, especially if she was going to dump more guilt into my lap.

“I think I owe you an apology.”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I . . . well, for one thing, I let my concern about you not telling your husband about this job simmer way too long without saying anything. So when I did say something—after he'd kicked you out and disappeared with your boys—it sounded like I was blaming you for
that
, as if it was your fault. I'm sorry for that.” She sighed.

I didn't trust myself to speak right then. She'd sounded so . . . so “righteous” the last time we talked. What brought about this revelation?

Almost as if she read my mind, a corner of Mabel's mouth tipped in a wry grimace. “I was listening to 1390 on the radio a few days ago—you know, the gospel music station—and a Christian counselor was saying we in the church too often blame the victim in our rush to find a ‘quick fix' for hurting marriages. True, I was concerned about the communication breakdown between you two. But no one
deserves
the kind of emotional abuse you've experienced, Gabby. Especially the constant belittling that made you afraid to talk to your own husband about this job.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Thank you.” The words came out husky and I fished for a tissue. Why did I always end up crying in Mabel's office? I quickly pushed away the niggling notion that there might be some truth in what she'd said last week. She'd apologized, hadn't she?

Mabel picked up a pencil and rolled it between the fingers of both hands. “Uh . . . but there is something else I need to talk about.”

I dabbed at my eyes.
Now
what?

“About P.J. and Jermaine.”

“Oh.” I tensed up again. I was pretty sure what was coming. The picnic—

“I don't think it's going to work out for P.J. and Jermaine to ride together to school.”

“Why? P.J. was ready on time this morning when you came by. And I plan to pick them up—”

“It's not that. P.J. didn't talk to Jermaine the whole way to school—which I can deal with. We can't force the boys to be friends. But two blocks away from the school, P.J. suddenly ordered me to stop. He wanted out, said he'd walk the rest of the way. I refused. It wasn't safe. There was no good place to pull over, not with rush-hour traffic at that time of the morning. Besides, you and I had agreed on a drop-off and pick-up spot, and I wasn't about to change that without discussion. So I pulled into the parking lot . . . but then P.J. wouldn't get out of the car until Jermaine got out and walked away. Then he got out and ran past him, but I could tell he said something snotty in passing. And after hearing what he called Jermaine at the picnic, I have a pretty good idea.”

My heart sank like a lead weight into my belly. “Oh, Mabel. I'm so sorry. I'll talk to P.J. I don't know why he's—”

She held up her hand like a stop sign. “Fine. But I don't want Jermaine getting hurt while P.J. is learning how to behave like a decent human being. That boy is already fragile. He's been called names all his life by other kids because he's more effeminate— might as well say it—than the average boy. But I'm not going to put him into a situation where he's going to be belittled before he even starts his school day.” Mabel leaned forward and said softly, “You of all people ought to understand what I'm saying, Gabby.”

chapter 24

Mabel was ready to scrap our plan to share rides then and there, but I begged her to let me pick up both boys today as we'd planned, and I would make sure P.J. acted decently toward Jermaine. “We don't want to let P.J. think his rude behavior got him what he wanted, do we? Not riding with Jermaine, I mean.”

She pursed her lips for a moment or two, and then reluctantly agreed. Maybe because she'd backed off from last week's conversation, I suddenly got up and gave my boss a hug. “I'm with you one hundred percent on this, Mabel,” I whispered in her ear, “even though it hurts that it's
my
son who's acting like a jerk.” This time Mabel was the one who reached for the tissue box.

I headed for the door, but almost belched a hysterical laugh when I heard Mabel say, “Oh, one more thing, Gabby . . . didn't you say you had something you wanted to talk about when you first came in?”

I started to wave her off, thinking I'd had enough of talking with Mabel for one session. Then decided I should act like an adult. I turned and sat down again. “Well, this might sound crazy, but . . .”

She listened while I ran through Jodi's and my new idea for the House of Hope. Two of our best volunteers—Josh and Edesa Baxter—desperately needed a larger apartment. The House of Hope could use a property manager on site, and we already knew Josh was pretty handy around the shelter. “I could reduce their rent or something in exchange for helping me keep up the property.”

A slow grin lit up Mabel's face. “What a wonderful idea, Gabby! Why not? It's up to the property owner, not the city, to say how many apartments are available for second-stage housing. I put down five on the application to the Housing Trust Fund, but changing it to four is no problem. And”—her smile got bigger— “isn't that just like God to make a way out of no way for His children? How long have Josh and Edesa been looking for a bigger apartment? Could be they haven't found anything because God had something better in mind than just finding an apartment! And to tell you the truth, it makes your crazy House of Hope idea a lot more viable to have more staff on site.”

I was so excited by her response I wanted to call Josh and Edesa on the spot with the proposal. And then I remembered. “There's, uh, just one hitch. Precious and Tanya. I've told both of them they're at the top of the list to get an apartment when we sign the final papers with the city. But there are only two apartments available.”

Mabel leaned forward, all professional again. “Gabby. There's no way Tanya and Sammy need a
three
-bedroom apartment. Or even Precious and Sabrina! It's perfectly legit to offer them a shared apartment. A lot of second-stage housing units are shared. There's one in the city for single women, and each apartment is shared by three women. It's still an apartment with all the amenities of home—living room, dining room, kitchen . . . and closets!” She smiled. “Believe me, sometimes I think that's what shelter women miss most. Having their own closet.”

I wanted to believe her. “But if Precious and Tanya are expecting their own place . . .”

“Make it temporary if you want to. When another apartment comes available, you can shuffle things around if that seems right.” She leaned forward again. “Gabby, the important thing is to make sure you're listening to God and asking the Holy Spirit to guide you in these decisions. Are you prayed up about this? Even the best idea can fall flat if God's not in it. The Bible says, ‘Unless the Lord builds the house—'”

“‘—its builders labor in vain,'” I finished. “I know, I know. Haven't really prayed about this—it just came up yesterday when the Baxters were helping me clean up one of the empty apartments.”

“Well then. Now's as good a time as any.” Mabel reached across her desk and took both my hands in hers. “Lord,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut, “I've got Gabby Fairbanks by the hand and we're coming to You with another one of her crazy, wonderful ideas . . .”

I spent most of the morning working with Carolyn getting the schoolroom ready to start the afterschool program that afternoon. She'd been haunting garage sales all weekend and showed up with two boxes of kid books to use as readers. I sorted through them, taping the ones with loose covers or torn pages. “Oh, wow, these take me back.” I laughed, holding up a handful of thin paperbacks about the Berenstain Bears. “And all these Scholastic Junior Classics!
Robin Hood . . . Wind in the Willows . . . Alice in Wonderland . .
.” I set aside a couple that needed mending. “This is great, Carolyn.”