by Neta Jackson
Thankful. Yes, she was thankful. Thankful she had a job too. But sometimes she wished they could just . . . slow down. Life wasn’t supposed to be this hectic, was it?
* * *
As Michelle left for work Wednesday morning, she noticed the small front porch of the brick bungalow on the southeast corner of Beecham was decorated with huge boughs of greenery. The family who lived there were orthodox Jews . . . Horowitz? Pretty sure that was their name. Wonder what that’s all about?
Passover had been several weeks back—at least that’s when the grocery stores had stocked up on kosher foods. Maybe she’d check it out online when she got home. Seemed like Christians ought to pay more attention to Jewish holidays and what they meant—after all, Jesus and his disciples were Jews and the Old Testament was part of the Christian Bible.
By the time she got home that evening—a little earlier than usual, since she still hadn’t connected with Jeffrey’s parents and was going to try again after supper—she saw the mother and two of the children at the corner house weaving flowers into the greenery. “That’s so pretty!” Michelle called out as she drove past—then on sudden impulse, she pulled to the curb and got out of the car. Would they think she was being nosy if she asked what was going on? But she was curious.
“Hello!” she called as she came up the short walk. “Your porch is so pretty. Is it a Jewish holiday today? . . . Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Michelle Jasper. I live at the other end of the block.” She held out her hand to the woman who stood on the steps weaving flowers into the greenery along the metal handrail.
The woman blushed but held out a slim hand. “Rebecca Horowitz. I saw you last weekend when Mrs. Krakowski came back.”
The young mother was quite pretty, her cheeks pink and tendrils of dark strands of hair escaping from the head covering she wore—a black baglike thing enveloping her long hair in back, totally different from the scarf that Farid’s wife wore. Like many of the Conservative Jewish women Michelle saw in the stores, Rebecca was also wearing a long, straight, ankle-length skirt, tights, and black shoes. Or were they Orthodox? She didn’t really know the difference.
“And these are Jacob and Ruthie.” Rebecca nodded at her two helpers. “Say hello to Mrs. Jasper.” Both children ducked their heads shyly. Michelle thought Jacob looked about four, his sister maybe five.
“What are the greenery and flowers for?” Michelle waved a hand at the decorations.
Rebecca blushed again. “Shavuot begins this evening. For two days.”
“Sha-voot? I’m sorry, I’m probably pronouncing it wrong.”
Rebecca smiled graciously. “It means Feast of First Weeks, also Feast of Firstfruits. To celebrate the giving of Torah to Moses.”
“Abba reads the whole Torah,” Ruthie piped up. “It takes a long time. But Ima reads the story of Ruth. I’m named after her.”
Michelle smiled at the little girl, dark-haired like her mother. “A pretty name. I like that story too. Well . . . thanks. I hope you don’t mind that I stopped. It’s very interesting.”
“It was nice of you to ask. Stop again sometime.”
Michelle gave a little wave and returned to the car. It was tempting to stay and talk, but she really should get home and start supper if she was going to go out again.
She had just pulled up in front of the house and got out of the minivan when she saw Estelle Bentley coming out of Grace Meredith’s house next door. “Hello!” she waved.
“Oh, Sister Michelle!” Estelle hurried her way. “I knocked at your door a while ago, but the kids said you weren’t home yet. I wanted to invite you to the prayer time Grace and I do from time to time.”
Michelle nodded. “I remember.” Estelle had caught her coming home from work a month or so ago, had sensed she’d had a particularly hard day and invited her into Grace’s home to pray. Michelle didn’t know either woman well, so it had felt a little awkward at first. She’d just come home from a frustrating meeting with Tavis’s teacher and the other parent about the bullying, on top of having to deal with a really difficult foster care situation that day. But there’d been something about Estelle’s concern for her challenges that had felt calming and supportive. But now . . . “I don’t usually get home till six or later most days—but thanks for thinking about me.”
“Well, if there’s anything we can pray for, you just let me know. We’d be glad to include you in our prayers. And we’d love to have you join us. ’Cause when women get together to pray, watch out! Things happen.” With a wink and a brief hug right there on the sidewalk, Estelle Bentley hurried across the street.
Michelle watched her new neighbor disappear into the two-flat. Of course she believed in prayer. Prayer was important . . . though she had to admit she often resented the Wednesday night prayer meeting at church, which felt like something she “should” do even though it took her away from home on a weeknight. But as she let herself into the house, Estelle’s words echoed inside her head . . .
“When women get together to pray, watch out! Things happen.”
The way Estelle said it . . . made one think God was really up to something.
Chapter 7
The house seemed awfully quiet as Michelle came in and dropped her purse and briefcase. “Hello? Anybody home?” No answer. Where were the twins? She looked at her watch. Not quite five. She was home early tonight. Had they gone out without phoning her?
But as she headed toward the kitchen, she heard the TV down in the family room and followed the sound down the basement steps. Jared was sprawled in his recliner in front of the TV early news, eyes closed, mouth open, glasses held loosely in the hand dangling over the side of the chair. Rescuing his glasses, she kissed him softly on the forehead. “Hey, you.”
He awoke with a start. “Oh . . . you’re home. Guess I fell asleep. Uh, what time is it?”
“Almost five. Where are the twins?”
“Uh”—he rubbed his eyes and slid his glasses back on—“shooting baskets over at the Bentleys. DaShawn showed up, asked if they could come over for a while.” He looked up at her sheepishly. “You’re home early, caught me napping.”
She sat down on the arm of the recliner facing him. “You get any sleep last night?”
He shrugged. “Six hours, more or less.” Then he grinned, caught her off balance, and pulled her down onto his lap. “Say, what’ve I got here? Empty house, beautiful woman . . .” Brushing her bangs back and wrapping both arms around her, he nuzzled her neck. “Mmm, you smell good. Could give a man ideas. Been a long time . . .”
Michelle laughed and snuggled closer, awkward as it was draped over his lap. Mmm. Felt so good to be held in Jared’s arms. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep last night, knowing his side of the bed would be empty all night. But tonight would be different—
Slam! “Dad? We’re home!” Tavis yelled from upstairs.
“Is Mom here? Her car’s outside!” Tabitha did a voice-over.
“Down here!” Michelle called, struggling to sit up and barely getting on her own two feet before the twins thudded down the basement stairs.
“I made more baskets than Tavis did!” Tabitha crowed.
“So? It wasn’t a real game.”
“So? I still got more than you did.”
“Enough, you two.” Michelle headed for the stairs. “Time to do your homework. I’m going to start supper. We have to eat a little earlier because I need to see a client tonight.” She shooed the kids back upstairs.
“What?”
Michelle heard the recliner footrest come down with a thump and Jared’s footsteps as he followed her up to the kitchen. She pulled out the chicken pieces she’d left that morning in the refrigerator to thaw and rummaged in the cupboard for a frying pan, aware that Jared was leaning against the kitchen doorjamb.
“You have to see a client tonight? But, honey, this is the first evening I’ve been home since Sunday! I thought . . . you know.”
“I know.” She busied herself flouring the chicken
, heating oil in the pan, and dropping the pieces in. “Hopefully won’t be gone too long. But every time I stopped in to see this kid’s family, the parents weren’t there.” She turned and eyed him. “Besides, you usually go to prayer meeting Wednesday nights, right?”
“Yeah, but we could go together.”
“Now that’s a hot date.” She tried to keep her voice teasing.
“Aw, come on, Michelle. What would Pastor think if his deacons didn’t show up at prayer meeting? And it’s only an hour or so.”
She didn’t answer. Don’t make an issue of this, she chided herself. She and Jared usually went to prayer meeting together if they didn’t have conflicts, leaving Destin at home to babysit the twins—who both insisted they were too old to be “babysat” and could stay home by themselves, thank you, without bossy big brother.
Covering the sizzling chicken with a splatter guard, Michelle turned around. “I’m sorry, hon. I’m sure I’ll be back by the time you get home. And then . . .” She walked over to him and slid an arm around his waist, pressing her body against his. Reaching up a finger, she traced his moustache and warm lips—then started to giggle at the flour dust she left on his face.
Slam! “I’m home! Somethin’ smells good! We ready to eat?”
Destin. Jared rolled his eyes and stole a quick kiss before untangling himself. “Does he come in like that every night?” Then he chuckled. “Ha! Flour’s back on you.”
* * *
Michelle and Jared left about the same time after supper in separate cars. Driving down Western Avenue toward the Near West Side, she half-hoped Jeffrey’s parents wouldn’t be there so she could turn around and come home again. No . . . totally selfish thought. What she really hoped is that somebody besides Jeffrey would be home so she wouldn’t have to turn him over to foster care.
As she backed into a parking space on the narrow residential street, she realized the area felt a lot more foreboding in the deepening dusk than it had in the sunshine. The few two-flats and single-family homes looked small and squished between the larger six-flats and twelve-unit apartment buildings that made up the block. Several streetlights were out, the others dim.
A better-lit street a couple of blocks down boasted a 7-Eleven on the corner, a bar, and a laundromat, not to mention a vacant lot and a burned-out building that had been boarded up for months. All of which served as hangouts for the young and unemployed. Mostly male. Gang signs decorated the sides of buildings and the underpass beneath the “L.”
Michelle took a deep breath before unlocking the door. Lord, I hope your guardian angels are on duty around here tonight. She got out, locked the minivan, and walked purposefully toward the two-flat several houses away, keys clutched like cat claws between her fingers in case anyone tried to bother her.
She made it up onto the wooden porch and rang the doorbell that said 1ST FL—LEWIS-COLEMAN without running into anyone. Lights were on in the first floor apartment, so she rang the doorbell again. Soon the front door opened and a slender, brown woman looked out, cigarette in her hand. She eyed Michelle warily.
“Ms. Coleman? I’m Michelle Jasper from Bridges Family Services. May I come in?”
The young woman took a drag on the cigarette, blew out the smoke, and then opened the door wider. “Yeah. Come on.”
Michelle followed her into the foyer and through a door into the first apartment. The woman waved a hand at the couch, which was covered with a flowered throw. “Go ahead, sit. You want somethin’ to drink? I got Coke. Or you want water?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” The offer of hospitality was a good sign. She’d been prepared for open hostility. Or a barrage of assurances that everything was fine. In those first moments at the door, the woman had seemed suspicious, but as her face relaxed, Michelle realized the she was quite attractive, her braided hair extensions gathered into a ponytail at the base of her neck. And young. Late twenties at the most.
“This is about Jeffrey, ain’t it. You wanna talk to him? I can get ’im.”
“No. Actually I need to talk to you.”
Jeffrey’s mother sank onto an ottoman that had seen better days. “Yeah, I know. We got this.” She reached for a good-sized envelope and pulled out the contents. “Hafta pay a fine. Five hundred dollars.” The woman shook her head and seemed to fight back sudden tears. “Don’t know where in the world that’s gonna come from. Told Jeffrey I’m gonna take it out of his hide if he ever sneaks out like that again.”
Michelle caught a glimpse of Jeffrey peeking around the doorway. “That’s why I’m here—to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Bridges has a number of support services for families. We’d like to help.”
A nod. “Jeffrey tol’ me you came by when I was at work.”
“What kind of work do you do, Ms. Coleman?”
Another drag on the cigarette and a wry smile. “Not Coleman. Name’s Lewis . . . Brianna Lewis. Jeffrey is Coleman, his daddy’s name.” She sucked in a breath and blew it out. “I work weekends as a hostess at a club in Uptown, four to midnight. But it’s legit—no funny business,” she added hastily. “Weekdays I got a second job taking care of this ol’ lady who’s housebound, usually get home by seven or eight.
Michelle nodded. “I see. Is there anyone else in the home?”
Brianna shrugged. “Jeff Senior drives truck—long haul—so he’s gone a lot. But my sister lives upstairs. She got four kids. She looks after Jeffrey on weekends till I get home. At least she s’posed to. But Miss . . . what did you say your name was?”
“Michelle Jasper.”
“Okay. Miss Jasper, I know what Jeffrey was doin’ wasn’t right—”
“It was downright dangerous, Ms. Lewis. The curfew laws are there to protect children like Jeffrey.”
“I know.” Brianna stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray and shook her head. “It’s . . . it’s just hard bein’ a single mom—single most of the time, I mean, though Jeffrey’s daddy an’ I are still together. His job . . . you know. I been tellin’ Jeff Senior he needs to give it up, get a different job, so he can spend time with his son! Otherwise, we gonna lose him. Like all the other boys ’round here. But Jeffrey’s not in no gang!” The young mother’s voice suddenly turned fierce. “Jeffrey said he just wanted to go to the 7-Eleven, get some pop an’ some chips.”
Michelle wondered if that was true. Once, maybe. But three times? Sounded more like the call of the streets, wanting to do what his peers were doing, or trying to impress the big guys, the gangbangers. Her heart ached, but her voice had to remain firm. “Ms. Lewis . . . Brianna. Whatever the reason, if he’s picked up again after curfew, the state could make a case of neglect and place him in foster care. I know you don’t want that to happen.”
“No, no, no.” Brianna started to cry, dropping her head into her hands. “He’s all I got. An’ he’s a good boy, comes right home from school. I check in on him by phone every hour. Please . . .”
Michelle touched her arm. “Bridges will do everything we can so that Jeffrey doesn’t become a ward of the state.” They talked about options for supervision. Afterschool program? Another relative nearby? At the very least, Jeffrey needed to stay upstairs with Brianna’s sister on weekend nights instead of getting sent to bed alone in the first floor apartment. And Bridges had a Family Friend program—similar to Big Brother, Big Sister programs—consisting of volunteers who might be able to spend time with Jeffrey on evenings when she was at work.
Before she left, Michelle made an appointment to come back on Saturday to talk with Jeffrey and his mother again—the aunt too, if possible. How she was going to work that into her weekend, she had no idea. But no way did she want this boy to end up in foster care.
She didn’t see Jared’s Nissan when she parked the minivan in front of their house. Must not be home yet . . . unless he put it in the garage, which he rarely did in nice weather. A block with mostly single-family bungalows usually allowed for plenty of parking—another perk of living on Beecham Street. But she s
at in the car a few minutes before getting out, her spirits sagging. Almost nine o’clock. Another “free” Wednesday night gone.
Something was wrong with this picture . . .
* * *
Michelle was taking off her makeup in front of her vanity mirror when Jared got home at ten thirty. She eyed him in the mirror.
He sighed, tossed his keys on the dresser, and came up behind her. “I’m sorry, babe.” Leaning down, he kissed her on the back of the neck, then sat down on the bed to take off his shoes. “Some young men from the neighborhood showed up at the prayer meeting tonight—not sure they knew it was a prayer meeting, but in they came, gangsta jeans, do-rags, and all. My guess is they needed someplace safe to be tonight, saw the church was open, and ducked in. They were polite and respectful enough. Anyway, Pastor asked me to talk with them after the service. And they seemed open to that . . . could hardly refuse.” He dropped his shoes on the floor. “Sorry I’m late.”
She fought down the urge to retort, You had time for those dudes, but weren’t here to put your own kids to bed. “Okay.”
Jared shrugged out of his sport coat and polo shirt. “How about you? Find your clients at home?”
“Uh-huh. The mother was actually very cooperative. I’m hoping we can keep this kid out of foster care.”
“Well, if anybody can, it’s you.” Jared pulled on his robe. “I’m gonna go say goodnight to the kids. Don’t go anywhere.” His voice took on a suggestive note. “I’ll be right back.”
Michelle finished her makeup removal and stared in the mirror. She didn’t exactly look sexy. Didn’t feel sexy either. Too pooped after the long day. Should she beg off? Except . . . her period might come any day. Had been kind of irregular the last year or two, made it hard to keep track. And Jared had two shifts tomorrow—his second day shift and a night shift tomorrow night, separated by a mere eight hours in the afternoon from two till ten, two of which were basically spent commuting.
