by Neta Jackson
“Mom!” I heard Paul squeal from beyond the double doors. “It’s Dandy and Lucy!”
Sure enough, Lucy Tucker was sprawled on one of the couches in the newly named Shepherd’s Fold, her damp hair plastered against her head, grinning as the yellow dog practically break-danced around Paul, who was down on his knees trying to keep from being bowled over. “Look, Mom, you can hardly see where the stitches are anymore.”
It was true. Dandy’s hair had grown out over the long knife cut over his shoulder, but overall his hair looked rather matted and dirty, which made me wince. “Hi, Lucy.” I plopped down on the couch beside the old lady. “You dropping in for your weekly spa treatment?” Ha ha. My hint that a shower and hair wash would be in order. Which gave me an idea. “Hey, Paul, why don’t you give Dandy a bath and a blow-dry this morning? Is that okay with you, Lucy?”
The older woman shrugged. “Guess so. Though he jus’ gonna get dirty again on a day like this, mud everywhere.”
“Why don’t you stay a few days until the weather dries out? Weather guy said rain today and tomorrow. Want me to see if there’s a bed available?”
Lucy shrugged again, which struck me as odd. She usually had a definite opinion one way or the other. I told Paul to round up Sammy and Keisha—he was going to need the two older kids to help—and I’d set things up for them in the laundry room downstairs. Mabel’s office was empty, but a quick look at the bed list at the reception desk showed me there were two beds left. They’d be gone by evening if this rain kept up. I signed Lucy’s name for two days and told Angela I’d work it out with Mabel later if there was a problem.
“What’s that?” Lucy pointed to the handmade poster on the double doors with scrawled bubble letters: Shepherd’s Fold.
“That’s the new name for the multipurpose room. You know, Shepherd was my mom’s last name, and a Shepherd’s Fold is where the shepherd keeps his sheep safe and secure.”
“Whatchu think I am, stupid? I know what it means an’ I know it’s named after Miss Martha. What I wanna know is, where’s the bronze plaque? That stupid poster gotta go. It’s an insult to her memory. We gotta put that name up on a nice, big bronze plaque that says, ‘In memory of Miss Martha Shepherd’ or somethin’ decent. Maybe frame her picture too.”
I barely had time to assure Lucy that I’d take her suggestion to the staff meeting that morning when Carolyn showed up to talk about the afterschool program. The shelter’s former book maven still looked the same as the day she’d moved out—brownish-gray hair slicked back into a long ponytail, no makeup, and forty extra pounds. But frankly, I thought my idea to ask Carolyn to oversee the afterschool program was brilliant—a lot better use of her talents than just leading a book club once a week. It had taken me a few weeks after I started working at Manna House to realize that the dumpy middle-aged woman had a master’s degree in literature. Still on disability after an emotional breakdown and time spent first in a psychiatric facility and then here at the shelter, she’d finally gotten a tiny two-room apartment at Deborah’s Place.
But I’d missed her everyday presence, missed seeing that straggly ponytail hunched over a Scrabble board or game of chess. As far as I was concerned, Carolyn and I had a lot in common—two educated women who never thought they’d end up in a homeless shelter. But we had.
The two of us hunkered down in my office to put together a rough plan we could take to the staff meeting at ten. Squeals and doggy whines from the laundry room punctuated our work for about twenty minutes, but shouts of, “Come back, Dandy!” drew both of us out of my office in time to see a sudsy Dandy escape up the stairs to the main floor. By the time we caught the dog, wrestled him back into the laundry room tub, and got him rinsed and dried off, it was already time for staff meeting.
Our damp, rumpled clothes raised a few eyebrows and grins when Carolyn and I joined the others in the schoolroom. I was glad to see Edesa and Josh Baxter there. Regular volunteers were always welcome to attend staff meetings whenever they could. Estelle caught my eye, and I knew she wanted to know what went down when I talked to Philip the other night, but I just mouthed, “Later.”
As we plunged into that week’s agenda—a new social work intern to assist Sarge at night starting in September, a slug fight over the weekend involving two of the residents, and my proposal that Carolyn take on the afterschool program—I realized my spirit had lifted from the cloud of gloom I’d been under all weekend. That’s what I needed, to just keep busy, immerse myself in the work here, forget about Philip. After all, I’d given him my answer and I had a good reason for saying no. What had I expected, that he’d say, “Sure, I understand. Thanks anyway”?
“. . . classes start this week at UIC,” Josh was saying, “so we don’t have as much time to look for an apartment. So far we haven’t found anything we can afford, and we’re starting to feel desperate. If anyone hears of anything for rent in this area, let us know.”
Mabel, of course, suggested we stop and pray about that right then, but I had to leave in the middle of her prayer to pick up P.J. and drop him off at home, and by the time I got back, the staff meeting was over. I poked my head into Mabel’s office, where she was talking to Josh and Edesa. “Oops, sorry,” I said. “Just wondered if you’ve got any time today. Couple of things I need to talk about . . .”
Mabel peered at me over the top of her reading glasses, then at her appointment book. “I’m free at two. See you then.”
I gulped but nodded. Paul and I were supposed to leave at two. But if I was going to talk with the realtor tomorrow, I’d really like to know if things were moving ahead with the city on this second-stage housing idea before I signed on the dotted line. Owning a building just to rent out apartments to any Tom, Dick, or Henrietta wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.
Carolyn had stayed after the staff meeting to do more work on the afterschool plans, and bless her, she agreed to challenge Paul to a game of chess to keep him occupied during my meeting. Estelle, of course, tried to corner me after lunch and pry out of me what happened when I talked to Philip, but all I said was that I’d told him no, like she and Harry advised, and of course he wasn’t happy about it, but what did we expect?
She gave me a real funny look and muttered, “You and me gonna have a talk, girlfriend. Somethin’ don’t smell right.”
I escaped saying I had a meeting with Mabel, promised Paul I’d try to make it short, and knocked on the director’s door right at two o’clock.
“So,” she said, as I sank into the sturdy armchair beside her desk. “What’s up?”
I let slip a wry smile. Mabel was one of the most attractive, mature African-American women I’d ever met. She definitely had pleasant features, but it was more than that. Her unlined face, framed by her straightened bob, radiated calm. “What’s up is I want to be like you when I grow up, Mabel. I come in here, and all my ragtag ends flying every which way just seem to sew themselves up like a quilted baby blanket.”
Mabel almost laughed. Almost. “If there’s peace in this office, Gabby girl, all the credit goes to God, because I’ve got a few ragtag ends myself. Jermaine, for one. He starts high school next week—well, you know that, since P.J. is starting Lane Tech too— and I’m on my knees a couple of hours every night praying he won’t get picked on like he did last year.”
I’d almost forgotten that Mabel’s nephew, who suffered a lot of teasing by the more macho types, had tried to commit suicide just months ago. “Oh, Mabel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you don’t have any troubles. It’s just . . . how do you keep so peaceful in the midst of all the craziness around here? Like that new woman messing with Tina. Whew! Glad I wasn’t here.” Sarge’s description of the fistfight that started over “get your stuff off my bunk” had all the earmarks of a street feud.
Mabel tapped the Bible she kept on her desk. “Just have to stay in the Word. Stay in the Word . . . because it’s not enough to believe in God, Gabby. You have to believe God. He’s a mighty big God, if we let Hi
m be God in all our messy situations.”
I squirmed. Couldn’t say I’d managed to “stay in the Word” the past few weeks since the boys had returned. But if that’s what it took to be like Mabel, I needed to make the time. I actually made a note in my notebook—Pick up where I left off in Matthew’s gospel—then looked up. “Speaking of P.J. and Jermaine, do you want to work out some kind of ride sharing? I’d like to increase my hours again once school starts, but if I could work eight to four, I’d be glad to pick them up after school if you want to do the morning run.”
Now Mabel did smile. “Great idea. I’d like to be sure Jermaine gets to school and home again in one piece, at least for the first few weeks. Tell you what, I’ll pick up P.J. at your apartment at 7:45 on . . . hm, Monday is Labor Day . . . so next Tuesday.” She looked up from her calendar. “Speaking of Labor Day weekend, how about a picnic for the residents at one of the forest preserves or something? This is the first Labor Day since Manna House was rebuilt. Might be a nice tradition to start.”
I made another note: Plan Labor Day picnic ASAP. Then I brought up the House of Hope proposal and felt encouraged. Mabel had already made contact with the city’s Department of Housing and Urban Development, which funded the Low-Income Housing Trust Fund and had started the application process for Manna House to be the service provider. “There will be papers you’ll need to sign, Gabby, as the housing provider once you actually own the building. So I’d encourage you to go ahead as quickly as possible—if you’re still clear this is what you want to do.”
I nodded, both excited and anxious. “How long is this going to take? Sabrina’s baby is due in November, I think, and I know that girl doesn’t want her baby born in a shelter.”
Mabel shrugged. “I don’t know . . . thirty days minimum if we’re lucky. Could be sixty or even ninety days. Depends on several things—how quickly you can get a mortgage, how fast HUD processes the paperwork . . . you know what I’m talking about.”
I sagged a bit into my chair. “Yeah, I know. I just wish it was done already so we could move Precious and Tanya in next weekend.”
Mabel just nodded and looked at me thoughtfully. “One other thing . . . you’ve got your boys back living with you and seeing their father on the weekend. But what’s happening with you and your husband? You told me you’ve filed for custody and redress for unlawful eviction . . . but you haven’t mentioned divorce. Are you hoping that you and Philip can reconcile? How does buying this six-flat fit into that?”
I looked down at my lap and then reached for a tissue on her desk. The next thing I knew I was telling her all about Philip “wanting to talk,” and how he ended up asking me for a loan to bail him out of his gambling debt, even saying that once he was out from under this cloud, he wanted to talk about “what’s next” and that maybe it wasn’t too late to “repair the damage.”
Mabel listened without speaking up to that point, but then she actually whistled. “Praise God, Gabby. That’s amazing! What a breakthrough. But . . . I don’t know if loaning him the money would be wise. He—”
“Huh!” I interrupted. “Don’t praise God yet. Wait until you hear what happened when I told him I wasn’t going to loan him the money.” The anger I’d been dealing with all weekend crept into my voice as I told her what he’d said, that I “owed” him that money. “And then . . . Mabel, he actually had the audacity to tell me that the failure of our marriage was my fault! That I’d ‘left the marriage’ when we moved here to Chicago. Can you believe it? I gave up my job, gave up living near my children, gave up my beautiful Southern home with a porch and a yard to follow him here to Chicago! And now he’s trying to blame me!”
Mabel sat for a long minute with her eyes closed, as if deep in thought. Finally she opened her eyes and gazed at me with a tender, pained expression that almost hurt to see. “There’s something to that, you know,” she said quietly.
chapter 18
That couldn’t be what she said.
For a moment I just sat there, my face stinging as if she’d slapped me. “What? Are you saying he’s right?”
Mabel picked up a pen, rolled it in her fingers, and then put it down again. “No. Believe me, from the little I know, Philip seems like a first-class jerk. I just mean that the breakdown of your marriage isn’t all Philip’s fault. You bear some responsibility too.”
I felt my back stiffen, as if a line had just been drawn in the sand and Mabel had stepped over to the other side. “What exactly are you saying, Mabel?” My voice was tight, holding back the things I wanted to yell, like, “What do you know, Mabel Turner? Are you forgetting he threw me out and stole my kids?! ”
“All I’m saying, Gabby, is that if you and Philip do talk about repairing the damage to your relationship, it will be important for you to take responsibility for some stuff. I’m not blaming you, or saying it’s your fault or that he had any right to kick you out. It’s just that . . . I’ve been troubled by some things that have happened since I’ve known you.”
Hot tears sprang to the back of my eyes, but I was determined not to cry. I gritted my teeth. “Like what?”
Mabel grew thoughtful. “When I offered you the job as program director, you didn’t go home and talk it over with your husband. You interviewed, accepted the job, and then told him it was a done deal.”
“I was afraid he’d squash the idea!” I cried. “You know that!”
“I realize you had your reasons. But I was concerned that no marriage can tolerate that kind of behind-the-back decision making for long, especially for something that affects a family as much as a job.”
Angry tears finally spilled over. I grabbed at the tissue box on her desk again. “This isn’t fair, Mabel! You . . . you said yourself that you believed God brought me to Manna House for a special purpose! But now . . . oh, now you’re saying I should’ve got down on my knees like a wimp and asked my Almighty Husband for permission to take this job—and you know if I’d done that, that would’ve been the end. No job. The last you’d have seen of me.”
She waited while I blew my nose. Then she said, “Maybe. Maybe not.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean by that?”
“You’re absolutely right. I did say I believed God brought you to Manna House for a special purpose, and I still believe that—”
“Then why are you blaming me for taking the job? I don’t understand you, Mabel!”
“Let me finish, Gabby. If we believe God has a purpose for bringing you here, then we can also trust Him to make it happen. But you were afraid—afraid if you talked it over with your husband, he’d say no. So you took it into your own hands to make it happen, rather than trust God to work it out. But what if you had included Philip in this decision? What if—”
But I had started shaking my head. “You don’t understand,” I said fiercely. “Philip never would have agreed to me taking this job. He was down on me even coming here to visit! It didn’t enhance my image as a ‘good corporate wife’ and all that.”
“That may be so. I don’t know. But our timing isn’t always God’s timing. Maybe you wouldn’t have been able to start right away. Maybe there were steps in between that would have helped change Philip’s perspective. But my guess is that your choice to move ahead without Philip’s agreement put a major stress on your relationship.” She tipped her head to the side. “True?”
A tension headache had started to screw its way into the back of my head. I stood up abruptly. “I . . . I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry, Mabel. I need to go . . . take Paul home. Maybe we can, you know, talk later . . .” I stalked out of her office, poked my head into the multipurpose room—yeah, yeah, the Fold—and yelled in the direction of the chess game, “Paul! We gotta go!”
“Wait a sec, Mom! I’m winning!”
“Now, Paul!”
I was pretty much a basket case the rest of the day. The boys decided I was in a “mood” and stayed out of my way. So what if they watched TV all afternoon—it was a rainy d
ay and school would start next week anyway. Wouldn’t rot their brains for just one day.
But I felt . . . betrayed. By Mabel, of all people! And I’d thought I could count on her to be in my corner through all this mess. She’d always bent over backward to give me time off to see the lawyer, let me use the phone to work on getting the boys back, gave me flex time in my schedule when I needed it—like the past few weeks, when I had to pick up P.J. midmorning . . . which, I had to admit, still counted for something.
So why was she turning things around now? Dumping the blame for my failed marriage into my lap?
Stewing over our conversation made my head hurt the rest of the day, and I went to bed early. Briefly thought about calling Jodi Baxter, just to have someone to lean on, then remembered she’d gone all wide-eyed about that maybe-it’s-not-too-late-to-repair-the-damage nonsense Philip had fed me. Huh. I doubted very much he intended to talk about “what’s next for us” after I’d said I wasn’t going to give him any money.
But lying on my bed in the back bedroom wide-awake, staring into the dim light of Chicago’s long evening, I felt as if I was going nuts. I wanted to talk to somebody . . . but who? My sisters? Not Honor. Maybe Celeste. She’d stick up for me. Or maybe Lee Boyer . . . he had absolutely no sympathy for Philip. And not just that, he had a lot of feelings for me. A man who really cared—and would care more if I gave him any encouragement.
I suddenly wanted to talk to Lee very much. See him. Closing my eyes, I could almost feel his touch as he laid his hand over mine in his office. I tried to imagine how it would feel to lean into his embrace, feel his arms around me . . .
Fishing for my cell, I rang his number, but all I got was his voice mail. That threw me. “Uh . . . Hi, Lee. It’s Gabby. Call me if you get this . . . on second thought, don’t call. I’m going to bed. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow at the realtor’s office.”
