by Neta Jackson
I’d stayed for cleanup, along with Aida Menéndez and Tina, a large, good-looking Latina, but the two of them talked rapid Spanish to each other as they washed pots and pans, so I just concentrated on scooping leftover vegetable-beef soup into two large plastic containers and wiping down tables with a spray bottle of disinfectant.
As I drove north on Sheridan Road, Estelle’s comment, “You’re learning quick,” rubbed up against my spirit like a purring kitty welcoming me home. Even Mabel seemed pleased that I’d handled things at the front desk, though she’d apologized later for not letting me know what the intake procedure was. “I didn’t think you’d need it in the first hour!” she’d laughed. “Go ahead, call it a day. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
I could see Richmond Towers and the other lakefront high-rises coming up in the distance. But my thoughts were still back at Manna House. I’d noticed Mabel made a point to stick with Naomi at lunch, talking and laughing with others across the table even though the newcomer hunched silently over her food, still tapping her foot under the table. By the time I left, Naomi was zonked out on a couch in the multipurpose room while Tina sat nearby, flipping through a magazine, keeping an eye on her.
Had to admit, I was surprised they let someone who was high come into the shelter and sign up for a bed. I probably would have told her to come back when she’s sober . . .
I parked the car in the Richmond Towers parking garage but bypassed the door directly into the secured elevator area in order to walk outside to the frontage street along the park. Such a beautiful afternoon! The time-and-temperature sign I’d seen on a bank coming home had said seventy-two degrees. Blue sky arched overhead with only a few wispy cirrus clouds to catch the eye. I couldn’t see the lake from here—my view blocked by the trees in the park and Lake Shore Drive—but suddenly I had an urge to stick my toes in the sand and splash in the water again. Should I change? I was still in my slacks and cotton sweater I’d worn to work . . .
Nope. Once thirty-two floors up, I’d probably see stuff I needed to do and that’d be it.
On impulse, I pushed through the revolving door. “Mr. Bentley!” The bald-and-bearded doorman standing in the lobby, hands behind his back, was just the person I wanted to see. “Could I leave my purse with you for a little while? Half an hour, max, I promise.”
“Now, Mrs. Fairbanks.” He arched an eyebrow at me. “What would I be doing with a purse? What would people think?”
I giggled. “Didn’t take you for a man who cared what people think. But, I mean, don’t you have a drawer or something behind that desk I can put this in? Doesn’t have to be locked. You’ll be here, right?”
With a shrug, he took the bag, stuck it in a drawer behind the half-moon desk, and said, “Go on, get out of here. That purse ain’t going anywhere.”
Feeling free and lighthearted, I walked briskly through the park across from Richmond Towers, half-ran through the underpass under the Drive, and in no time stepped onto the stone retaining wall. Slipping out of my flats and knee-high nylons, I walked through the warm, dry sand, then rolled up my trouser legs and waded into the lapping water. Brrr. Still numbing cold. Didn’t Lake Michigan ever get warm?
Sitting on the two-level stone wall that made a convenient seat facing the lake, I let the sun warm my back and dry my feet. Something Mabel had said last week during my interview warmed me inside too. “From the first time you walked in here, Gabby, I had the sense it was God who sent you . . . I believe God brought you to Chicago because He has a purpose for you, right here at Manna House.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant. But it made me feel . . . wanted. As though God hadn’t forgotten me, even though I’d ditched Him years ago. Even though the afternoon was slipping away, I felt reluctant to take the elevator to our sterile penthouse. Right now my heart felt full and I didn’t know what to do with it. The staff and volunteers I’d met at Manna House—Estelle, Precious, Edesa, and even Mabel—seemed to so easily say, “Praise God!” or “Thank You, Lord!” That didn’t come easily to me, but something deep inside wanted to tell God “thank You.”
So I just closed my eyes and said it. “Thank You!”
“For what?” A gravelly voice behind me caught me off guard. I twisted around and found myself face-to-face with a beat-up shopping cart overflowing with bundles, bags, bits of carpet, plastic tarp, and assorted junk. Then a wrinkled face framed by flyaway, graying hair peered over the top and looked down at me. “You lost again or somethin’?”
I grinned up at her. “Hi, Lucy.”
chapter 17
I scrambled to my feet. Lucy was dressed in yet more mismatched layers of clothing, but her eyes seemed brighter. “You’re looking better! Hope that means you’re feeling better. How’s the cough?”
She ignored my comment. “Put on your shoes.”
“What?”
“Shoes. Put ’em on. Didn’t your mama tell ya not to go bare-foot in the park? That’s how ya cut your foot—an’ I ain’t got any more clean rags to spare mopping up blood after you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I grinned, sat back down, and pulled on my nylons and flats. I patted the stone wall. “Sit down a minute. I’m glad to see you.”
“Nah. Don’t have time. I’m on my way somewhere.”
I got to my feet again. “Where? Can I walk with you?”
“No, you can’t. But turn around . . . now, see? Ya got a grass stain on the seat o’ your good britches. Huh. Some people don’t have the sense they was born with.” She started off, pushing her cart ahead of her, shaking her head.
“Lucy! Wait.” I ran after her. “When will I see you again?”
She shrugged and kept walking. “Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. All depends.”
“But I wanted to tell you something.”
That got her. She stopped and cocked her head. “So tell me.”
“I—I applied for a job at Manna House. I’m going to be there all week learning the ropes, then hopefully start next week. That’s why I was saying ‘thank You’ to, uh, God.”
Heavy-lidded eyes studied me. “What kinda job?”
“Program director. Planning activities for the residents.” Why was I telling Lucy this? Why would she care? But I blathered on. “I used to do it for a senior center, but the shelter is a new situation for me. I could use some ideas.”
She snorted. “Sorry. Ain’t interested in bingo. Or shuffle-board. Big waste of time, if you ask me.” She started off again.
“I am asking you, Lucy!” I called after her. “Think about it!”
She marched on as if she hadn’t heard. Then she suddenly turned, marched back, and growled at me. “Now you git on home and take care o’ that grass stain ’fore it sets. An’ next time ya come to the beach, wear somethin’ ain’t goin’ to get ruin’t.”
I chuckled at Lucy’s bossiness all the way up the elevator to the top floor of Richmond Towers—but I took her advice, changed into my jeans, treated the stain on my slacks, and tossed them into the wash. I wanted to share the joke with Philip when he came home that night, but hesitated. Lucy’s name might still be a sore point between us. Besides, he seemed distracted that evening, spending an hour on the phone, talking business.
“Is everything okay?” I asked when he finally got off the phone.
He flopped into an armchair that matched the curving couch. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Hope so.”
I perched on the arm of the couch and waited . . . which paid off.
“It’s this new account we bid on last week.” He sighed in frustration. “Found out on the sly that another company is bid-ding for the contract. Big rep for underbidding on projects. Fenchel and I are trying to decide whether to lower our bid right now. We really need this deal. A big one.”
“I’m sorry, Philip.” I had a brief urge to say, “Maybe we should pray about it.” But I was sure it would sound odd coming out of my mouth, as if I was trying to be superspiritual or something. “Anything I can do?”
He shook his head, sinking deeper into his thoughts. I left him alone, but fifteen minutes later brought him a cup of fresh coffee. I was pretty sure he’d be up half the night crunching numbers.
I never did hear him come to bed, and he was gone when I woke up. I still felt the urge to pray, but wasn’t sure exactly for what. So I just prayed silently over my morning coffee. “God, help Philip today. He’d really like to land this job to kick-start the new business.” I found myself adding, “And I’d really like him to get this contract, so he won’t be so tense and touchy.”
I set out for my second day at Manna House, but to my shock, the temperature had dropped thirty degrees overnight and it was misting again. I was definitely not dressed for cold and damp. When I got to the shelter at nine o’clock, I was shivering. And the hot water pot and coffee urn in the multipurpose room were cold and empty. Well, I’m here to learn, so I might as well make the coffee.
Wrapping my cold hands around a Styrofoam cup fifteen minutes later wasn’t exactly down-home comfort, but at least the coffee was hot. The pungent smell seemed to draw people out of the woodwork, including Mabel and a woman I hadn’t seen before, carrying a clipboard. White, medium height, a few extra pounds. Straight, light-brown hair hung just below her shoulders, bangs brushed to the side. Jeans, clogs, and a blue sweater. Not scary at all.
“Oh, good, you’re here, Gabby.” Mabel took the Styrofoam cup I handed to her. “I want you to meet Stephanie Cooper, our case manager. Stephanie, this is Gabby Fairbanks, who is applying for our new position of program director.”
I shook Stephanie’s hand. A nice grip. “You’re also on the Manna House board, I’ve been told.”
Stephanie laughed. “Yes, Estelle’s housemate shanghaied me. Stu and I both work at DCFS. I’m glad to meet you, Gabby. We need some new blood around here. You’re from Virginia, I hear?”
“Not if you asked my mother-in-law. I grew up in North Dakota, which cancels out the last fifteen years, I think.”
Stephanie laughed again. “Now, that’s an interesting vita. Wild West meets Old South.”
I grinned. “Oil and water.” I liked this woman.
“Sorry I can’t talk more. I’ve got an appointment in a few minutes with a new guest who came in yesterday.” She consulted her clipboard. “Naomi Jackson.”
I nodded. “We’ve met.”
“Really?” Stephanie looked at Mabel and then at me. “Say, would you like to sit in? It’d be good orientation. I’ll have to ask her, of course.”
Which is how I found myself in the TV room a few minutes later with Stephanie and the young woman who was still wearing her baseball cap, but not tapping. “Sure, fine. Whatever,” she said, when Stephanie asked if she minded me sitting in. I parked myself in a corner and tried to be invisible as Stephanie got down to business. Fast.
“Naomi, we’re here to help you any way we can. But to do that we need some help from you. Do you have a picture ID?”
A shake of the head. Stephanie wrote something down.
“When was your last TB test?”
“Can’t remember . . . last year maybe?”
“Hm. All right. The nurse comes in tomorrow. You need to see her and get the test. No ifs, ands, or buts. Understood? ”
Naomi nodded sullenly.
Stephanie handed her a couple of sheets stapled together. “These are the house rules. Read over them, and if there’s any-thing you don’t understand or have a question about, just ask. But let’s go over some of the highlights, okay?”
Whew. As I listened, I realized I needed to know the rules too. If you are assigned a bed, you must be here by 8 p.m. . . . all guests must have a physical and a mental health assessment within one week of being assigned a bed . . . must meet weekly with your case manager . . . must be actively working on goals as determined by your case manager . . . must take a shower daily . . . laundry is available on a sign-up basis . . . no profanity, no violence, no drugs, no smoking inside the building . . . personal belongings may be searched at any time . . . staff may conduct random drug tests . . .
Stephanie set aside her copy of the rules. “What are your goals, Naomi? I don’t mean way off in the future. I’m talking about this week. This month.”
Naomi scrunched up her face. “Get a job so I can have my own money. And stay here till I can get my own place.”
Stephanie leaned forward. “Naomi, we don’t have time to play games here. Staff says you showed up here yesterday high on something. Amphetamines? The first question is: are you at a place where you want to stop?”
“Guess so.”
I thought that answer would shoot the whole interview. Who was this Naomi person fooling? Even I could tell she wasn’t ready to give up whatever her addiction was. But to my surprise, Stephanie’s voice softened. “Naomi, I’m not here to judge you. But I’m not here to enable you either. If you can set some realistic goals for the next few weeks, and you make progress toward those goals, I’m willing to be here for you 24/7. You can call me any time you want—here’s my cell number.” She handed the young woman a card. “But first you need a plan. What are you going to do later today when you get a craving for those pills?”
The bill of the cap hid her eyes. “Try not to use.”
“Wrong answer.”
I half expected Naomi to walk out. But she seemed to reach deep somewhere, as if facing her own reality. A few seconds passed. She sighed. “Get into detox. Right away.”
“That’s right. I can help you with that. We’ll try outpatient first, and you can stay here. If you can’t handle that, then it’ll have to be inpatient. You good with that?”
Naomi nodded.
“If you stay clean for two weeks, then we can work on getting you a job. But you’ll need a picture ID. So . . . what’s the plan?”
Naomi’s mouth tipped into an almost-smile. “Get into detox. Get an ID.”
“Good plan.” Stephanie smiled. “I’m starting to hold you accountable as of right now. You and me, okay?”
The interview was over in thirty minutes. After Naomi left the room, Stephanie sat back and turned to me. “We’ll see what happens in the next twenty-four hours. If she’s still here by cur-few tonight, we’ll have a good chance of taking a few steps forward. But”—she shrugged—“it’s up to her.”
The days passed so fast, I almost felt dizzy by the end of the week. I dressed for the chilly weather on Wednesday, but by late afternoon the temp was back in the sixties and stayed there the next several days. Mr. Bentley teased me almost every morning on my way out. “Got your bathing suit? Umbrella? Snow boots? Might need ’em all before evening.” At the shelter, I had the sneaking suspicion that Mabel was making sure I got a good feel for the place, because I ended up doing a bit of everything, from cleaning toilets to supervising the rec room after school—and somewhere in there, getting a chance to talk to some of the women in residence.
Like Carolyn. Gray cells popping beneath that brownish-gray ponytail. “Know what this place needs?” She had just whipped me at chess in thirty minutes, and I used to think I was pretty good. “Books. I like to read, but all they got here are a bunch of old magazines. And the Bible, of course. Heck, I cut my teeth on Dostoevsky.”
Dostoevsky! She must have seen the shock on my face, because she grinned. “My ma fell for a door-to-door salesman selling Great Books. One gullible woman. Kicked him out but kept the books, which was fine by me.”
I laughed and made a note. Start a library. Maybe a book club?
And Tina. The woman was big boned and carried her weight well, and she had a classic Latina face with golden skin. She’d taken the teenage Aida under her wing, and I saw her going over the house rules with the teenager, helping her with the English words.
“Tina, would you be interested in teaching an ESL class? English as a second language?”
“Who, me? A teacher?” But her eyes lit up.
I added another note. Get basic ESL materials.
Even Precious, who was a volunteer, not a resident, had hid-den talents. She showed up three afternoons a week to supervise homework in the minimal after-school program, but I heard rhythmic music coming from the rec room and went to investigate. Precious had all five of the Manna House kids, ages six to eleven, on their feet, dancing in perfect rows and steps—stepping forward, back, to the side, half turn, do it again . . .
I clapped in the doorway.
“All right, back to the books!” Precious yelled, turning off the CD player. “We’re busted!” The kids giggled and scurried back to their chairs around the single table. “Gets the blood goin’ to their pea-brains—ain’t that right?” She laughed and high-fived the eleven-year-old.
“That looked like a lot of fun. Why don’t you teach it to everybody? You and the kids? For a Fun Night or something.”
“For real?”
Another note. Plan a Fun Night, with dancing and games.
Thursday was another case management day for Stephanie Cooper, who showed up again in jeans—and I realized I hadn’t seen Naomi Jackson since her meeting on Tuesday. I sidled up to Stephanie in the lunch line. “What’s happening with Naomi? Did she go to detox?”
Stephanie shook her head. “Walked out of here Tuesday, haven’t seen her since.”
“Oh no!” I’d felt a connection to Naomi, since I’d been the first one to meet her at the door, and I’d been hoping for the best.
