by Neta Jackson
I sat silently, picking apart my soggy tissue, digesting what I’d just heard. Trust in the Lord . . . don’t lean on my own understanding . . . He will direct my paths . . .
Finally I glanced sideways at Edesa and gave a snort. “You think?”
She smiled, the beautiful grin that seemed to stretch ear to ear. “Sí, I think. God is going to show you what to do, mi amiga. I will pray.” She gave me a hug and slipped out of my broom closet.
Huh. Easy for her to say.
chapter 24
To my relief, no one was in the dining room or kitchen when I left at four o’clock, and I scooted through the multipurpose room without waving to the two women who sat sprawled in a corner, playing cards. I took a deep breath and stopped by Mabel’s office . . . Drat! Not in! I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or vexed. Just delayed the inevitable confession and flagellation.
I signed out and scowled my way home, going over my options. Not that I had any. I’d practically promised Philip—okay, I had promised—that I wouldn’t let my job interfere with things connected to his work. But I hadn’t anticipated having to break a promise to my “clients,” after getting them all excited about our first outing.
Should I tell him my dilemma? If I told him I canceled an outing at the shelter to go sailing on his client’s boat, maybe he’d quit harping at me about whether I was “on his side” or not. Or would he get ticked off that I’d even planned something on the weekend? Maybe “don’t ask, don’t tell” was a better policy. Just go, try to have fun . . .
I groaned inwardly as the buildings and shops along Sheridan Avenue slipped past the train windows. What was this going to look like to Mabel and the board? The new program director makes plans for an outing, gets everyone all excited, then turns around and cancels because she and her husband got an invitation to go sailing . . .
Argh! I felt like banging my head against the window of the El. Not the greatest way to kick off my program plans. Maybe I should write a book: The Idiot’s Guide to Starting a New Job—How to Get Fired the First Week by Gabrielle Shepherd Fairbanks.
But instead of head banging, I leaned my cheek against the cool window. When was God going to show me the path I should go? Felt like I was in the soup either way—
“Thorndale! Next stop Thorndale!”
What? I scrambled for the door of the train car. I’d overshot my stop by two stations this time.
Sunday. Eleven o’clock. Sunny. Breezy and mild. Perfect day for a parade.
But instead of loading up the borrowed van with Manna House residents, I was walking behind Philip along a dock in Waukegan Harbor north of Chicago, carrying a picnic basket with two bottles of Shiraz, three kinds of cheese, and a couple of boxes of good crackers. We were wearing his-and-hers white deck pants, new navy windbreakers, “boat shoes” with good rubber soles, sunglasses, and white baseball caps—except my bushy chestnut curls stuck out from under the cap, making me look like Bozo the Clown.
I’d finally sucked up the courage to call Mabel on Saturday morning and told her I had an unavoidable family conflict—something my husband had arranged—that put the kibosh on the Cinco de Mayo outing on Sunday, and would she please tell those who had signed up that I was so, so sorry. She’d been quiet on the other end for several beats, a yawning gap that made me want to crawl in a hole and pull dirt down over my head. But all she said was, “Of course, Gabby. These things happen. I’ll pass the word.”
I’d been hoping she’d say, “Oh, no problem, someone else can drive the van, we’ll still go, don’t worry about it.” But she hadn’t.
“What’s wrong with you?” Philip had asked when he got home Friday night. “You practically hung up on me! Don’t you want to go sailing? You can be such a wet blanket, Gabby.” Keeping my voice even, I told him the sailboat invitation was very nice, but I’d been planning an outing for the homeless women at Manna House for Sunday, and now had to cancel, which put me in a very awkward position, thank you very much.
He’d just shrugged. “Just reschedule for another day. It’s not like those women have corporate jobs they have to go to next week.”
I’d decided to drop it. It wasn’t going to help anything to point out that the Cinco de Mayo parade only happened on Sunday. He’d just ask, then why did Camila take Friday off ?
I had a few dark words with God about the whole mess. Was this the right thing to do? Edesa had been so sure God would show me the “right path.”
However, once I’d made the decision, a certain smugness settled into a corner of my spirit. The sacrifice I was making might come in handy when I brought up my idea for Mother’s Day weekend . . .
As Philip hunted for the slip number he’d been given, I tried to take in the harbor in panoramic snatches: clubhouse with a nautical-themed restaurant, gift shop, and large restrooms with showers and dressing rooms. Rows and rows of docks with all kinds of power boats and sailboats lined up side by side, from glitzy yachts to weather-worn, chunky fishing boats, tied up in their individual slips. And beyond the harbor, Lake Michigan stretched blue-green and vast, broken only by small whitecaps like so much dotted-Swiss material.
A voice hailed us from the deck of a sleek sailboat bearing the name Rolling Stone. The man was a very tan fifty-something, dressed casually in shorts, windbreaker, captain’s cap, rubber-soled shoes, no socks. No Fenchels to be seen, but a thirtyish brunette peeked out from the cabin and smiled a welcome. Introductions were made: Lester Stone, Sandy Archer. Hmm. The boat and the owner have the same name, but not Sandy. I didn’t see any wedding rings.
Lester helped me cross from the dock to the fiberglass deck, and Sandy took me below to the cabin. Everything fit like a miniature puzzle—two-burner gas stove, fridge, sink, drop-leaf table wedged between two padded benches that supposedly made into a single bed on one side and a double on the other. Toward the bow, Sandy pointed out the “head”—a flush toilet and a vertical, coffinlike shower—and more bunks. Everything was trimmed in wood, the curtains royal blue. Taking my picnic basket, she lashed it to the counter with a bungee cord and handed me a sleeveless jacket-style life vest.
For the first time, it occurred to me sailing might be a bit different from putzing along on my uncle’s outboard fishing boat on Devil’s Lake in North Dakota.
“Ha-ha-ha. How are ya, Lester?” I heard Henry Fenchel’s voice booming above deck. “Mona, this is Lester Stone, our new client . . . ha-ha-ha, Rolling Stone, I like that. Hey, Philip, where’s Little Orphan Annie?”
Thanks a lot, Henry. Did he think I hadn’t heard that old joke before?
I think all those curls are pretty,” Sandy whispered to me “before going back up the three-step ladder. I followed, deciding Sandy was a friend for life. For the next fifteen minutes, I scrunched in a corner of the blue padded seat of the open cock-pit, trying to stay out of the way while Lester gave instructions to Philip and Henry about casting off from the dock and how to unfurl the sails once we reached open water. Sandy seemed at home scooting around the boat, unsnapping the blue cover from the main sail and stowing it below, checking ropes and wires. Mona lounged opposite me, looking perfectly cool in a light blue jumpsuit and gold-strap sandals. I noticed she did not put on the life vest Sandy handed to her.
Well, so what if I looked like Winnie the Pooh with a bullet-proof vest. Sandy was pulling the straps tight on hers, and I was going to take my clues from a sailor.
Sail untied but not raised, Lester stood at the wheel and effortlessly piloted us out of the harbor using an inboard motor. I relaxed, smiled at Philip, who was casually sitting on the slightly rounded deck above the cabin, feeling the warm sunshine kiss my face. Might as well just enjoy the day.
Once out on the lake, Lester shouted instructions, Philip pulled quickly on the line to raise the sail, the boom swung out, and as Sandy secured the line—snap!—wind filled the large sheet and the boat picked up speed. My stomach did a couple of flip-flops, but I tried to keep my eyes focused on the flat horizon. Okay, okay
, I can do this. After a while, Lester yelled, “Coming about!” Laughing, the guys ducked, the boom swung to the other side, the sail snapped—and immediately Mona’s side of the boat tipped up. Wa-a-ay up! My stomach leaped into my throat, and I tasted bile. I grabbed at the rail behind me, though the waves seemed dangerously close.
Lester grinned at me from behind the wheel. “When we heel up like that, Gabby, just move to the other side. Brace your feet on the opposite seat.”
I was afraid to let go, but Sandy reached over and gave me a hand. Once on the high side, I sat sideways between Mona and Sandy, clutching at the rail, one leg straight out, foot planted against the fiberglass bench where I’d been sitting. Mona just lifted her chin and let the wind tousle her golden hair, but to my satisfaction, I noticed she did put on her life vest.
Every ten minutes or so, Lester changed direction, tacking back and forth, farther and farther from shore. The higher we “heeled up,” the more Philip and Henry seemed to be enjoying themselves. “What a great day for a sail!” Philip shouted to Lester, and the “captain” grinned back at him.
But when we heeled up so far the opposite railing brushed the water, I had to fight a rising panic. My knuckles were white clutching the railing behind me. My ankles and thighs ached from pressing against the opposite bench. And finally my stomach rebelled, and I turned, retching over the side.
Mona recoiled. “Ohhh, gross. If I’d known you were going to be so much fun on the water, Gabrielle, I would’ve stayed home.”
Sandy simply handed me a roll of paper towels.
I didn’t dare look at Philip.
That sail was the longest, most miserable two hours of my entire life.
When we got back to the harbor, I excused myself, climbed onto the dock, and walked on wobbly legs back to the clubhouse, where I locked myself into a toilet stall, stuffed a few paper towels into my mouth, and had a good silent cry. What a wimp I was! I should have known. If I got queasy from heights, it was a straight jump across a checkerboard to being seasick-prone.
I finally pulled myself together, repaired my face, and went back to the Rolling Stone, where the others were passing around plastic tumblers of wine, the cheese and crackers, and sliced apples. Sandy made coffee and brought out a tin of rich, dark brownies. The men talked business, Mona and Sandy chatted about people and parties in Chicago, and I smiled and nodded, wishing I’d spent the afternoon with my feet on the ground, watching the Cinco de Mayo parade.
Once back in the car, Phillip and I rode in silence back down to the city, passing the occasional car with Mexican flags attached to the windows on either side. Finally I said, “That was really nice of Lester to invite us out on his boat.”
Philip flipped on his turn blinker and moved into a faster lane.
“Sorry I got seasick. That was my first time sailing. I didn’t know what to expect!”
Philip grunted and just kept driving.
I watched his profile—sculptured, handsome, smooth—but couldn’t read his eyes behind the sunglasses. I decided this wasn’t the time to bring up Mother’s Day weekend.
But once we got back to Richmond Towers, showered and changed, and settled at the kitchen counter with hot roast beef sandwiches, I said casually, “You know what I was thinking, Philip. Next Sunday is Mother’s Day, and the boys have a three-day weekend. Why don’t we fly them here to Chicago, introduce them to their new home, and do something special all together as a family next Sunday? We haven’t been to any of the museums yet. Best Mother’s Day gift I can think of !”
Philip looked at me as if I’d just suggested climbing the Swiss Alps. “Gabby, that’s silly! Philip Jr. graduates from eighth grade in a couple of weeks, and they’ll be coming here for the summer. It doesn’t make sense to spend the money to bring them now.”
Unbidden, my eyes watered and I had to grab a napkin. “But I really miss them, Philip.”
“Aw, Gabby, don’t go crying. I miss the boys too. But it’s only a couple more weeks! We’ll fly down for his graduation, stay a few days with my parents, and bring them home with us then.”
I stared at him. I’d just rearranged my whole weekend for him and humiliated myself getting seasick in the process. That should earn me some brownie points. “Is that a no?”
Philip rolled his eyes and got up from the kitchen stool. “Be reasonable, Gabby. You can wait another couple of weeks.” He headed for the front room, and I heard the TV come on.
I sat at the kitchen counter for a long time, my thoughts and feelings so convoluted I hardly knew how to untangle them. I had to get out of this house! Go somewhere, do something . . . before I said—or did—something I’d regret later.
chapter 25
My ears pricked up as the grandfather clock in the front room bonged five thirty. Sunday Evening Praise at Manna House was at six . . . Mabel had said Pastor Stevens’s church would be there, and he was the one board member I hadn’t met yet. As for the shelter residents, I might as well face the music tonight and get it over with. Aida Menéndez and the rest deserved a personal apology from me, if nothing else. Never could tell who’d be around tomorrow.
Suddenly determined, I pulled on a sweater, grabbed my purse and the carry-all bag with my Bible, and headed for the front door. “I’m going to church!” I yelled into the living room, loud enough to be heard over the TV but not waiting for an answer. Like I’m really dressed for church, I thought wryly on my way down in the elevator, looking at my jeans and loafers. But I didn’t care. And I knew the “church” at Manna House wouldn’t care either.
Lively gospel music could already be heard clear out on the street by the time I’d waited thirty minutes for an elevated train on its weekend schedule and walked to the shelter. Using my staff key to let myself in, I snuck into the multipurpose room and found a chair in the back. The room was surprisingly full, with quite a few unfamiliar faces, many clapping and shouting, “Glory!” or “Praise You, Jesus!” as the song came to an end. Many of the unfamiliar folks were wearing dresses and heels, even a few hats. Must be members of New Hope Missionary Baptist. I wished I’d taken time to at least put on a pair of slacks and a nice sweater.
A young African-American man with a few too many pounds for his age—this couldn’t be Pastor Stevens, could it? He seemed too young!—bounced back and forth at the front of the room as an electronic keyboard and set of bongo drums filled in the lull. “C’mon now, church, c’mon,” the young worship leader said, “let the redeemed of the Lord say so!”
More shouts, clapping, hallelujahs, and lifted hands. Couldn’t say I was used to all this raucous enthusiasm during a worship service—so unlike the formal liturgy of Briarwood Lutheran back in Virginia, or even the more informal but still sedate services at Minot Evangelical Church growing up. But it was impossible to just sit there. I clapped with the others. Clapping for God—well, why not?
“Okay, now, you all heard our girl Whitney sing Dottie Rambo’s song ‘I Go to the Rock’ on The Preacher’s Wife sound-track—c’mon now, don’t pretend you didn’t see that movie.” Laughter. “But even if you didn’t, you’ll pick it up mighty fast. On your feet, everybody! One-two, one-two—”
Right on the beat the keyboard player and drummer, both young black men barely out of their teens, struck up the lively gospel tune and the Missionary Baptist folks helped carry the words . . .
Where do I go . . . when there’s no one else to turn to?
Who do I talk to . . . when nobody wants to listen?
Who do I lean on . . . when there’s no foundation stable? . . .
I’d seen the movie, though couldn’t say I remembered the song, but now it echoed in my head as if putting words to all the aches, confusion, loneliness, and anger sitting like crud in my spirit. No one to turn to . . . nobody wants to listen . . . who do I lean on . . .
Suddenly the tension in my spirit uncoiled like a live wire, unleashing a torrent of tears. I couldn’t stop. Shoulders shaking, eyes and nose running, fishing for a pac
k of tissues, I sank back into my chair as the shelter “congregation” all around me kept singing . . .
I go to the Rock I know that’s able,
I go to the Rock! . . .
A light hand touched my shoulder, then two thin arms went around me, and Aida Menéndez was whispering in my ear. “It is okay, Miss Gabby. We’re not mad at you. Miss Mabel said you couldn’t help it. Next time, maybe. Sí?”
I nodded, still mopping my face, and hugged her back. “Thanks, Aida. I am so sorry I had to cancel our plans to go to the parade.”
As the song finally wound to a close and a middle-aged black man in a suit and tie got up to speak—this must be Pastor Stevens—Aida, the young girl who’d been kicked out of the foster-care system at eighteen, who’d probably been disappointed by people like me all her life, slipped back to her seat. Aida had presumed my tears were guilty ones—and maybe some of them were—but she had no idea how deep and dry the well was from which they’d sprung.
I liked Pastor Stevens. He made a point to introduce himself after the service. “You must be Mrs. Fairbanks,” he said, shaking my hand and smiling, a slight tease in his deep brown eyes. “They said you had curly hair. Mm-mm. They weren’t kidding.” He laughed.
I only hoped my nose wasn’t bright red after the crying spell during the service. We chatted, he apologized for missing our lunch date a week ago, and I assured him I understood. He said he appreciated the questionnaire I’d sent to the board and was sure several members of his congregation would be glad to sign up as volunteers. He didn’t seem to know about the Cinco de Mayo fiasco, didn’t mention it anyway, so I left it to Mabel to inform the board if she felt it necessary. But I was grateful it didn’t come up in my first meeting with Pastor Stevens.
The pastor also introduced me to his wife, a sweet-faced woman who looked at least six months pregnant, and several members of his congregation who, Mabel explained later, enthusiastically showed up whenever their pastor had to speak somewhere else.
