by Neta Jackson
I turned in my seat. “What Dad means, P.J., is that we’d love to see you play lacrosse. But with the move to Chicago, we can’t make any promises about anything just yet.”
“But, Mom! Dad just said—”
“We’ll talk about it, okay, P.J.? Just not now. Hey, I’m hungry. How about you boys? What would you like? This is a special day. P.J., you choose.”
But P.J. had flopped back in his seat, arms folded, lips tightly pressed, glaring out the window.
“Pizza Hut!” Paul offered.
Philip groaned from the driver’s seat. “At least let’s do Sal’s and Brothers pizza.”
I tried to laugh off P.J.’s sulk. “Hey, did you boys know Chicago has the best pizza in the world?”
I let out a long sigh of relief once our American Airlines flight to Chicago was in the air on Saturday. Paul was in the window seat next to me in business class, playing with a handheld electronic game, a gift from his grandfather. Philip and Philip Jr. sat across the aisle. Finally it was the four of us. A family again.
I leaned my seat back and closed my eyes. The rest of our visit with the Fairbanks had gone reasonably well, I thought, with the exception of a conversation between Philip and his mother I’d overheard the previous night . . .
“Of course the boys will be returning to George Washington Academy in the fall, Philip! You said that was the plan before you moved to Chicago. They’re already registered! I don’t understand why Gabrielle—”
“I know, Mother. But she’s their mother, and of course she misses them. Right now she doesn’t want to think about them coming back. But things may look different after a couple of months. Give her time. And like you said, they’re already registered. It won’t hurt to look at the Chicago academies and consider our options.”
I glanced across the aisle, where P.J. was plugged into his own iPod world—a graduation gift, also from his grandparents. Of course the boys were already registered at George Washington Academy, but so what? We’d done that last January, before moving to Chicago had even blipped onto the family radar. All we had to do was tell the school we’d moved out of state and get our deposit back . . .
A flicker of uncertainty licked at the edges of my thoughts. What if it’s too late to register for any of the Chicago-area private schools?
No. I wasn’t going to let doubt make me afraid. Didn’t Philip say it wouldn’t hurt to consider our options? Said it to his mother’s face, in fact! But why hadn’t Philip and I talked about this before? Really talked, and come to a decision. Decided who was going to check out the Chicago schools, make applications . . .
“When I am afraid, I will trust in God . . . I trust in God, why should I be afraid?”
I let slip a small smile. I wasn’t used to thinking Scripture verses, but Edesa’s Bible studies at the shelter seemed to stick on me. Okay, I was afraid. I wished I’d brought my Bible so I could look up those verses in the Psalms, but that was a habit I hadn’t revived. Yet. I needed to get one of those travel-size Bibles I could tuck in my purse so I wouldn’t look like some fanatic Bible-thumper . . . if that mattered. What was a “Bible-thumper” anyway? People like Edesa Baxter, who loved to study the Bible? Mabel Turner, who always had the right scripture for me? Avis Douglass, the classy elementary school principal who preached at the shelter once a month, encouraging women on the down-and-out?
I felt a tad guilty. Okay, forget whether I’d look like a Bible-thumper or not. But a travel-size Bible would still be a good idea.
Paul seemed awestruck by the view from the penthouse’s glass wall in the front room. “We live up here? Wow! Is that really a lake? It looks like the ocean!” Then my youngest turned eyes of concern on me. “Don’t you get a little, you know, queasy up here, Mom?”
I nearly melted.
His brother was already staking out territory. “Awww-riight! My own room. Mom, I want a lock so I can keep Punkhead here out.”
I delighted in all the noise and chatter, giving the boys time to explore while I started a “welcome home” dinner sure to please—Southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes, creamy gravy, buttered green beans. Philip called for a cart to get the boys’ lug-gage up the elevator, then disappeared into the den to check phone and e-mail messages and go through the mail, which was fine by me.
“Hey, P.J.! Paul! Come set the table, okay? Supper’s almost ready!”
Twin groans radiated from both bedrooms down the hall. “Aww, do we have to?”
Philip appeared, waving an envelope. “Oh, give ’em a break, Gabby. It’s their first night in Chicago. But I think they’ll like what Henry sent us . . .”
Philip handed the envelope to P.J. as we sat down to dinner. Our oldest crowed. “Cubs tickets! Hey, look, Punkhead! Four tickets to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field!” P.J. squinted at the fine print. “Tomorrow? Against Atlanta? Aww-riiight. Thanks, Dad!”
“You’re welcome, buddy. Now, how about passing some of that chicken over here?”
I flinched. The Cubs tickets were my surprise. Why did Philip take the credit? Well, just say so, Gabby. It’s not a big deal. “Actually, boys, the tickets were my idea—but they’re from both of us.” Or something.
But the opportunity passed, and the more seconds that ticked away, the more awkward I felt bringing it up. So let it go, Gabby. I did, smiling as the boys poured too much gravy over everything. But a too-familiar crack tore wider in my spirit.
The boys were totally berserk with excitement as we joined the crowd of Cubs fans on the Red Line El Sunday afternoon. Ninety percent of the riders got off at the Addison El Station, where Wrigley Field towered just a block away. The weather cooperated, draping Chicago with a bright, sunny day and temps heading into the nineties. I smiled happily. Looked like Chicago’s rainy season might be over.
I had brought a backpack full of water bottles and snacks, but a security guard wouldn’t let us in unless I dumped it all. “No food or beverages allowed inside the park,” he growled. “Club rules. You can buy it inside.”
I started to argue, but Philip took the backpack away from me and dumped the offending contents into the nearest trash can. “Come on, Gabby. That’s just the way it is.”
It was all I could do to keep from diving back into the trash can to retrieve it. Dump perfectly good food and water just so we could pay twice as much for it inside? When there were people like Lucy digging through Dumpsters, hoping for something to eat? Felt downright sinful to me.
Let it go, Gabby.
The game was exciting, even though I didn’t follow the base-ball teams much. Wrigley Field roared with happy fans as the score nudged upward, first the Cubs ahead, then the Braves. Between innings, Philip and the boys put away three hot dogs each, plus nachos and peanuts, washed down with soft drinks and two large beers for Philip. Well, at least he wasn’t driving.
At the close of the ninth inning, the Braves won by one measly run—13 to 12. But the loss didn’t dampen the boys’ gusto. Philip bought Cubs caps and pennants for them on our way out of the stadium, and Chicago suddenly had two new Cubby fans.
I felt pretty smug. A Cubs game was a perfect way to help our sons own the move to Chicago. Even the ride on the El was exciting to them, in spite of having to stand in the swaying car, jammed like human sardines. I tried to think . . . was this Philip’s first time taking public transportation? Well, good. Now he had some idea of how I got to work each day.
As the train passed the Sheridan El stop, I nudged P.J., who was hanging on to the nearest pole. “This is where I get off to go to work.”
He looked at me funny. “Where do you work?”
“At a homeless shelter. You know. I told you. I’m the program director.”
He wrinkled his face. “That’s weird.”
“I’ll take you sometime—so you can see where I work.” I looked at my watch. Sunday Evening Praise would be starting in an hour or so. Pastor Álvarez’s Spanish church would be there. I was halfway tempted . . .
No. One step at a time.
“Streetwise! Get your new issue of Streetwise right here!”
Just ahead of us on the first corner, a black man in a knit hat and a few missing teeth was peddling the newspaper. “Streetwise! Only one dollar! Streetwise!”
I rummaged in the backpack for my wallet, pulled out a dollar, and got a copy of the newspaper and a “God bless you, lady!” in exchange. I hurried to catch up to Philip, who had already walked ahead several yards, then realized the boys had fallen behind. Turning, I saw P.J. mimicking the man, covering his teeth with his lips as if he were toothless and pretending to call out, “Streetwise!” while Paul snickered. Before I even thought about it, I grabbed my firstborn by the collar, practically jerking him off his feet.
“Ow!” P.J. yelped, trying to pull away.
I put my face nose to nose with his thirteen-year-old mug. “Don’t let me ever catch you doing something like that again, young man!” I hissed.
chapter 32
Hustling the boys out of earshot of the Streetwise vendor, I turned both of them to face me. “That man has had troubles you can’t even imagine, but he’s working for a living and trying to make a better life. He deserves to be treated with respect. He has a name. It’s on his Streetwise badge. Maybe he has kids your age he’s trying to support. Did you ever think of that?”
“You don’t have to yell.” P.J. looked at me beneath sullen eyelids.
“You think this is yelling?” I had deliberately lowered my voice to avoid embarrassing the boys in public. “Yelling is what I’m going to do if you ever disrespect someone like that again.” I turned on my heel and marched off to meet up with Philip, who had turned around, frowning.
Behind me I heard Paul mumble, “Gee, if that homeless guy has kids, I bet they don’t want anyone to know he’s their dad.” I ignored it and marched on.
Philip didn’t see what the big deal was. “Good grief, Gabby,” he said when I told him what happened. “They were just goofing around. They’re kids!”
“That’s no excuse! Philip, I work with homeless people like that—not with men, but some of the women at Manna House sell Streetwise too. What if that had been one of the women I know by name, someone I’ve eaten lunch with, who’s told me her story, someone who’s excited about some of the program ideas I’ve started?”
Philip looked back to be sure the boys were still following, then started to push through the revolving door of Richmond Towers. “Ah. I get it. This is about you. You don’t want the boys to embarrass you.”
My mouth hung open as the door swallowed him and spit him out on the other side. I pushed myself through to make sure he didn’t get away. “No! I just made it personal, because it’s easy to mimic someone or laugh at them when you don’t know them, don’t know anything about them. It doesn’t have anything to do with me being embarrassed.”
We passed the weekend doorman—“door dude” was more like it—who ignored us as Philip swiped his security card for the inner door. As he held the door open, waiting for the boys to catch up with us, Philip leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Maybe not, Gabby. But did it ever occur to you that your choice of company might embarrass your sons?”
The boys, being boys, forgot about our little spat by the time we got to the top floor. Philip rode above it as though it had nothing to do with him. But I was upset. Upset that the boys had behaved so rudely—P.J. in particular, with no apology—and upset at Philip’s insinuation. It just made me determined: I was going to take the boys to the shelter this week, introduce them to the staff and residents, let them hang out, and find something they could do to contribute.
Memorial Day turned out to be a bust, holiday-wise. Big clouds rolled up over the lake, throwing lightning darts and growling thunder just as we were getting ready to go downtown to see the Memorial Day parade. The boys stomped off to flop in front of the TV, but Philip didn’t seem too disappointed. “I’ve got a lot of catch-up work to do anyway. You and the boys do . . . whatever.” He headed for the den.
“Philip, wait a minute.” I followed him into the den and shut the door behind me. “We need to talk about school for the boys next fall. I don’t want to send them back to Virginia, not with us so far away. So we have to do something now.”
He was already booting up his computer. “So what’s stopping you? You’re the one who’s hot to find an alternative. When you find something that compares to George Washington Prep, then let’s talk.”
That took me aback. I thought for sure Philip would want to be in the driver’s seat when it came to choosing a school for any child of his carrying the Fairbanks name. I’d held back, not wanting to step into territory he’d already claimed. But I wasn’t about to question this turnabout.
“All right. I will. Thanks, Philip.”
He was already calling up his spreadsheets and opening files. “Mm-hm. Shut the door behind you, Gabby.”
Oh my goodness. If I’d known it would be this easy, I would have started weeks ago, as soon as he’d set his sights on Chicago. Today was a holiday, so schools would be closed. But at least I could get the phone directory and start making a list—
“Mom. I’m bored. There’s nothin’ to do.” Paul drifted into the kitchen, right behind his whine.
“How about . . .” I racked my brain, then picked up the phone and dialed 0-1. “Mr. Bentley? Oh, good, you’re here today. Be right down.” I turned to Paul. “Where’s P.J.? I have somebody I’d like you to meet.”
I managed to pry P.J. away from the widescreen TV in the living room, which was televising the rather wet Memorial Day parade, and we rode down to the lobby in the elevator. Mr. Bentley was standing in front of the half-circular desk, spiffy as usual in his blue uniform. I gave him a wide smile. “Boys, I’d like you to meet my friend, Mr. Bentley. You’ll see a lot of him. He rules this roost.”
“Mrs. Fairbanks,” he said, doffing his cap. “You’re back from Virginia, I see. And this must be the young man who just graduated from middle school.” Mr. Bentley held out his hand to P.J. “Congratulations, young man. And welcome to Chicago.”
P.J. shook Mr. Bentley’s hand with all the enthusiasm of a limp noodle. Mr. Bentley didn’t seem to notice—or chose to ignore it. He turned to Paul. “What about you, young man? Do you have a name, or should I give you a street name? Like your mom.” He looked side to side, as if casing the lobby for spies. “Her street name is Firecracker.”
“Wha—what?” I giggled, feeling my cheeks flush.
Mr. Bentley leaned closer to Paul’s eye level and patted his own bald head. “You know. The, um, hair.”
Paul laughed out loud. “Nah. My dad calls her Mop Top. But only when he’s in a really good mood.” He held out his hand. “I’m Paul. He’s P.J.”
Mr. Bentley’s eyebrows went up. “Ah. Now, what would that stand for? Pearl Jam? Para Jumper? . . . I know. Peter Jackson! Lord of the Rings—”
Uh-oh. I saw P.J.’s eyes flash. “No. It stands for Philip Fairbanks, Junior.” P.J. turned to me. “Come on, Mom. I thought we were going to do something.”
Mr. Bentley straightened. I wanted to apologize for my humor-less son, but Mr. Bentley pulled a couple of coupons out of his pocket. “Well, then. Maybe these will come in handy. Good for free doughnuts or ice cream at the Dunkin’ Donuts a couple of blocks north of here.” He gave one to each of the boys. Paul’s eyes lit up. P.J. gave a grudging nod of thanks. “And it seems to have stopped raining. Just in time.”
The doorman smiled, put his cap back on, and turned to greet an
other Richmond Towers resident coming in. I headed for the revolving door, eager to get out of there to cool off my flaming cheeks. I had so looked forward to introducing Mr. Bentley to my sons. Why was P.J. acting like such a jerk?
Give them time, Gabby. Give them time. Right. They’d been in Chicago all of two days. They’d grown up in Deep South Suburbia. Had to be some culture shock.
We found the Dunkin’ Donuts on Bryn Mawr and used the coupons to get ice cream for the boys while I splurged on an iced latte. As we came out of the shop, the sun was drying up the puddles, and the thunderheads were drifting westward. “Hey, guys. I know what let’s do. Come on!” I headed for Richmond Towers once more—only this time, we skirted the high-rise for the park on the other side. Feeling a tickle of excitement, I started to run, leading the boys through the pedestrian tunnel beneath Lake Shore Drive . . . and introduced them to kicking off our shoes and splashing in the gurgling edges of Lake Michigan.
After all, I giggled as I chased first Paul and then P.J. along the wet sand, the boys and I were still dressed in the shorts and T-shirts we’d planned to wear to the parade. Even if we ran into Lucy Tucker—Miss Beach Police herself—she couldn’t fuss at me.
Philip wasn’t happy about my plan to take the boys to North Dakota for a week. “Good grief, Gabby, they just got here.”
“Yes, but you said yourself sailing camp doesn’t start for another two weeks, and you wanted me to take time from work to spend with them. So I’m taking that week off.”
“I meant give up the stupid job, Gabby.”
I tensed. The boys were finally in bed and we were heading that way, but I didn’t want to fight with Philip. I chose my words carefully. “Don’t be unfair, Philip. You’ve already got them signed up for sailing camp, and after that there’ll probably be something else. It doesn’t need to be either-or. Besides, I need to go see my mom, and this would be the best time to take the boys too. It all works out.”
Philip pulled off his gym shoes and tossed them. “What about this week? You taking this week off too?” Socks came off, then his T-shirt, all ending in a pile with the shoes.
