by Neta Jackson
A “high-yeller meal”? Must be all the yellow food dishes, but what was so funny? Grace realized the Bentleys were reaching out their hands to make a circle around the table, so she held the hands of Estelle and DaShawn, who were sitting on either side of her, and bowed her head as Harry began his prayer.
“Lord God”—he cleared his throat—“for food in a world where many walk in hunger, for faith in a world where many walk in fear, and for friends in a world where many walk alone, we give you thanks …”
Goosebumps prickled on Grace’s skin as Harry said, “Amen.” What a beautiful prayer. She blinked rapidly before looking up, hoping she wouldn’t get all teary in front of these people. But she wasn’t the only one who was touched. Estelle said, “Harry Bentley, where’d you get that prayer? Never heard you pray like that!”
Harry just grunted as he reached for the platter of fried chicken. “Don’t you remember? Last Thanksgiving, at the Manna House dinner, that Canadian pastor prayed it. When I looked around at all those women at the shelter, I thought, That says it all. Been bouncin’ around in my head ever since. But maybe you were still back in the kitchen, might not’ve heard it … Rodney, pass this on down to our guest. DaShawn, you wait.”
The Bentleys made sure Grace got served first, and soon her plate was full. “This all tastes wonderful,” she said to Estelle, after spending several minutes sampling everything. “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble on my account. I’m used to cooking for one, so it’s usually pretty simple.”
“Trouble?” Estelle’s husband chuckled, waving a forkful of ham and green beans. “My wife lives to cook! She cooks for the Manna House Women’s Shelter, you know.”
“Is that why you married Miz Estelle, Grandpa?” DaShawn piped up. “So’s you could eat good?”
“Now there’s a smart young man.” Harry pointed the fork at his grandson and grinned before popping the food into his mouth.
Miz Estelle? Odd thing to call his grandmother … unless she wasn’t. Grace smiled at their teasing, but turned back to Estelle. “You cook for a women’s shelter? I’d like to hear more about that.” This gave her a chance to eat more of the yummy macaroni and cheese on her plate. It was nothing like the box kind!
Estelle shrugged. “Not much to tell. Stayed there myself for a time, till it burned down. Bunch of good sisters at SouledOut Community Church helped me get back on my feet, so I decided one way to give back was volunteer at the shelter when it got up an’ runnin’ again, which turned into a job—”
“’Cause they liked her cookin’.” Harry winked at his wife.
“You … just eat,” Estelle scolded. “What I want to hear about is Grace’s singin’. I’m just sorry we don’t have a piano, ’cause I sure would love to hear you sing.”
Grace flushed. “Well, I did bring one of my CDs as a gift for you. Mostly songs I’ve written. Contemporary praise and worship music.”
DaShawn’s eyes got big. “You got a CD? Can I listen to it? I got my own CD player. An’ I already got fifteen CDs. But Grandpa won’t let me listen to—”
“DaShawn! You’re interrupting.” Harry gave his grandson a warning eye. “That’s real nice of you, Miss Meredith. We’d love to hear it. My wife tells me you travel ’round the country givin’ concerts, said you just got back from someplace and got another trip comin’ up this weekend … Now, you go ahead an’ eat that chicken with your fingers,” he added, picking up his own piece. “We got plenty napkins.”
Grace gratefully picked up her chicken and took a bite. Ohhh, so crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside. But Estelle asked, “Do you travel every weekend?”
Grace took a moment to chew and swallow. She felt flattered by their interest in her concerts. “Well,” she said, wiping her mouth and fingers with a paper napkin, “when I’m on tour, it’s several weeks at a time, actually.” She briefly described her New Year, New You tour in January, and told about the ten-day West Coast tour coming up. “But the last few weekends I’ve had a couple college concerts, and I’ll be going to St. Louis on Friday. Some of these large churches have wonderful auditoriums with state-of-the-art sound systems, everything.” She paused for a breath, suddenly feeling as if she’d said too much.
“All those concerts … Lord, have mercy! You must be flyin’ here, there, an’ everywhere.” Estelle shook her head, her topknot flopping loosely. “Don’t think I’d like that—but if that’s how the Lord’s usin’ you to bless others, why, I just say praise the Lord!”
Estelle’s comment seemed to stick in Grace’s throat. She coughed, reached for her glass, and took a sip of water. “Sorry … I’ve been doing all the talking. Think I better eat before my food gets cold. It’s all so good.” She lifted a bite of macaroni and cheese. “Uh, what about you, Mr. Bentley? What kind of work do you do?”
Harry Bentley chuckled self-consciously. “Well, believe it or not, I’m supposed to be retired. Used to be a Chicago cop—but I just got pulled back workin’ for Amtrak police. Only been on the job a week.”
“Yeah, an’ now we got a dog—ow!” DaShawn glared at his father and grandfather, as if one of them had kicked him under the table. Well, Grace thought, at least they were training him not to interrupt—though she hadn’t seen any sign of a dog.
“Rodney, you and DaShawn done?” Estelle said. “Why don’t you two go in the living room and watch some TV. I’ll call you back when it’s time for dessert.”
Rodney hadn’t said a word during the meal, and he and the boy had indeed polished off their plates. The two disappeared into the next room, and a moment later she heard the TV leap to life.
“Keep it down!” Estelle called after them. The TV sound was muffled.
“Must be nice having a two-flat so your son and grandson can live so close to you,” Grace said, returning to her meal. But out of the corner of her eye she saw Estelle and her husband exchange a quick glance.
Harry cleared his throat. “Actually, DaShawn lives with us. And we’re lookin’ to rent out the first-floor apartment. Rodney’s just stayin’ down there temporary-like, helpin’ with the renovations. Been a big help … but he’s lookin’ for a job.”
“That’s right,” Estelle nodded. “Something you can help us pray for. Also the poor woman who used to live here needs our prayers. Did you know Mattie Krakowski?”
Grace shook her head. “Not really.” Not at all, really. So that was her full name—Mattie Krakowski. “I know she had an accident, but I haven’t heard—”
“Poor soul.” Estelle wagged her head. “Guess she broke her hip, had to have surgery, and her son put her into a nursin’ home. My heart just goes out to her.”
So. Mrs. Krakowski hadn’t died after all. But then why had her house been sold right out from under her? Had these people taken advantage of her bad fortune? No, no, she shouldn’t think like that. There’d been that foreclosure sign out front even before the old lady fell. She must’ve been losing the house already. And there was just something about the Bentleys. Something solid, something real.
Grace laid down her fork and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Wonderful dinner, Mrs. Bentley. Can I help clear the table?”
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Estelle chuckled as she got up. “Somebody trained you right, young lady. I’m still trainin’ the young men in this family, though this ol’ man”—she gave Harry a playful poke as he passed her on the way to the kitchen carrying a couple dishes—“he came already trained, ’cause he’d been bachin’ for so long.”
Grace smiled to herself. It was fun to see a couple their age still joking with each other. Sounded like they hadn’t been married long. For the next few minutes, Grace helped Harry clear dishes from the table and load the dishwasher as Estelle put away leftovers.
“So … tell us about this upcoming concert,” Estelle said, starting a pot of coffee. “Somethin’ like that must take a lot of preparation. How can we pray for you?”
Grace was startled. The gentle request b
rought tears to her eyes and she had to grab a paper napkin. “I—I’m sorry … thank you,” she whispered. “I do need some prayer.” Why did she feel as if these people, whom she’d barely met, were people who might actually understand?
“Now, now,” Estelle clucked, “nothin’ to be sorry about. You sit down there at the kitchen table, honey … that’s it. Harry, hand me that tissue box. Now, tell us what needs some prayer.”
Grace traded the paper napkin for a tissue. “Well, I—I haven’t had much time to prepare for this one …” Grace found herself telling the Bentleys about coming home from her last tour with a virus, dealing with a lot of stress, losing her voice, and having to cancel some concerts. “My agent added the St. Louis concert kind of last minute as a way to make up for the ones I had to cancel. But I’m having a hard time getting my confidence back. Was supposed to fly last weekend, but …” Darn! The tears welled up again. How could she explain her panic attack?
“It’s all right, baby, it’s all right.” Estelle patted her hand and handed her another tissue.
Grace shook her head, frustrated at herself. Baby was right. But she felt like she needed to justify herself. “Okay, see, I … I had a pretty awful experience with airport security back in January coming home from the tour, and last weekend … well, guess the memory of my last experience was too fresh. I backed out at the last minute. So my assistant had to rent a car and drive us to Ohio. We’re going to drive to St. Louis too.”
“Well, now, that seems wise,” Estelle said kindly.
Grace just stared down at the tissue she was twisting into a little ball in her hands, afraid to look up at the two faces listening to her spill her guts. “Except the West Coast tour is coming up. Once the tour starts in Seattle, I’ll have a tour bus. But I’ve got to get there first. I just”—she spit out the words more fiercely than she intended—“just don’t want to deal with airports anymore.” She rolled her eyes apologetically and blew out a long breath. “So guess I could really use some prayer about that.”
Estelle patted her hand again. “Well, we can sure pray about—”
“Why don’t you take the train?” Harry said.
Now Grace did look up. “What?”
“The train. They handle security a lot different on the trains. You hardly know they’re there. Like I said, I just started workin’ for Amtrak, and they’ve got trains goin’ everywhere. Yeah, yeah, we think everybody flies these days, but that ain’t the only way to get from here to there. In fact, they got trains runnin’ several times a day to St. Louis. You could try it this weekend, see if you like it.”
Grace just stared at her host. She had never considered traveling by train.
“Well, now. That’s somethin’ to think about,” Estelle said. “So how ’bout we pray about it, and then top it off with that banana cream pie I made that’s just beggin’ to be eaten!”
Chapter 25
The moment she got in the door, Grace pulled out her phone. Nine forty-five… was it too late to call Samantha? But if they were going to take the train this weekend, they had to get on it.
Sam’s phone rang once and went straight to voice mail. Grace left a message: “Call me tonight if you can.”
A few minutes later a text message pinged on her phone: “Still in prayer mtg. Will call in 30 min. U okay?”
Thirty minutes. Might as well check it out before Sam called. Grace booted up her laptop and Googled the Amtrak site. She clicked on Schedules and typed in “From Chicago, To St. Louis” … Mr. Bentley was right. There were five trains to St. Louis every day, two in the morning, three in the afternoon. And return trip … another five options.
By the time Sam called, Grace felt giddy. She gave her assistant a quick rundown of her evening with the Bentleys and Mr. Bentley’s idea to take the train. “Look, I figured it out. Actual travel time is practically the same as driving, might even be close to the same as flying if you add in all the time we waste getting there an hour or two early to check bags and go through security, blah, blah, blah.” Grace laughed. “It’s win-win! I won’t have to fly and you won’t have to drive.”
“Well … sure,” Sam said. “I like the train. I’ve taken the City of New Orleans to Memphis a couple times—runs overnight, but I always took coach. Anyway, I should probably call Amtrak directly to make reservations since it’s such short notice. You said the trains run five times a day? What time do you want to go?”
They decided on the nine thirty morning train, getting in at three, to allow for any delays. “Uh, Grace, one more thing … if I can get tickets, do you want me to cancel the rental car, or hold on to it just in case?”
Ouch. Guess she deserved that after her behavior at the airport last weekend. But no back doors this time. “Cancel it. Mr. Bentley said they handle security much more unobtrusively at train stations. I think it’ll be fine.”
Grace woke up the next morning with snatches of words dancing to a new tune in her mind. One born to die … Only one Way … One life for mine … One empty grave … Could she work this into a new song? She hadn’t written anything since before the New Year, New You tour. Excited, she was at the piano before breakfast, sounding out the tune tumbling in her head, when her phone rang.
It was Sam. “Okay, here’s the deal. We forgot it’s Easter weekend. The nine-thirty train on Friday is totally sold out, same with all three afternoon trains. However, I was able to get two business-class seats on the early train—seven o’clock. Means we’d need to get to the station by six thirty at the latest to pick up our tickets—six would be even better given the holiday crowds. Still up for it?”
Grace considered. If they drove, they could leave whenever. But this was her chance to test whether train travel would work for the trip to the West Coast. “I am if you are. We could meet at the station.”
“Okay. You’re the boss. Gotta get on it, so talk to you later—oh. Better call Newman at Bongo, tell him about the change in plans. He should let the folks at the church know when we’re coming in.”
“Okay. See you tonight at practice. I might have a new song—”
But Sam had already hung up.
Grace worked on the song a while longer, and then glanced at the schoolhouse clock. Ten after nine … it was an hour earlier in Denver. Did Jeff come in at eight?
“Grace! You’re up and about early.” Jeff’s warm voice on the phone made her smile. “Everything still good for the St. Louis concert this weekend?”
“Yeah, great. That’s why I’m calling. Wanted to let you know that Sam and I are going to take the train to St. Louis on Friday. Sam’s working on getting tickets now. She’ll e-mail you the itinerary as soon as we get it.”
“The train? I just assumed you’d fly. Wouldn’t it be faster? Look, if it’s money, you shouldn’t worry. This church has a fat budget and will cover all expenses for you and the band, plus your honorarium. They’ve reserved your hotel—I’ll send you the confirmation.”
“Oh, it’s not that.” Suddenly Grace felt confused. Hadn’t she told Jeff about what happened at the Memphis airport? She’d told Samantha … and now the Bentleys, for heaven’s sake. She’d told Jeff about her broken engagement, but hadn’t said anything to the Bentleys about Roger … and what had she told her folks? They knew about Roger, but not about …
Grace pressed fingers to her forehead, trying to think. She couldn’t remember who knew what. When Jeff had called her early in the week to ask how the Cincinnati concert went, she hadn’t said anything about the failed attempt at flying. She’d been too embarrassed by her panic attack.
“Grace? What is it? Is everything all right?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes, yes, fine. I’ll, uh, explain later. Don’t worry, we’re allowing plenty of time. Can you let them know Sam and I are coming in by train, and ask do they want to pick us up, or should we arrange for a limo or taxi? The band is still driving down. We’ll need the church most of the day on Saturday to set up and do a run-through.”
Grace noticed a brief pause before Jeff said, “All right. Have Sam send me the itinerary and I’ll take care of everything on this end and get back to you. Is there anything else I can do, Grace, to make this weekend easier? I know we scheduled this last minute—so sorry about that.”
“It’s … it’s all right. I think everything’s coming together. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else. Just, you know, could use more of those prayers you said the Bongo staff does every morning.”
As they said good-bye and hung up, Grace realized she meant it too.
Practice with the band that night ran late, and Grace had to be up at four thirty Friday morning—limo was coming at five thirty to get her to Union Station by six. But she figured she could catch a nap on the train, and she’d make sure she got to bed early at the hotel that night. It was smart to go a day early.
It was a good thing they’d decided to arrive at six to pick up their tickets because boarding the early morning commuter began at six thirty. Sam, a little bleary-eyed herself, helped Grace stow their suitcases in the luggage area over their reserved seats in the club-dinette car, and then said, “I’m going to get us some coffee.”
Grace watched, amused, as her assistant moved to the snack bar in the middle of the car, and then she sank down into the wide burgundy Naugahyde seat by the window. This Amfleet club car was nice … very nice. Wide seats—two on one side, just one on the other—spacious legroom, snack bar handy, six tables at the other end. She wondered what the regular coach cars were like.
Sam brought back coffee, two yogurt cups, and two cinnamon bagels with cream cheese. “Breakfast!” she grinned. “Want to eat here or back there at one of the tables?”
“Here’s fine.” But even with the coffee, Grace managed to doze off before the train passed Joliet … and woke an hour later as the train pulled into the station at Bloomington-Normal.
“Hey, sleepyhead.” Sam had on her reading light and was leafing through a magazine she’d brought along. “Figured out one good thing about taking this early train—fewer stops. It’s only been a couple hours, about three to go. But we should get there about noon.”
