Who Do I Lean On? (15 page)

Third beep. “Gabby? It's Mabel. Call me tonight if you get this. Estelle won't be in tomorrow. She had a family emergency. I need you to put together a lunch team for tomorrow, maybe the next day too. Let me know what you can do.”

Oh no!
Another emergency? Mabel said “family emergency,” so it had to be about Estelle's son . . . Leroy, she said his name was. Poor Estelle. Was this related to the fire at Estelle's house over the weekend? Hopefully this wasn't something worse. But whatever it was, I needed to hustle if I was going to put together a lunch team for
today
, or I'd be cooking lunch by myself.

I managed to get the boys up and moving and P.J. dropped off at cross-country practice in time to get to work ten minutes early that morning. I headed straight for Mabel's office, leaving Paul to sign us in and figure out his volunteer activities by himself.

“Mabel!” I burst in without knocking. “What—?”

Mabel was on the phone. She held up a manicured finger. “Yes, yes . . . Thanks, Harry. Tell her not to worry. We'll cover things here . . . Okay. Keep us posted.” She hung up and turned to me, rubbing worry lines out of her usually smooth forehead.

“Was that Mr. Bentley?” I asked. “Sorry I didn't call back last night . . . didn't get the message until this morning. What's wrong? Is Estelle okay?”

Mabel nodded. “Yes, that was Mr. Bentley and yes, Estelle is okay.” She sighed and absently tucked her straightened bob behind one ear. “It's her son, Leroy. He's in the burn unit at the county hospital with third-degree burns over a third of his body.”

I gasped and sank into a chair. “But what happened? You said something yesterday about a fire, but Estelle didn't seem all that upset. So how—?”

Mabel held up a hand. “Two different episodes. Estelle came in yesterday, said there'd been a minor kitchen fire at the house. Leroy was okay, but she was worried that he'd caused the fire—on purpose or accidentally, she didn't know. She hadn't heard from him for several days . . . happens when he doesn't take his meds. He has a long history of mental problems, you know.”

I was about to say, “I didn't even know Estelle
had
a son until yesterday!” but Mabel didn't stop for my little snit.

“She told me yesterday maybe she should put Leroy in a mental health facility before he hurt himself. She'd been resisting that idea for years. Then . . . well, I don't know all the details. Harry was listening to his police scanner, heard the address of a major house fire yesterday afternoon and recognized it as Estelle's house—the family home, I mean, where Leroy lives. Harry called Estelle right away, but by the time they got there, the house was basically a total loss, and an ambulance had already taken Leroy to Stroger Hospital. Estelle's with him now, of course. And she's all over herself for letting Leroy stay in the house on his own too long.”

I could hardly speak. “Is he . . . is her son badly burned?” Just burning my hand on the stove was painful. I could hardly imagine how Estelle must feel, knowing her son was in terrible pain.

Mabel shook her head. “Don't know.” She straightened and pushed back from her desk, all business again. “Well. Main thing we need to do is put together some lunch teams to cover for Estelle. Can you work on that this morning? Start with Precious—she's done it before. But someone will need to check on the menus and food supplies on hand. Estelle usually takes care of all that.”

And now it was in my lap. Which was okay . . . though I wanted to ask Mabel why Leroy was living alone. Why didn't Estelle live with him—it was her house, wasn't it? And how come she ended up here at Manna House a couple of years ago? But Mabel was already back on the phone.

I found Precious in the schoolroom, trying to update her résumé. But before I could say what I'd come for, she pounced. “Girl, you just the sistah I need to see. Can you proofread this for me? I gotta find a job an' soon. Money I had is all run out, and Sabrina gettin' bigger all the time. That baby gonna be here 'fore we know it.” The thin, strappy woman eyed me sideways from beneath the fall of short kinky twists that fell across her forehead. “An' I don't mean ta ride on ya, but anything happenin' 'bout this grand idea of yours ta turn that building into a place for us single moms? Me an' Sabrina, we gonna need someplace ta live, an' quick, 'fore that baby gets here.”

I ran my fingers through my own mop of red curls, my head spinning. Yes, I needed to get moving on the next steps for the House of Hope, but I wasn't even sure what came first—buying the building or approaching the city? And in the meantime, Philip had thrown me off center asking to talk . . . and now Estelle was out of commission and I was supposed to make sure Manna House served lunch to the fifteen or twenty residents who weren't out for the day, plus staff . . .

I blew out my pent-up frustration. “Uh, Precious, we've got a situation.” I quickly filled her in on Estelle's absence and the need to put together a lunch team. “You know your way around that kitchen better than I do. Can you help me put together a lunch team today? If you'll find a couple extra hands—”

Precious was already halfway out the door. “No,
you
go find the warm bodies. You think they gonna listen to me if I tell them they gotta cook today? You're on staff. They'll listen to you.
I'll
go hunt up Estelle's menu and see if we got the goods.”

chapter 13

Estelle didn't come back until Thursday, and in that time Pluto had been demoted as a planet and Precious and I managed to pull off two halfway decent lunches for twenty-five folks. The former was big news on CNN and for the astronomy junkies at Chicago's Adler Planetarium, but for me, filling Estelle's shoes in the Manna House kitchen and getting only two complaints—and that was because we ran out of watermelon the second day—should have been right up there with CNN's top stories.

When I'd gone looking for helpers, I'd spied the stuffed animal dogs I'd secretly placed on Tawny's and Sabrina's bunks sitting on their pillows like spoiled show dogs, and Sarge told me on the sly that both teenagers had gone to sleep hugging their new comfort friends. Which gave me the courage to ask Tawny if she'd mind doing lunch prep again—“Since you know your way around the kitchen better than I do”—after her stint on Monday. Okay, maybe I stretched the truth a little, but she deserved some encouragement after surviving kitchen duty bouncing back and forth between Estelle and Wanda. Besides, it gave me a chance to get to know the girl a little.

But I sure was glad to see Estelle come sweeping through the double doors into the multipurpose room—correction, Shepherd's Fold—on Thursday morning, shaking water off her umbrella as an early thunderstorm shook the building. Her hair had been pulled into a no-nonsense topknot and she looked like she hadn't slept much the past few days. Against my selfish instincts—I didn't really want to “do lunch” again—I trailed her downstairs to the kitchen. “Are you sure you should be back at work? You look like you could use some R & R.”

She stowed her carryall bag under the counter and tied on a big apron. “Don't need sleep. Need to get back to work. Only so much bedside-sittin' a body can do.” She cast a critical eye over the counters, stove, and appliances. “Hm. Not bad. Everything looks clean. And praise Jesus, somebody made coffee.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “You?”

“Heard you were coming back today. Thought you might need it.” I grabbed the pot, poured two cups, and headed for the nearest table in the dining room. “Estelle, please, take a minute to sit down. I want to hear how your son is doing. Mabel said he has third-degree burns. That sounds terribly painful. Is he going to be all right?”

Estelle hesitated and then gave in, easing herself into a folding chair while I brought sugar for her, creamer for me, and a couple of spoons. She stirred absently and heaved a big sigh. “Hard for me to tell. They've got him in a sterile environment, pouring all kinds of intravenous fluids into him, antibiotics and all that. And he's pretty knocked out on morphine to cut the pain.” Her dark eyes teared a little. “He's got burns on a third of his body, mostly along his left side—his left arm, part of his torso and back, and his left leg. They started skin treatment yesterday, putting moist dressings on the burns, then taking them off . . . Lord, Lord, couldn't stand to watch it.” She shuddered.

“But, what happened? Mabel said your house is a total loss from the fire. He was living in your house?”

“Mm.” Estelle seemed lost in thought.

I waited, but when nothing more was forthcoming, I said bluntly, “Estelle, I don't understand. If you have a house, why were you a resident here at Manna House a couple of years ago? I mean, why is your son living in your house and not you?”

She allowed a sad smile. “Kind of a long story. Told you the other day Leroy has mental problems. One day he's gentle as a lamb, other days . . . well. He lived with me a long time, held odd jobs in construction. But sometimes he'd get upset, wouldn't take his meds. Then . . . well. All hell would break loose. Got so we couldn't live together.”

I stared at her. “What are you saying? He got violent? I mean, did he hurt you?”

She didn't answer.

“So
you
moved out and let Leroy stay there? That doesn't make any sense!”

“Not to you, maybe. Did to me.” Her eyes got soft. “If I'd kicked him out, where could he go? He would've just ended up in some institution.”

“But
you
ended up in a homeless shelter! Seems upside down to me.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But what mother can kick out her own child from the only home he knows? He's family!”

Family
. The irony was not lost on me. That hadn't stopped Philip from kicking
me
out. But I kept my mouth shut. Estelle's son was in the hospital with serious burns and her house was a total loss. Kind of put my woes in perspective.

“Oh, Estelle, I'm so terribly sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Estelle shook her head. “Can't talk about it anymore. I'm too tired.” Then she frowned at me. “I think you called me a couple of days ago and left a message, something about Philip. Didn't get it until yesterday. What's going on?”

“Oh, just . . . Philip said he wants to talk. About us. But I—”

“What's he want to talk about?” Estelle's frown deepened.

I felt guilty diverting attention from Estelle's big crisis to my petty marital problems. “I don't know! But as you well know, talking ‘about us' isn't our strong point. Usually turns out to be Philip talking at me, and me mentally bouncing around trying to figure out how to keep the Fairbanks boat from rocking.”

“Humph. Told you before, don't talk to that man alone. Look what happened when you ignored Mama Estelle's advice and sailed into his office, like a curly-headed pigeon flying into a skeet shoot.”

I groaned. “Don't remind me. I haven't said I'd meet him. Don't really want to talk to him at all.”

“Oh, you have to talk to him, Gabby girl.”

“What?”
Not
what I expected from Estelle.

“He wants to talk. That's new. Could be anything. Might be good, might be bad. Only way to find out is to talk to him. Or ask him straight up what it's about. All I'm sayin' is, ain't real smart to go it alone. That's all I'm sayin'.” Estelle pushed herself up from the table. “Gotta get to work. Hang in there, Gabby.”

I kicked myself later for bringing up the stuff with Philip. Hadn't asked Estelle how the fire started, or what was going to happen now that her house was gone. On the other hand, those topics might be a little touchy. Maybe it was just as well.

By the time Paul and I left Manna House that afternoon, the morning rain had moved out over the lake, replaced by a hazy sky and muggy air. Dropping Paul off at the apartment, I decided it was as good a time as any to take the car to Mr. B's mechanic and get the air conditioner fixed. He even said he'd fix it while I waited. “Harry told me to take good care of you,” the mechanic said. “He's always brought me his business. Glad I can return the favor.”

By the time the car was fixed, I was wilting from the heat. “Dad called a few minutes ago,” P.J. said, not looking up from the video game he was playing as I came in the door. “I told him you'd call him back . . . aha!
Zam zam!
Gotcha!”

Oh, thanks a lot, buddy
. I rolled my eyes at P.J. behind his back and headed for the kitchen, where I stuck my head into the fridge . . .
Darn it!
Who drank all the cold pop? Stupid question. All I could find in the pantry were a couple of cans of warm, generic lemon-lime soda. Did I buy that? Oh well. I poured the contents of a can over ice, crushed the can, and went out onto the back porch to toss it into the plastic wastebasket I used for recyclables . . . which was overflowing. I'd forgotten to empty it into the big recycle bin out by the Dumpster. Which got me thinking . . . Did the city pay for that Dumpster and recycle bin? Or the landlord? If I bought the building, would I have to pay for services like that? I had an hour to kill before the boys and I took in the 5:30 movie at the Broadway Theater—our plan for this Thursday. Maybe I should do some more research on the responsibilities of owning a six-flat in Chicago . . .