Who Do I Lean On? (19 page)

His jaw clenched. “Why? I need this, Gabrielle! I said I'd pay you back. You've got the money—more than enough, right? How would it hurt you to help me out for a couple of weeks?”

“It would hurt you, Philip. You need more than money. You need to get some help. Your gambling has obviously become a big problem.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He snorted and leaned back in the chair. “Fine. I'll get some help. But first I need to get out from under this debt.
That's
the problem.”

“No, your problem is you've become somebody I don't even recognize anymore. What you did to my mother and me? That's not the Philip Fairbanks I married.”

Philip looked at me sharply. “So that's what this is about. I figured as much. This is payback, isn't it?” He suddenly stood up and stabbed a finger at me. “Well, let me tell you something, Gabrielle Fairbanks. You
owe
me! You owe me a whole lot more than twenty-five or even fifty grand.”

I nearly fell out of the rocker. “I
owe
you? What are you talking about?”

“How long have we been married? Fifteen, sixteen years? How much income did you contribute to our family during that time?
Nada
. Oh, oh, I take that back. You had that sweet little job playing games with the old folks at the nursing home, which gave you a little spending money for . . . what? One year? Two? Meanwhile, who was paying the real bills? I was. Gave you a beautiful home. Gave you two closets full of clothes. Put food on the table—a Belfort Signature table, I might add. Paid for the boys' school, their sports, vacations to the ocean . . . Add
that
up, Gabrielle. Add up sixteen years of marriage in dollars and cents, and you'll see what I'm asking you for is peanuts! Peanuts!”

By this time, Philip was pacing back and forth, running a hand down the back of his head. I was so furious I couldn't say anything for a few moments. But then I found my feet and my voice. I stood up. “How
dare
you reduce our marriage to dollars and cents, to who owes who what?” My voice was shaking. “I won't play that game, Philip. My answer is still no. You'll have to find the money somewhere else.”

I crossed the room and opened the front door. “I want you to go. Go!”

Philip glared at me for several moments, and then strode to the door. But at the door he turned, only inches from my face. I could smell his Armani aftershave. “You think you are so holy, so self-righteous, Gabrielle. Going to church now, helping out the homeless. You've told everybody you know—and probably the media too—your pathetic sob story, how I'm the villain who tore our marriage apart. But get one thing straight, Gabby! You walked out of our marriage the day we moved to Chicago. You think I'm not the person you married? I could say the same thing about you!”

chapter 17

The outer door had barely closed behind Philip when I grabbed the closest thing at hand and threw it across the room. “I
owe
him?!” I screeched at the empty house. “I
owe
him?”

Unfortunately, I'd grabbed a glass candle jar off an end table and it smashed against the painted brick gas fireplace on the other side of the room, scattering glass and broken candle wax in a dozen directions.

I stalked down the hallway, then back again with a broom from the pantry. “He thinks I owe
him
?” I muttered to myself as I swept shards of glass into a pile. Hadn't I read somewhere that if everything an at-home mom did had to be hired out—
ha! Including sex?
—it would exceed most paychecks their husbands brought home.

In the middle of my rant, Estelle called to say they had the time wrong and the fireworks cruise didn't start until nine thirty, so they'd be late getting home. “Fine,” I said and hung up before she could ask how my talk with Philip went. I was so upset by Philip's accusations—he thought
I
had walked out on the marriage? What kind of baloney was that?!—I didn't want to talk to anybody. I watched a dumb movie on TV, and then used the fact that the boys didn't get home until almost midnight as an excuse to let them sleep in Sunday morning and not go to church.

The boys nixed my suggestion about going for a bike ride along the lakefront that afternoon and instead wandered over to the playground to shoot baskets at the school where Paul would be starting in another week. I stayed home and did laundry, ignoring the phone. Lee Boyer left a message that he'd made an appointment with the realtor for eleven on Tuesday and he'd see me then. And Jodi Baxter left a message saying she didn't see me at church and was I okay?

No, I was not okay, but I didn't feel like talking about it either.

Monday's gray gloom and dripping skies matched my mood as I squished into the shelter. I'd dropped off P.J. at Lane Tech for his last week of preseason practice—rain or shine, the coach said—and talked Paul into coming to the shelter at least a couple of days this final week, but frankly, I didn't want to be there either.
What's wrong with me
? I wondered as I signed in. I'd felt such peace about saying no to Philip after the prayer time with Estelle and Harry. Now I just hoped I wouldn't snarl at the first person who talked to me . . .

“Mom!” I heard Paul squeal from beyond the double doors. “It's Dandy and Lucy!”

Sure enough, Lucy Tucker was sprawled on one of the couches in the newly named Shepherd's Fold, her damp hair plastered against her head, grinning as the yellow dog practically break-danced around Paul, who was down on his knees trying to keep from being bowled over. “Look, Mom, you can hardly see where the stitches are anymore.”

It was true. Dandy's hair had grown out over the long knife cut over his shoulder, but overall his hair looked rather matted and dirty, which made me wince. “Hi, Lucy.” I plopped down on the couch beside the old lady. “You dropping in for your weekly spa treatment?”
Ha ha
. My hint that a shower and hair wash would be in order. Which gave me an idea. “Hey, Paul, why don't you give Dandy a bath and a blow-dry this morning? Is that okay with you, Lucy?”

The older woman shrugged. “Guess so. Though he jus' gonna get dirty again on a day like this, mud everywhere.”

“Why don't you stay a few days until the weather dries out? Weather guy said rain today and tomorrow. Want me to see if there's a bed available?”

Lucy shrugged again, which struck me as odd. She usually had a definite opinion one way or the other. I told Paul to round up Sammy and Keisha—he was going to need the two older kids to help—and I'd set things up for them in the laundry room downstairs. Mabel's office was empty, but a quick look at the bed list at the reception desk showed me there were two beds left. They'd be gone by evening if this rain kept up. I signed Lucy's name for two days and told Angela I'd work it out with Mabel later if there was a problem.

“What's that?” Lucy pointed to the handmade poster on the double doors with scrawled bubble letters:
Shepherd's Fold
.

“That's the new name for the multipurpose room. You know, Shepherd was my mom's last name, and a Shepherd's Fold is where the shepherd keeps his sheep safe and secure.”

“Whatchu think I am, stupid? I
know
what it means an' I know it's named after Miss Martha. What I wanna know is, where's the bronze plaque? That stupid poster gotta go. It's an insult to her memory. We gotta put that name up on a nice, big bronze plaque that says, ‘In memory of Miss Martha Shepherd' or somethin' decent. Maybe frame her picture too.”

I barely had time to assure Lucy that I'd take her suggestion to the staff meeting that morning when Carolyn showed up to talk about the afterschool program. The shelter's former book maven still looked the same as the day she'd moved out—brownish-gray hair slicked back into a long ponytail, no makeup, and forty extra pounds. But frankly, I thought my idea to ask Carolyn to oversee the afterschool program was brilliant—a lot better use of her talents than just leading a book club once a week. It had taken me a few weeks after I started working at Manna House to realize that the dumpy middle-aged woman had a master's degree in literature. Still on disability after an emotional breakdown and time spent first in a psychiatric facility and then here at the shelter, she'd finally gotten a tiny two-room apartment at Deborah's Place.

But I'd missed her everyday presence, missed seeing that straggly ponytail hunched over a Scrabble board or game of chess. As far as I was concerned, Carolyn and I had a lot in common—two educated women who never thought they'd end up in a homeless shelter. But we had.

The two of us hunkered down in my office to put together a rough plan we could take to the staff meeting at ten. Squeals and doggy whines from the laundry room punctuated our work for about twenty minutes, but shouts of, “Come back, Dandy!” drew both of us out of my office in time to see a sudsy Dandy escape up the stairs to the main floor. By the time we caught the dog, wrestled him back into the laundry room tub, and got him rinsed and dried off, it was already time for staff meeting.

Our damp, rumpled clothes raised a few eyebrows and grins when Carolyn and I joined the others in the schoolroom. I was glad to see Edesa and Josh Baxter there. Regular volunteers were always welcome to attend staff meetings whenever they could. Estelle caught my eye, and I knew she wanted to know what went down when I talked to Philip the other night, but I just mouthed,
“Later
.”

As we plunged into that week's agenda—a new social work intern to assist Sarge at night starting in September, a slug fight over the weekend involving two of the residents, and my proposal that Carolyn take on the afterschool program—I realized my spirit had lifted from the cloud of gloom I'd been under all weekend. That's what I needed, to just keep busy, immerse myself in the work here, forget about Philip. After all, I'd given him my answer and I had a good reason for saying no. What had I expected, that he'd say,
“Sure, I understand. Thanks anyway
”?

“. . . classes start this week at UIC,” Josh was saying, “so we don't have as much time to look for an apartment. So far we haven't found anything we can afford, and we're starting to feel desperate. If anyone hears of anything for rent in this area, let us know.”

Mabel, of course, suggested we stop and pray about that right then, but I had to leave in the middle of her prayer to pick up P.J. and drop him off at home, and by the time I got back, the staff meeting was over. I poked my head into Mabel's office, where she was talking to Josh and Edesa. “Oops, sorry,” I said. “Just wondered if you've got any time today. Couple of things I need to talk about . . .”

Mabel peered at me over the top of her reading glasses, then at her appointment book. “I'm free at two. See you then.”

I gulped but nodded. Paul and I were supposed to leave at two. But if I was going to talk with the realtor tomorrow, I'd really like to know if things were moving ahead with the city on this second-stage housing idea before I signed on the dotted line. Owning a building just to rent out apartments to any Tom, Dick, or Henrietta wasn't exactly what I had in mind.

Carolyn had stayed after the staff meeting to do more work on the afterschool plans, and bless her, she agreed to challenge Paul to a game of chess to keep him occupied during my meeting. Estelle, of course, tried to corner me after lunch and pry out of me what happened when I talked to Philip, but all I said was that I'd told him no, like she and Harry advised, and of course he wasn't happy about it, but what did we expect?

She gave me a real funny look and muttered, “You and me gonna have a talk, girlfriend. Somethin' don't smell right.”

I escaped saying I had a meeting with Mabel, promised Paul I'd try to make it short, and knocked on the director's door right at two o'clock.

“So,” she said, as I sank into the sturdy armchair beside her desk. “What's up?”

I let slip a wry smile. Mabel was one of the most attractive, mature African-American women I'd ever met. She definitely had pleasant features, but it was more than that. Her unlined face, framed by her straightened bob, radiated calm. “What's up is I want to be like you when I grow up, Mabel. I come in here, and all my ragtag ends flying every which way just seem to sew themselves up like a quilted baby blanket.”

Mabel almost laughed. Almost. “If there's peace in this office, Gabby girl, all the credit goes to God, because I've got a few ragtag ends myself. Jermaine, for one. He starts high school next week—well, you know that, since P.J. is starting Lane Tech too— and I'm on my knees a couple of hours every night praying he won't get picked on like he did last year.”

I'd almost forgotten that Mabel's nephew, who suffered a lot of teasing by the more macho types, had tried to commit suicide just months ago. “Oh, Mabel, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you don't have any troubles. It's just . . . how do you keep so peaceful in the midst of all the craziness around here? Like that new woman messing with Tina. Whew! Glad I wasn't here.” Sarge's description of the fistfight that started over “get your stuff off my bunk” had all the earmarks of a street feud.