Who Do I Lean On? (23 page)

I did my grocery shopping, stopped by the dry cleaners, and got my nails done. By the time I got back to the six-flat in late afternoon, both moving trucks were gone. Curious, I tried the door to the first-floor apartment across the hall from me. Locked.
Drat
. I'd have to get the key to do any painting. But the third-floor apartment door was open.

I peeked into the empty apartment . . . “empty” being a relative term. Trash still littered the front room—a stained carpet, a broken lamp, old newspapers, even some clothes. I heard my front door buzzer while I was still in the apartment. Almost six . . . had to be the boys. I located the intercom and buzzed them in, then yelled down the stairwell, “I'm up here!”

The boys thundered up the stairs. P.J. stopped at the front door. “Whoa. What a mess.” But Paul came on in and ran down the hall, opening doors and looking in every room. “Hey, can we play up here?”

“Sure,” I said, grabbing him and knuckling the top of his head. “We can play drag-the-carpet-out-to-the-garbage, and then—”

“Aw, that's not what I meant.”

“Well, let's not waste a trip down. Here, help me roll up this rug . . .”

It took all three of us to heave the old carpet into the Dumpster in the alley. If the first-floor apartment was in similar shape, I'd need a cleaning crew before we could do any painting.

Back in our own apartment, I stuck a frozen pizza into the oven. “Wash your hands, guys. This won't take long. You have fun with Dad?”

P.J. ran his hands under the kitchen faucet and wiped them on his shorts. “I dunno. Kinda boring. Dad took us out for breakfast this morning, but then he spent most of the day in his office.”

“Yeah,” Paul piped up. “We played video games all morning, then he let us go swimming at Foster Beach.”

“He didn't go with you?”

Paul shook his head. “Nah. But it was okay. They've got a lifeguard there.”

I zipped my lip. No, it was not okay. Wasn't the whole point for Philip to spend time with his sons?

I did get the boys up in time to go to church at SouledOut, even though they griped about not getting to sleep in. Frankly, I was sorely tempted to let them sleep so I could get to work on the empty apartments, but I couldn't very well ask to use the church van today and miss another Sunday.

And I was so glad we went. I'd pretty much taken going to church for granted growing up. But today, singing “We come rejoicing into His presence” and seeing arms lifted all over the room was almost a tribal experience for me. The congregation was such a mishmash of colors and cultures—where else would people who might not have much in common come together and sing with such abandon? For that moment I felt part of a family— a sense of belonging that made me feel connected to people all over the world who were together worshiping God today.

If only it would last.

I'm so sorry, God
, I prayed as the youth were finally dismissed for Sunday school.
How easily I gave this up in Virginia, traded it in for a few extra hours to eat a lazy breakfast and read the Sunday paper .
. .

Out of the corner of my eye I saw P.J. and Paul leave the building with the other teens and climb into the church van. “Where are they going?” I whispered to Jodi.

“The lake,” she whispered back. “Pastor Cobbs asked Josh to teach the teens a series on Sea of Galilee stories from the Gospels, and Josh being Josh, he thought taking the teens to the lake might make it seem more real and relevant—though I'd like to know what he's going to do about Jesus telling Peter to get out of the boat and walk on the water. Half the teens might just try it!” Jodi started to giggle and we both had to stifle it when Pastor Cobbs—the younger pastor of the two-man pastoral team at SouledOut—got up to preach.

The van came back while the rest of us were enjoying coffee and sweet rolls after the worship service. P.J. and Paul both hung around Josh with some of the other teens, talking and horsing around. “Aw, Mom!” P.J. whined when I told them I needed to leave to get ready for the Manna House picnic. “Do I hafta go?”

“What?” Josh overheard us and feigned horror. “Your mom's making me drive! You're not going to leave me alone with all those women, are you? Hey—make you a deal. Why don't you guys stay here and ride with me in the church van? What time do you want us there to load up, Mrs. Fairbanks—two thirty?”

The boys were already in cargo shorts, T-shirts, and gym shoes—typical teen garb even for church these days—so I said fine, a bit amused at this sudden bonding between my sons and Josh Baxter.

“Bring Dandy!” Paul yelled after me as I headed for the Subaru in the parking lot.

True to his word, Josh pulled up with my two boys and his wife and baby in the SouledOut van right at two thirty, followed a few moments later by the senior Baxters and their Dodge Caravan. Most of the women and shelter kids were already waiting outside on the front steps, and I noticed we'd picked up a few more strays. No problem. With the shelter van, too, we'd get everybody in.

Edesa helped me pack two large food coolers with the picnic stuff Estelle had left in the refrigerator, and Josh and Denny Baxter loaded them in the Caravan with their grill. Paul wanted Dandy to ride in the SouledOut van with him and P.J., but I didn't want Josh and Edesa to have to be responsible for ten women, my two sons,
and
the dog, so I said Dandy had to ride with me in Moby Van. To my surprise, Paul hopped out of the church van and climbed in behind me with Dandy.

“Where's Mabel?” Precious yelled from the back. “She was on the list!”

“Going to meet us there! Everybody buckled up? All right, let's go.”

I waved at Josh behind me and had just started to pull out into the street, when I heard someone yelling, “Hey! Hey, wait for me, dagnabit!” Stomping on the brake, I glanced in my rearview mirror, trying to see who we'd left. Someone was knocking on the windows of the passenger side. Then the side door slid back.

“Where y'all goin'?” said a gravelly voice. “Hey, there he is! Hiya, Dandy boy! Didya miss me? I'm back!”

“Aw, Mom!” Paul hissed in my ear. “It's Lucy!”

Ignoring groans and complaints from the already crowded van, Lucy dragged her cart into the van and parked her ample behind on the seat next to Paul while Dandy joyfully gave the old lady a hero's welcome. Twisting in my seat, I could see Paul smoldering next to the window. But Lucy rummaged in her cart and handed him something wrapped in a plastic bread bag. “Got somethin' for ya, Paul,” she said. “Little thank-ya present for takin' such good care of Dandy. Share 'em with your maw.”

Paul handed me the bag and I peeked inside.

Big, fat blueberries.

Paul was sullen the whole trip. I told myself I'd find a time at the picnic when we could talk through his feelings about having to share Dandy. But when we pulled into the parking lot at Sunset Bridge Meadow, I saw we had a bigger problem than Lucy showing up. Another group was using the picnic shelter.

Bikers
.

At least fifteen Harleys filled the lot, all leather and chrome.

My heart sank . . . and then I saw Harry Bentley's car at the end of the row of bikes—
Oh, hallelujah—
and Harry himself over at the rustic shelter talking to one of the bikers. “Hang on, ladies,”

I said, climbing out. “Don't get out yet.”

Yeah, right
. I was only halfway across the meadow when I realized all the ladies in Moby Van were right behind me, including Paul holding on to Dandy's leash. And then the SouledOut van pulled into the lot, followed by the Baxters' minivan.

Mr. Bentley was mopping his brown dome with a big handkerchief, surrounded by a dozen or more muscular white dudes in red kerchiefs, sporting a variety of beards, earrings, and leather vests. “I told these fellows you have a permit for this picnic grove, Gabby.” Underneath Mr. B's tone I heard,
“I sure hope you have one!
”

By now we were surrounded by a swarm of Manna House residents and a handful of staff, volunteers, and kids. “Uh, sure, right here.” I pulled out the permit that had been faxed to me on Friday—a concession because we were a social service agency— and handed it to the guy Harry had been talking to.

Mr. Leather Pants took the permit and grunted as he looked it over. “Manna House . . . is that like ‘manna from heaven' from the Bible?”

“Uh, I think so.” Mabel would know but she wasn't here. “It's a Christian homeless shelter for women.”

“A
Christian
shelter.” Precious sniffed.

“Hey, wait a minnit!” Lucy elbowed her way to the front of the Manna House crowd and looked Mr. Leather Pants up and down. “Ain't you the guy gave me a ride on that big bike t'other day in Michigan?”

I stared at Lucy. She'd been in
Michigan
? And this biker dude had given her a
ride
?

The bearded man broke into a wide grin and waggled a finger at her. “Lucy Tucker, right? Yeah! You was hoofin' it along that two-lane road, tryin' ta find the bus station. I see ya made it back to Chi-Town okay.”

Lucy turned to Mr. Bentley and me, cackling like an old hen. “Heh, heh, heh. You guys don't hafta worry. These dudes are all right. They just a bunch of Jesus freaks on wheels.”

The big guy grinned, revealing a gold tooth. “Show 'em, fellas!” He turned around, along with the rest of his motley crew—and there, emblazoned in big red stitching on the back of their black leather vests, were the words God Squad and beneath them, Christian Motorcycle Club.

“Hey! That's fantastic!” Josh said, stepping forward and extending his hand. Within moments, the group of leather-clad bikers were shaking hands and greeting the women from Manna House, some of whom still looked frightened at all these tough-looking men.

“Well, now, isn't this a pretty how-d'ya-do,” murmured a familiar voice in my ear. “Wonder which group is gonna turn the other cheek?”

I turned. “Estelle! What are you doing here? I thought you didn't do picnics on Sundays!”

“I said I don't
cook
on Sundays. Didn't say I don't
come
to picnics. Besides, you got Harry to sign up. What was I s'posed to do? Sit home an' twiddle my thumbs?”

“Ma'am?” Big Dude interrupted. “Sorry me an' the boys took your spot. We're travelin' from Michigan to a Christian Biker Rally and needed a place to eat our lunch. We'll be movin' on since you got a permit an' all that.”

“Well, now, what's the big problem?” Precious butted in. “Lookit this shelter. 'Nuff picnic tables for a hunnerd folks or more, an' what we got? Forty . . . maybe fifty all together? We all God's children, ain't we? Well . . .” She glanced around at the Manna House residents. “Well, maybe not all of us, but enough to count. Jesus said if two or three folks get together in His name, He shows up too. So to my way of figurin', we all just one big family. I'm gettin' hungry, so I say let's eat!”

Big Guy looked at me. I shrugged. Not exactly what I'd planned, but . . .

chapter 22

Turned out the picnic was a blast. The bikers were downright gentlemanly, helping us set up the Baxters' grill, adding their sandwiches and bags of chips and coolers of colas to the feast. One of the bikers—a smaller guy who actually wore a safety helmet— even hopped on his bike and roared down the highway, and by the time the coals were ready he was back with more hot dogs and buns to throw on the grill.

I cornered Lucy. “What were you doing in Michigan? I mean, you just up and disappeared! What did that biker mean, you got tired of picking? Blueberries?”

“Humph. Grew up pickin'. Gotta make some money somehow to see me through the winter, don'tcha know. Now, how 'bout another slice of that melon. I gotta go sit with Dandy so Paul can play some ball.”

Josh had produced a couple of bats, a softball, and mitts— he'd been thinking of the kids—and we ended up with two rowdy teams made up of both bikers and “maidens,” as our residents had been dubbed by the God Squad. Since the picnic and ballgame were no longer mostly female, the boys—even Paul—looked like they were having a great time.

“Look at God,” Estelle murmured to Jodi and me as we cleaned up paper plates, leftover buns, and searched for missing caps to the plastic containers of catsup and mustard. “We make our plans, but God comes up with an even better idea.”

I decided not to comment on Estelle
cleaning up
on a Sunday. “Yeah, and I was worried about security, you know, all these women out here in the middle of nowhere, with only a few guys to stick up for us if anything happened.”

Jodi swooped up Gracie, who had discovered a bag of marshmallows. “Oh no, sweetie. Let Grammy get those out of your mouth—”

“Look, look, Gracie!” I screeched. “Your mama just knocked a home run! Way to go, Edesa!”