Who Do I Lean On? (30 page)

“I don't wanna go to court,” Paul piped up. “Let Mom and Dad figure it out.”

“Paul's right. This is something your dad and I have to figure out.” I tried to soften my voice. “But even if I have legal custody, we can still talk about how much time you spend with your dad and make changes if we all agree.”

P.J. still glowered. “Don't see why you moved out in the first place,” he muttered.

Why
I
moved out?!
Anger spiked through my body so strongly, I half expected sparks to shoot from my hair and fingertips, like some electrified humanoid. Is
that
what Philip had told the boys? I stood up, my back to the boys, and counted to ten before turning to face them. “P.J. and Paul, look at me. Whatever your father told you, I want you to know that I did
not
move out.”
Locked out, thrown out was more like it!
“I would
never, ever
leave you, especially not without saying a word.” Hot tears threatened to spill over.

“So he lied, then.”

Yes!
I wanted to scream.
He lied! He stole you away from me!
But P.J. seemed to be fishing for something. I needed to be careful, not to tear Philip apart in front of his sons, to stick to my side of things. I breathed deeply and sat back down on the window seat, trying to calm down. “I don't know what he said or why he said it. Your dad and I had a . . . a huge misunderstanding. I came home from work and discovered I'd been locked out and you were gone. I didn't know where! I was frantic!”

“But you called us at Nana and Grandad's. And told us to stay there.”

“I guessed that's where you might be, and I was right. And it took me awhile to find a place to live so I could bring you back. But I didn't leave you, and I never will.” I reached for both boys, pulling them close. “I love you too much to do that.”

Paul suddenly crumpled into my lap and burst into tears. I cradled him as his shoulders shook, and to my surprise, P.J. let me pull him close as the three of us rocked together there on the window seat.

As Paul's sobs subsided, I let him sit up but kept my arms around both boys. “Hey, you know what? I have some good news.”

“What?” Paul sniffed. “Is it about Dandy?”

“Mm, no. But I think you'll like it. Guess who's going to move into the House of Hope with us?”

“Ha, I know
that
,” Paul scoffed, wiping his nose and eyes on his T-shirt sleeve. “Sammy told me. He and his mom, and that big girl Sabrina and her mom.”

“She's big, all right.” P.J. snickered and stuck out his stomach. “Big with baby.”

“Well, that's true. They're going to share the first-floor apartment. But somebody else too.”

P.J. looked at me sideways. “Not Miss Turner and that Jermaine kid?”

I let that pass. “No. Our new mystery neighbor taught your Sunday school class at the lake last week and he's also a pretty good baseball player.”

“You mean Josh Baxter?” P.J. actually sounded interested.

I grinned. “
And
his wife, Edesa, and little Gracie, of course.

Josh is going to be the property manager for this building—you know, fix stuff that gets broken, keep the furnace running, make sure the building stays up to code, stuff like that. In fact, Josh and Edesa are going to come this weekend to prep the walls and start painting the third-floor apartment, getting it ready to move in.”

“But we'll be with Dad.” Disappointment clouded P.J.'s face. “Wish we could help paint. That'd be fun.”

I couldn't help but smile. “Don't you have a cross-country meet on Saturday? Like, waaay out in Wauconda?”

P.J. made a face. “Yeah. Buses leave from the school real early. Like six thirty.”

I almost laughed. Poor Philip. “Well, the next meet that's within spitting distance, let me know. I want to see you run.” I gave my oldest a teasing sock on the arm, which he shrugged off. But I could tell he was pleased.

“Okay, off to bed, you two. Tomorrow's a school day. Shoo!”

But fifteen minutes later I slipped into Paul's bedroom and sat on the edge of his lower bunk. “What about you, Paul? Think you'll like having the Baxters living here?” I tousled his curly head on the pillow, so like mine, except with a boy cut.

He snuggled under the light blanket. “Yeah, that's cool. But I'd like it even better if Jermaine and his Aunt Mabel could move in.”

I hid my surprise. “And why is that?”

“'Cause”—he yawned—“then Jermaine and I could play music together whenever we wanted to . . .”

chapter 29

I didn't know what time Mr. Bentley's eye surgery was on Friday, but Mabel called a short prayer meeting in Shepherd's Fold before Edesa's Bible study for anyone who wanted to pray for “Mr. Harry.” As the small group gathered, I worked up the courage to say, “I could also use prayer for my custody hearing this afternoon” without offering any details—and was humbled when two of the women who'd lost custody of their own children when they were drugged out on the street spoke up and prayed for me.

“Rev'rend Liz” Handley, the former-director-now-board-member of Manna House, showed up to cover lunch prep in Estelle's absence. I had to chuckle seeing her bustle around the kitchen, because Liz Handley and Estelle Williams were as different as chalk and cheese. Liz was short, white, and fairly round in the face, with blue eyes and short, steel-gray hair. Estelle was a large black woman, but tall and solid, her dark hair streaked with silver and usually piled in a bun on top of her head. But she could also wear it down and wavy—I suspected Mr. B liked it that way—very womanly.

Then again, those white hairnets and big white aprons had a way of swallowing everyone's “distinctives” and turning them into look-alike kitchen blobs.

Whatever Liz was making smelled good, but I couldn't stay for lunch because my custody hearing was scheduled for one o'clock at the Circuit Court of Cook County, which had its offices in the Richard J. Daley Center in the Loop, and Lee had told me to arrive early. My stomach was in such a knot, I didn't think I could eat anyway.

Rather than hassle with parking, I took the Red Line, which had an El stop a mere two blocks from Daley Plaza. Passing in the shadow of the towering Picasso sculpture—which looked like a skinny iron horse head wearing two winglike ponytails to me—I merged with the stream of people flowing into the Daley Center and lining up at the security checkpoints. I tried not to stare, but the mix of humanity was eye-popping. Orthodox Jews with long beards and tassels hanging beneath their suit coats rubbed elbows with guys in dreadlocks and pants barely hanging on below their butts. Men in traditional suits and ties stood in line with ethnic women—Muslim?—wearing black head scarves that covered all but the face.
What if somebody showed up swathed in a burka? A person could hide almost anything under that
. Some people with ID tags were allowed to go through a special gate, avoiding the security check. Lucky them.

The rest of us inched forward. “Empty your pockets, put everything in the bin . . . Put all purses and bags on the moving belt . . . Sir, sir? You can't take that pocketknife in . . . I don't
care
if your granddaddy gave it to you, you can't take it in . . . Well, I'm sorry. You'll have to leave it in the sheriff 's holding room or get out of line . . . Next!”

I made it through security and took the elevator to the eighth floor. I had to ask two different people where to find the room number Lee had given me, but I finally found it with ten minutes to spare. Peeking through the small square window in the door, I saw the back of Lee's head. Relieved, I pulled the door open.

Lee Boyer stood up as I approached the table where he sat, giving my black skirt, black shell with an ivory embroidered cardigan, small earrings, and low heels a quick once-over and smiled his approval. “Glad you're early. Philip isn't here yet.” He pulled out a chair for me.

The smallish room helped my racing heart slow down. A desk for the judge, two small tables facing it for the respective parties and their lawyers, a few chairs behind them in two short rows. No jury box. Clearly a room for a hearing, not a trial.

Philip and his lawyer came into the room with one minute to spare. He didn't look at me, just sat down at the other table, whispering to his lawyer. A door at the side of the room opened and a white woman entered, brown hair drawn back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, reading glasses perched on her nose. A young male clerk scurried behind her and sat down with a transcription machine. That made six of us in the room. We started to stand—don't they say, “All rise” or something?—but the judge waved us back into our seats. For a few moments she didn't say anything, just studied some papers in a folder.

Finally she looked up. “I presume,” she said, looking at Lee, “you are representing Mrs. Gabrielle Fairbanks, concerning two petitions”—she glanced again at the folders—“one for unlawful eviction, the other for temporary custody of the couple's two sons?”

Lee stood. “I am, Your Honor. Lee Boyer.” For the first time I noticed he was actually wearing a suit and tie. Well, slacks, sport coat, and tie.

“And Mr. Hoffman”—she eyed the other table—“you are representing Mr. Philip Fairbanks?”

Philip's lawyer, a big man with wavy silver hair and a Florida tan, also stood. “Yes. Your Honor, my client would like to—”

The judge interrupted. “I will give you time to present your client's wishes. But I haven't said my piece. Sit down.” Mr. Hoffman sat.

The judge peered over her reading glasses in our direction. “Mr. Boyer. This is a custody hearing, yet you have asked that both petitions be considered simultaneously. Why?”

Lee had remained standing. “Thank you, Your Honor. The two petitions are relevant to each other. It is because of the unlawful eviction and subsequent disappearance of the couple's two children that my client is requesting custody.”

The judge leaned back in her chair, took off her reading glasses, and chewed on one of the earpieces, looking not at me, but at Philip. It might have been only thirty seconds, but I felt as if I was holding my breath for thirty minutes. Finally . . . “Mr. Hoffman.
What
was your client thinking, locking his wife and her elderly
mother
out of the house—a luxury penthouse, I see—and skipping town with their sons without her knowledge?”

I smiled inwardly.
Thank you, Judge!
But Philip's lawyer must have been prepared for the question because he stood, clearing his throat. “Your Honor, this is not an unusual happenstance when couples quarrel, though it is usually the wife who throws her husband out, along with his clothes and golf clubs, and no one thinks it strange that she has sent him packing. Just because in this case the roles were reversed”—he cleared his throat again, more for emphasis than anything else—“doesn't make it any more heinous.”

The judge leaned forward. “Says who? Mrs. Fairbanks has a right to be in her own home. If Mr. Fairbanks doesn't want to live with his wife,
he
can move out.”

I cast an anxious glance upward at Lee. I didn't want to move back into the penthouse! He gave me a subtle signal with his hand to be patient. Philip and his lawyer were rapidly conferring. Finally Mr. Hoffman straightened up. “Your Honor, may my client speak in his behalf ?”

The judge shrugged. “Of course.” But she said it in the tone that P.J. used when he said, “Whatever.”

Philip stood up. Even as I tensed, dreading what he might say, I realized he seemed . . . vulnerable somehow. As usual, his handsome features were easy on the eyes, his clothes—slacks, open-necked silk shirt, summer-weight suit coat—just right. I couldn't put my finger on it—the way his eye twitched? the new stress lines in his face?—but he didn't seem his usual relaxed, confident self. “Uh, Your Honor, I know what it looks like from the outside. But the situation in our home had become untenable. My wife brought her mother and a dog into the home without consulting me, which overcrowded our space. She also took a job that prevented her from caring for our sons during their summer vacation, and otherwise burdened the household with her unwise choices. I know what I did was drastic, but I did it to make a point. Something had to change.”

He sounded so reasonable, so persuasive, I felt like crawling under the table. He made me sound like a totally unfit wife and mother.

The judge frowned. “But block her credit cards? Cancel her cell phone? I understand from what it says here”—she waved the petition—“that you left her virtually destitute with no means of support, and she ended up in a homeless shelter. A
homeless shelter
, Mr. Fairbanks.”

Philip swallowed. He looked uncomfortable. “She is employed at that shelter, Your Honor. It was natural that that was the first place she turned.”