Who Do I Lean On? (5 page)

I lowered my eyelids but peeked through my lashes as Precious grabbed Gracie's small hand—still in Sabrina's arms— and raised her other hand like a Pentecostal preacher. “Precious
Je
sus! Thanks be to God! This is a mighty good day, and we give You
all
the glory. Bless this bunch, every one of 'em, an' especially bless Paul and P.J. on they birthdays, even though the days is past, an' bless lil' Gracie, this precious baby girl You've given to all of us, who's got a birthday sometime here in August even if we don't know the exact—”

“Precious,” growled Estelle. “Bless the
food
.”

“—day,” Precious rolled right on, “'cause You got our days numbered, Jesus, an' that's all that matters. Now we thank You for the food we're about to eat, an' remove all impurities so nobody gets sick.
Aaaa
. . .”—Precious opened her eyes and simpered at Estelle—“. . .
men
!”

With grins and chuckles, the party threaded through the long hallway to the dining area in the back, where the pasta salads, a pot of smoky greens, hot wings, enchiladas, crusty bread, bowls of chips, and lemonade were set out on one of my mother's flowered tablecloths. I knew no one in this crew would mind the makeshift table beneath the cloth, made from a plywood board sitting on two sawhorses I'd found in the basement—but that was before Philip invited himself.
Rats
. I steeled myself for a joke about decorating the place in “Early Alley” or something. But Philip just filled his plate and took a tour of the boys' bedrooms along the hallway. At least those rooms were filled with the good maple beds and dressers I'd hauled out of the penthouse.

I avoided Philip as much as I could, but I was distracted out of my mind by his presence.
Why is he still here?!
I noticed Denny Baxter talking to him in the living room—bless that man. Had Jodi snapped up the only decent husband in the universe? The two men could have been cut from
Sports Afield
and
GQ
. Denny, midforties, rugged-looking, salt-and-pepper brown hair, school T-shirt, shorts, gym shoes, very much the high school coach or athletic director—whichever—but with two amazing dimples that creased his cheeks whenever he smiled, making me want to go “kitchy koo” under his chin. Philip stood half a head taller, tan and slender beneath his polo shirt, slacks creased, dark brown hair combed back, though it sometimes fell over his forehead in a boyish moment, brown eyes and dark lashes that could melt my insides like butter in the sun.

Denny—casual. Philip—cultured.

Why is my heart pounding
?

Why is Philip here
?

Why is he being so . . . decent
?

“Time for birthday cake!” Estelle hollered into the living room. “Gabby, get in here and light those candles before this heat melts the frosting. Everybody else, give us one minute!”

The woman had taken over my house. She probably noticed that I was a complete zombie, needing my buttons pushed like an obedient robot.

Jodi Baxter was sticking a big candle “1” in the teddy bear cake's stomach.

“I'm sorry, Estelle. You and Jodi are doing all the work.”

“Humph.” Estelle handed me the kitchen matches. “You better be glad we are. Otherwise I might just punch that man's lights out. Lord, help me!”

I grinned, struck a kitchen match, and lit the fourteen skinny sparkler candles on the triple-layer chocolate fudge cake I'd made for my boys, which was starting to lean in the heat. I knew Estelle was just sputtering, but I kinda wished she'd go ahead.

“Y'all get in here!” Estelle called again, and the noisy guests once more crowded into the small dining room.

“Look at the teddy bear cake, Gracie!” cooed Grandpa Denny.

Sammy bounced excitedly. “Two cakes, Mama! Can I have a piece of each?”

“Who's got a camera?”

Somebody started a ragtag version of “Happy Birthday,” and we managed to get
P.J.-Paul-and-Gracieeeee
in there in one breath before Precious screeched, “C'mon, blow out those candles 'fore that chocolate tower topples over!”

Paul huffed and puffed, but the sparkler candles wouldn't blow out, of course.

“Ha, I got it.” Smirking, P.J. snatched them out of the cake and doused them in a glass of lemonade.

Estelle handed P.J. a knife. “At least there's a
real
cake under all that frosting, young man—unlike a certain birthday cake that shall go unmentioned.” She leveled a tattletale eye at Harry Bentley to the knowing chuckles of guests from Manna House.

DaShawn hooted. “Yeah! My grandpa fooled Miss Estelle with a foam pillow cake on her birthday. He better watch out. She aimin' to get him back.”

“Really, Mr. Bentley?” Young Paul was obviously impressed, seeing a new side of the unflappable doorman. “Cool. You want some real cake, Miss Estelle?”

“No, no.” Mr. Bentley threw up his hands. “She's not safe around cake. I got the last one dumped on my head. Here, let me cut that cake. How big a piece you want?”

By now, everyone was laughing. As Harry Bentley handed out wide pieces of triple layer cake, I grinned happily. My sons were enjoying themselves. My sons were home. This party was a great idea, surrounded by our new friends. If only—

I glanced at Philip, cake in hand, head tilted as he listened to Paul, who was talking to his dad with his mouth full. Like a blip on a radar screen, my heart caught. This was how it should be—the four of us celebrating the boys' birthdays, together with friends. I had wanted so much for Philip to get to know my new friends and coworkers at the Manna House shelter. But our worlds here in Chicago had spun into different orbits, until they'd collided like meteors in space, reducing my sphere into jagged hunks of debris.

At least it felt that way, until God started to put my world back together again. There was still a big hole where that meteor hit, but at least I was functional again. Moving forward.

So why now
? Maybe I should be glad Philip stayed for the party. Maybe he was realizing the penthouse wasn't a pie in the sky after all, up there by himself. Glad he could see so much life and love closer to the ground.

The blip got stronger.
Was he having second thoughts about us
? Not that I would ask him straight out! The party was drifting back down the hallway to the living room again, but on impulse I planted myself in front of Philip before he followed. “Hey. Thought you were only going to stay a few minutes.”

He looked at me. Those eyes. “I didn't say that. You said that.”

“But this is
my
party for the boys, Philip. You had them since yesterday; now this is my time. What's going on?”

He took a last bite of chocolate fudge cake, chewed, swallowed, and then set his paper plate on the makeshift table. The look on his face . . . he almost seemed wistful. “Nothing's ‘going on,' Gabby. This birthday party for the boys—our boys—is nice. Real nice. Just wish you'd let me know about it. Paul obviously wanted both his parents to be here. P.J. too. Even if things aren't working for us right now, we can—”

“Mom? Dad?” Paul, his curls damp on his forehead with the humidity, appeared in the doorway. “They're letting the baby open her presents. Can we open ours? Those boxes on the window seat are for us, aren't they, Mom?”

But Philip's words were still echoing in my ears. He'd called me Gabby. And did he really say
“right now
”? Meaning what?

“Mom?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, honey. Coming.”

Paul disappeared again. I sighed. “Might as well stay while they open gifts,” I said over my shoulder as I followed our youngest down the hall. This was so . . . awkward. Frankly, I wished the floor would open up and swallow Philip. Or me.

But it was hard to stay morose while Gracie was gleefully tearing paper off her packages. First a sorting toy, then a cute squeezable doll, a stuffed penguin, cute pink overalls, and pink tights with ruffles on the rump. Josh and Edesa opened the last few, because by this time Gracie was happily playing with the wrapping paper and the boxes.

Denny Baxter rubbed his hands together. “Okay! So who gets those big boxes on the window seat in the sunroom? Do we draw straws?”

“Back off, bud.” Jodi backhanded her husband on the arm. “This is Gabby's show.”

Jodi and I had managed to “wrap” the boxes in brown paper from grocery bags to hide the contents, and I'd stuck a big red bow on the top of each. Trying to ignore the big plastic bags sitting nearby with the Sports Authority logo, I said, “P.J., your birthday was first. The square one is yours.”

For a moment, I saw P.J.'s fourteen-year-old cool veneer slip, and he also ripped off the brown paper and packing tape with gusto. Digging through inflated plastic padding, he lifted out a gleaming blue-and-gold lacrosse helmet, and matching gloves and shoulder pads. Lane Tech colors. “Uh . . .” He looked at his father. “Dad just got us some lacrosse equipment—and some shoes too.”

Huh. Figured. I'd steeled myself for this.

“Well, guess we both know what you like,” I said brightly. “Don't worry. We'll exchange it for some other gear.”

“Can I keep the stuff Dad got? He let me pick out what I wanted. He got Paul some too, so we can practice together.”

It was getting harder to maintain brightness. “We'll work it out, honey . . . Paul? You want to open the long box? No duplicates this time.” My laugh fell flat.

Paul didn't seem to notice. “Yeah! You wanna help me, DaShawn?” Paul and Harry Bentley's grandson tore off the brown paper, then Paul stepped back, reading the box, his eyes big. “Mom! A Casio keyboard?! Awriiiight! Anyone got a knife? I wanna open it!”

Josh Baxter produced a pocketknife, and a few moments later Paul slid out the gleaming keyboard. “Wow, Mom! Just what I wanted! Can we set it up?”

I didn't know anything about keyboards, but Josh seemed to know a great deal, and before long had it set up on the window seat, plugged in, and Paul was running his hands over the keys.

“Josh used to run the soundboard at SouledOut Community Church,” Jodi murmured to me. “He had to set up a lot of keyboards!”

I was glad but already distracted by what was happening at the window seat. “Look at Jermaine.”

Mabel's nephew had drawn alongside Paul, reverently touching the panel of buttons. “You play?” he asked Paul.

“Yeah. Some. Mostly my own stuff. Do you?”

The older boy's face was alight. “Yeah. Wanna do some stuff ?”

“Sure!” Paul, on his knees in front of the keyboard, scooted over, and within moments Jermaine was pounding out something on the bass keys while Paul trilled a tune on the treble keys. Soon people were crowding around, listening and clapping as jazzy music filled the apartment.

Satisfaction seeped deep into my spirit. Well, one bull's-eye out of two tries wasn't bad. But just then I smelled Philip's familiar Armani aftershave and heard a whisper in my ear. “Good heavens, Gabrielle. Don't you realize that skinny black kid is a fairy? I don't want Paul hanging out with a sissy!”

“Philip!
” I snapped, anxiously looking around to see who might have heard.

“Okay, okay.” Philip put up his hands as if backing off. “I'm just saying . . .”

chapter 4

A fly droned in my ear. I brushed it away, unwilling to own that it was Monday already. Moving air from the window fan felt cool after the oppressive humidity that had hung over the city all weekend. Morning light filtered through the miniblinds, but the sun rose how early? Surely it couldn't be time to get up yet.

I cracked an eyelid. The digital alarm said 5:56.
Ahh
. A good half hour before the alarm. I curled my arms around my pillow, willing myself to fall asleep again. After all, once Monday started—

The fly came back, louder than the fan . . . then stopped.

Argh!
I sat up straight and frantically ran fingers through my tangled cap of natural curls. All my life I'd lived with the morbid fear that one day a fly or mosquito or bee would crawl into the reddish-brown corkscrews that haloed my head and hide there. Make a nest. Raise a family.

People with sleek, straight hair didn't have to worry about that.

The fly had to go.

Turning on the bedroom light, I slid out of bed, grabbed a slipper, and stood stock-still.
Zzzzzzz
. There. I waited until the little bugger landed on the wall . . .

Swat!

Success.

But now I was wide-awake. Wrapping a thin kimono around my silky black boy-shorts-and-tank-top sleepwear, I padded out of my tiny bedroom at the rear of the apartment into the kitchen and started the coffee. After an inch had dripped into the pot, I poured a first cup, added milk from the fridge, and sat down at the little kitchen table while the rest of the pot was filling.