Who Is My Shelter? (17 page)

“Been thinkin' 'bout that. Thought maybe that boy of yours might want a four-legged visitor over the weekend. Whatcha think?”

Huh
. Good question. Paul would be delighted. But the boys would be with their dad Friday night and Saturday. I'd even thought of asking Philip if they could stay the whole weekend since I'd be gone, but I was sure he wouldn't want the dog in the penthouse— he'd made
that
clear enough. If the boys didn't stay the whole weekend with Philip, I'd been planning to ask Josh Baxter to look after the boys till we got back Sunday evening. Josh wouldn't mind the dog, but—

Snap, snap
. Lucy snapped her fingers in front of my face. “You still in there, Fuzz Top? When ya done thinkin', let me know. I'm gonna get somethin' ta eat 'fore mold grows on it. C'mon, Dandy.” Lucy flounced off.

I followed in her wake, loaded my tray with a bowl of Estelle's homemade beef-barley vegetable soup and crusty garlic bread— day-old but still good from a nearby bakery—and rejoined Lucy at one of the tables. “Sorry, Lucy. I'll ask about Dandy, but there are a few wrinkles I've got to iron out.”

Shawanda Dixon plonked Bam-Bam and Dessa into a couple of booster seats across the table from us. “Didja get that paper I stuck under your door, Miss Gabby? An' I signed up for that getaway weekend too. Miss Celia said she'd keep my kids if I wanted to go. Hey—can you watch these two while I get their food?” Without waiting for an answer, she was back at the counter loading up a tray of food for the three of them.

Lucy slurped away, totally ignoring the two wriggling toddlers grabbing for the salt and pepper and anything else within reach. As I tried to keep them in their seats, I had an unnerving vision of what life might be like at the House of Hope in a few weeks. I certainly hoped Celia Jones knew what she was getting into.

Shawanda finally returned and I had a chance to eat my own lukewarm soup while she busied herself trying to get more soup into the toddlers' mouths than on their clothes and the table as they wriggled and banged spoons. Suddenly Dessa yelled, “Gotta pee, Mama!” Shawanda grabbed both kids and stalked off toward the bathroom.

Ah. Peace
.

Lucy was well into her second bowl of soup. Half in jest, I resumed our interrupted conversation. “So, Lucy. You said the
first
reason you came today was to sign up for the Fall Getaway. What's your other reason?”

The old lady snickered. “That.”

“That? What do you mean?”

“That
.” She jerked her head over her shoulder.

I turned—and saw Estelle standing behind me holding a large sheet cake lined with flaming candles around the edges. Only then did I realize the room had hushed a few moments earlier, which I'd presumed was because Shawanda had taken her kids out, but now the residents and staff broke into laughter, clapping and hooting as Estelle set the cake in front of me. Someone began a raggedy version of “Happy birthday to youuuu . . .”

I'm sure I turned beet red—which always clashed with my hair. I even got teary, not realizing how much I'd been hoping
somebody
would remember it was my birthday.

“Blow out them forty candles!” Lucy cackled. “Betcha can't.”

I did—though it took three tries. The cake boasted delicate yellow frosting with orange, red, and yellow marzipan leaves all around the edge. Scrawled across the cake in orange frosting, it said, “H
APPY
B
IRTHDAY
, G
ABBY
!” and “O
UR
F
AVORITE
F
UZZ
T
OP
,” which I read aloud.

“I tol' em to put that on there,” Lucy snickered.

Estelle handed me a knife. I eyed her suspiciously. “This better not be a foam-rubber cake like the one Harry had decorated for you.”

“
Humph
.
He
better watch out when he goes to cut our wedding cake.”

“Estelle! You wouldn't!” I sputtered, laughing.

“Wouldn't I?” She patted me on the shoulder. “But yours is safe, Gabby girl. Lucy tried to get me to make it banana-nut, swore it was your favorite. But I know you and chocolate—
ha
.”

“Oh, she did, did she? Don't think I've ever had banana cake.” I cut into the moist, crumbly cake—fudge chocolate and definitely not foam rubber—and started handing out pieces left and right. I finally took a bite of my own piece. “Mmm. Yummy.” I nudged Lucy. “So why'd you tell Estelle banana was my favorite? Just a guess?”

She grinned, her mouth full of cake. “Nah. But it's
my
favorite, so I figgered you might like it too. My ma used ta make it . . .” Her voice drifted, and for several moments her mind seemed to wander. She finally shrugged. “That was a long time ago. But that chocolate ain't bad.” She held out her paper plate. “Gimme another piece there.”

Banana cake. Her mom used to make it. When? For her birthday when she was a kid?
Which made me wonder—had Lucy had a birthday cake since she was a kid? Did any of us even know when her birthday was?

Mabel clapped her hands for attention. “And this is for you, Gabby. From all the residents.” She handed me a fat envelope.

I took it and peered inside. A whole lot of one-dollar bills. “Count it!” Lucy demanded. So I did. Exactly forty.

My eyes teared up again. For some of these women, giving up a dollar for my fortieth birthday was a real sacrifice. “Thank you, everybody. I'll . . . I'll do something really special with this.”

I went around the room, giving out hugs, but as the dining room finally cleared I took the last of the cake up to the counter. “Can I take this home for the boys? Don't think they're going to bake me a cake.”

“Sure, sure. Take it. But hold on a minute.” Estelle leaned across the counter and lowered her voice. “Harry told me to tell you Fagan's trial started yesterday. They're gonna be callin' Harry to testify, since he's the one who blew the whistle on his crooked boss in the first place. For your man's sake—and Harry's too—we need to pray that thug in a uniform gets put away for a long time. I'm just sayin'.”

chapter 16

Philip still wasn't supposed to drive, so I dropped the boys off at Richmond Towers at six for their overnight with their dad. I almost went up to the penthouse with them, since I hadn't heard much from Philip this past week. Was Henry Fenchel still threatening to sue him? Philip's partner had made it abundantly clear he didn't want Philip in the office looking all beat up, and Philip had said something to me about working from home.

I also wondered if Fagan's henchman was still hanging around Richmond Towers. Didn't see anybody when I pulled into the visitor parking area on the frontage road. But I had no idea what Philip was doing to get rid of the debts hanging over his head. To tell the truth, I agreed with Henry's parting words that day Philip and I were at the office:
“Philip needed help.”
I should ask if he'd contacted Gamblers Anonymous yet.

But—not today. I didn't want to go up there and risk the possibility that Philip had totally forgotten it was my birthday. The Big Four-O at that. Or if he remembered, deliberately “forget” to say anything to me. No use rubbing salt in my wounded spirit.

“I'll pick you up tomorrow morning at seven thirty,” I reminded P.J. as he got out of the car. The cross country teams were meeting at Harms Woods, one of Chicago's large forest preserves, for the regionals.

“Okay. Thanks.” P.J. leaned back into the open window. “Sorry about tonight, Mom. But we're gonna surprise you with something soon.”

“Yeah,” Paul echoed, scrambling out of the car. “Something big!”

Sweet
. I watched both boys disappear through the revolving door with their backpacks before heading back out onto Sheridan Road. On the way home I made a few stops, and when I got back to the six-flat, I showed up at the door across the hall with a couple videos I'd rented, a large bag of Chinese takeout in paper cartons, and Estelle's leftover fudge-chocolate cake.

“It's my birthday,” I blurted when Precious opened the door. “And I refuse to sit home sogging in self-pity all by myself. You guys want to party?”

Precious threw the door wide open. “Girl, I don't need an excuse, but your birthday is good as any! Sabrina!” she yelled over her shoulder. “Take that leftover spaghetti off the stove! We got us fancy food!”

The egg rolls and Crab Rangoon disappeared before the movie previews were even finished—though Sammy and Sabrina took one look at the “weird” takeout and opted for the leftover spaghetti. We tackled the cardboard cartons of General Tsao's chicken, sweet-and-sour pork, and shrimp fried rice while watching
The Chronicles of Narnia
. Sammy loved all the talking animals and Aslan the Lion, but Sabrina—bored out of her mind (her words) by the “kiddie movie”—holed up in the bedroom with her cell phone, and when the credits rolled, Sammy was sent off to bed with a piece of birthday cake.

Once the kids were out of the way, I popped in the second video and Tanya, Precious, and I blubbered our way through
Message in a Bottle
while finishing off the rest of Estelle's cake.

Well, P.J. and Paul didn't have to know about the cake.

“Thanks, guys,” I sniffed as I left about eleven thirty. “Not a bad birthday. I'm trying to sneak past forty anyway.” It did seem strange that I hadn't heard from Jodi Baxter, who was practically my best friend, or anyone in my family—though my sisters were probably waiting until our regular Saturday conference call tomorrow.

But when I let myself into my apartment, the answering machine light was blinking. Three calls. I punched the Play button.
Beeeep
.
“Hi, honey! It's Aunt Mercy. Was hoping to catch you to wish you a happy birthday. Should've known you'd be out celebrating. I'll try again tomorrow. Love you, sweetheart.” Click.

Beeeep
.
“Hi, Gabby! It's Jodi, calling from Indiana to wish you a happy fortieth—Denny, stop it! Honestly. He's hobbling around making like you're turning a hundred. Sheesh, he should talk. He's gonna be forty-eight next April. Anyway, hope you remembered that we planned a trip for this weekend to see U of I women's volleyball play Purdue. Amanda made the team! And they'll be playing the Hoosiers tomorrow in Bloomington . . . Denny, Denny! There she is! Do you see her? Number eleven! . . . Sorry, Gabby. Gotta go. Game's gonna start. Talk to you when we get back!” Click
.

Remember?
I was sure Jodi had
not
told me they were going out of town. Oh well. Sweet of her to call.

Final beep.
“Hey, Gabby. Lee here.” Lee?
My skin prickled.
“Wanted to wish you a happy birthday but guess you're not home. I have something for you, but maybe I can drop it off tomorrow. Hope you're out celebrating.”
The message clicked off.

Lee remembered? I didn't think he even knew it was my birthday. What did he mean he was going to drop off something tomorrow?

Well, guess I'd see. But I went to bed grinning to myself in the dark.

I woke the next morning to thumps and bumps out back. I peeked through my bedroom blinds. A couple of burly guys were lugging Zia's couch down the outside stairs to an orange U-Haul waiting in the alley. Moving day for Fabrizia Bassi. Starting kind of early, weren't they?

I glanced at my bedside clock. Seven—yikes! I told P.J. I'd be there to pick him up at seven thirty! Throwing on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt, I ran out to the Subaru and headed for Sheridan Road, feeling gritty and unprepared. No shower, no mouthwash, not even my usual cup of coffee.

But I got P.J. to the forest preserve about the same time the team bus from Lane Tech pulled into the parking lot at eight-fifteen. “Do you know what time your race will be?” I asked my eldest. Maybe I should stay and watch him run. It might be my last opportunity since I was going to be gone next weekend. After that, winning teams went downstate.

P.J. shook his head. “Naw. It's okay, Mom. It'll just be a lot of hanging around. Besides, you need to be home today in case something gets delivered.” He ran off, joining the rest of the green-and-gold-clad cross country team piling off the bus.

In case . . . what? Maybe the boys had pooled their allowance and sent me flowers.
Roses?
A lump formed in my throat. Were they trying to fill the gap their dad had left in our family life? I brushed away another doggone tear. Well, I'd act surprised when they came home.

I wouldn't have minded staying at the meet if I'd had my shower, coffee, and something to eat. Should've set my alarm. Except—maybe just as well I didn't stay. Lee said he was going to drop something by today. I didn't want to miss him again.

Back home—showered, toasted English muffin and hot coffee in hand—I curled up on the window seat in the sunroom and opened my prayer notebook, trying to shut out the noise of movers going up and down the stairwell. My prayer list kept getting longer and longer! Who should be the next residents at the House of Hope was only the most recent addition. I was trying to pray regularly for my sons, my two sisters in California and Alaska, the staff at Manna House, stuff brought up in staff meeting, and the current residents of the House of Hope—not just when there was an emergency. I'd added Harry Bentley's eyes after all those surgeries last month, and Estelle's schizophrenic son, Leroy, who'd been in the burn unit at the county hospital since he'd burned his own house down. Poor Estelle didn't want to put him in a mental health facility, but what else could she do?