Who Is My Shelter? (31 page)

“His name's Jin,” I whispered. “Check him out, be sure he's worthy of our Angela.” Then I hurried forward with a big smile. “Welcome, welcome!”—just as Estelle Williams swept in bearing a large, honest-to-goodness banana-shaped cake with bright yellow frosting—and still wearing her ring, I noticed—followed by a puffing Harry Bentley and his grandson, DaShawn, carrying a couple of plastic grocery bags with ice cream.

When Mabel Turner and her nephew arrived, I heard Paul shout, “Mom! Jermaine brought his keyboard! Can we play some music tonight?” The two boys disappeared into Paul's bedroom to cook up a concert.

So much for my faithful doorman.

The buzzer rang a few more times. I was excited when Delores Enriquez, the volunteer nurse who came on Wednesdays, showed up, especially since I knew she had a shift that started at eleven. And, at the last minute, Reverend Liz Handley and Stephanie Cooper, board members who also served as the shelter's case managers, squeaked in after stopping to pick up Carolyn, our former-resident-turned-volunteer who'd been handling the after-school program practically by herself.

“They're here!” Carolyn hissed, her pale, round face devoid of any makeup as usual. “Just saw Sarge's Jeep turn the corner.” She handed a small gift bag to Edesa, who was collecting gifts on the hearth in front of the gas fireplace.
Sweet
, I thought, knowing Carolyn didn't have much money.

We turned out most of the lights and tried to keep from laughing as Tanya, peeking out the sunroom windows, gave us a blow-by-blow commentary on Sarge's efforts to pry Lucy out of the car, prop her up on her crutches, and convince her of the best way to hop up the front steps of the six-flat. I was supposed to go out to the foyer when the buzzer rang and act surprised to see them—but I'd no sooner opened the foyer door when Dandy, hearing Lucy's familiar gravely voice, escaped from the apartment and darted between my legs, jumping up on his mistress and nearly knocking her over.

At which point, the birthday guests crowded into the hallway, calling out, “Happy birthday!”—though most of them were as startled as I was at the unfamiliar version of Lucy standing in front of us. Lucy's normally frowzy gray hair had been braided into a couple dozen tiny braids sticking out all over her head, and her rather stubby nails had been painted a bright fuchsia pink.

“Whatchu starin' at?” Lucy growled at the lot of us. “Hannah say she needed some practice doin' whatever she do up at that beauty salon she work at. I was just helpin' the girl out.” She looked around. “So, whose party we at?” She turned an accusing glare at Sarge. “Why didn't ya tell me we was comin' to a party? I woulda wore a party dress or somethin'.”

That cracked me up. Lucy in a party dress? It was easier to imagine Sarge tap-dancing in a tutu.

“It's
your
party, Lucy.” I grinned. “Come on now, everybody!” And we sang the birthday song right there in the hallway, though I wasn't the only one who got a bit teary-eyed when we sang, “Happy birthday, dear Lucy . . .” because the old lady suddenly went fishing in her pockets for a big red bandana handkerchief to blow her nose.

As the song died away, Edesa and Precious ushered Lucy into the living room and sat her down in the wingback rocker, propped her wrapped foot on the hassock, and placed a construction paper crown on her head. “
Mi amiga
, you are now Queen for a Day!” Edesa declared as everyone clapped. “And now I will turn it over to my husband, Josh, still a
muchacho
at heart, who has planned some party games!”

Which was true. The first game was Pin the Tie on the Mayor. How Josh got a poster-sized photo of Mayor Daley to stick onto the painted bricks of the fireplace, I'll never know. He and Edesa had made “ties” out of construction paper, and he let the kids— Sammy, DaShawn, and Paul—go first. When one-year-old Gracie saw what fun the boys were having, she cried, “Me! Me!” and wanted to be blindfolded too. Jermaine was next and stuck the tie on the mayor's nose, to much hooting and hollering, but P.J. and Sabrina declined, both of them no doubt thinking themselves too “grown-up” for such foolishness.

Most of the adults gave it a try, but it was Mr. Bentley who won—a bag of Garrett Gourmet Caramel and Cheese Popcorn, a Chicago specialty. “Ohh,” he groaned. “Who told you my weakness?”

“Don't worry, I can hep ya out with that!” Lucy smirked.

We were in the middle of playing Truth or Dare when I saw Harry answer his cell phone, then pull Josh aside and talk earnestly for a few moments. Then both men looked at me. “What?” I asked, joining them.

Harry waved his cell phone. “It's Denny Baxter about Philip's move tomorrow. We've lined up several guys from the Bible study plus that Nissan kid, so that's good. But Fairbanks checked out some storage places, and for the size he needs to store the whole kaboodle, it's mega bucks for one month minimum—”

“—and I was thinking,” Josh picked up, “why not here in the basement? Should only be a week max till he finds an apartment, and there's quite a bit of room down there.” He raised his eyebrows like question marks, looking like a kid asking for his allowance.

“We've already got a move going on here tomorrow. I was expecting you to help with that move, Josh.”

“Don't worry, I am. Already told my dad that. But you gotta admit, Miss Celia and Shawanda don't have all that much. We can do most of it with Moby Van. I'd be glad to help move Mr. Fairbanks's stuff into the basement, once we're done here.”

Truth or Dare had moved to Lucy's chair. I heard her say, “Awright, awright, guess I gotta do Truth, 'cause ain't likely I can do one o' your Dares with this bum ankle.”

The other players huddled and whispered, then Precious announced, “Okay, Lucy, Truth. How old are you?”

This I had to hear! “Okay, okay,” I whispered to Harry and Josh. “Tell Philip one week, max.” I hustled back to the larger group.

Lucy screwed up her face and studied the ceiling as if looking for the answer. “Hm, don't know if I can rightly say. I was born in 1926. How many is that?”

“Wow!” Paul's eyes got big. “That makes you eighty years old, Miss Lucy!” He roughhoused Dandy's ears. “Whaddya think of that, Dandy? That's practically as old as you in dog years.”

Everyone laughed, but Estelle held up her hands for quiet. As usual, when she wasn't wearing her big white apron and kitchen hairnet at Manna House, she was dressed in one of her handmade caftans and head wraps, this one royal blue and silver, like a moonlit night. “Well then, this is a mighty special birthday, the big 8-0 for Miss Lucy. That means it's time for cake and ice cream, you all think?”

Because of Lucy's sprained ankle, we set up a card table for the refreshments in the living room and told Lucy to close her eyes while we brought out the banana-shaped cake, aflame with candles—not eighty, but as many as we'd been able to stick on there. When told to look, her rheumy eyes opened wide under the baggy folds of skin at the sight of the cake. “What's this? A banana cake? For me?” Her shoulders started to shake with laughter. “
Hee hee!
My mama always made me a banana cake back in the day, but never one that
looked
like a giant banana!” She threw her head back,
hee-hee-heeing
until tears ran down her cheeks.

I crawled into bed later that evening, my whole body feeling like a big smile at the success of Lucy's birthday party. While guests were still eating cake and ice cream, Paul and Jermaine had played a duet of Bach's “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring,” which had brought tears to more than one set of eyes. Even the gifts were a big hit. Lucy's face had turned all red and mottled when she pulled out a brand-new, multicolored wool sweater that the five of us at the House of Hope had chipped in together to get her. The other gifts were just as practical—warm socks, hand cream, earmuffs, gloves. All things that could easily fit into Lucy's wire cart.

As for the banana cake, I had to admit it was scrumptious. Even Dandy got a piece. Couldn't believe there was still some left—but not enough to share with the other residents at Manna House, so Lucy had insisted it stay here. “ 'Less it start a fight back at the shelter.” The old woman had taken my face in both hands just before she hobbled out the door. “Ain't never gonna forget this birthday, Fuzz Top. Takes me back, it does. Sometimes I wish . . .” But she didn't finish. Shaking her head she thumped out the door behind Sarge.

But even though I'd gotten to bed late, I fell out of bed the next morning when the alarm rang to be ready for Shawanda's and Celia's move into the House of Hope. So far we'd been able to collect secondhand beds, mattresses, and bedding for both adults and all three children through donations to the shelter, which Josh was able to bring over from the Manna House storeroom in Moby Van, once he'd removed all the seats. We brought up the sawhorses and large piece of plywood from the basement that I'd used for a table and set it up in the dining room of 2A, and I donated a tablecloth to cover it. The storeroom of donated items at Manna House had also coughed up an assortment of dishes, utensils, and pots and pans—even a toaster oven and small microwave—to get them started. Nothing matched, but both Celia and Shawanda seemed excited as they unpacked the boxes and put things in drawers and cupboards.

In our talk on Friday, Shawanda had wanted all three kids to share a room so she could have her own bedroom, but both Celia and I insisted that was too much responsibility for ten-year-old Keisha, especially since two-year-old Bam-Bam still woke up at night and sometimes wet the bed. Shawanda finally agreed to keep Bam-Bam in her room if three-year-old Dessa could share a room with Keisha. The girls seemed excited when they saw their beds in the same room and promptly started playing “house.” Probably feeling grateful to be the one who got her own bedroom, Celia graciously offered to babysit one weekend night per week so Shawanda could go out.

The move was basically over by noon, so after saying we'd meet up again for the potluck that evening in the Baxters' apartment on the third floor, I gratefully disappeared into my apartment for a few hours of downtime before putting together the lasagna I'd planned for the potluck. A nap . . . that's what I needed.

But I'd no sooner laid down for a snooze when Paul burst into my bedroom. “Mom! The truck's here with Dad's stuff. Can we go out and help them move it in?”

My eyes flew open. I'd almost forgotten I'd agreed to let Philip store his stuff in the basement. Wished I'd had more time to think it through—but too late now for second thoughts. Oh well, it was only for a week.

“Sure, hon.” Hearing both boys clatter out the back door, I peeked through the blinds. Sure enough, I could see Josh motioning directions as a U-Haul truck backed up behind the six-flat in the alley. Once the truck was in position and the doors opened, I saw Philip—his arm still in its cast—and Will Nissan, Denny Baxter, Mr. B, Peter Douglass, Carl Hickman, and an older man I didn't recognize who had a yarmulke pinned to his white hair swarm around the back of the truck and begin hauling out furniture and boxes.
Huh? A yarmulke? How did a Jewish guy end up helping Philip with his move?

A nap seemed fruitless, so I got up and started the lasagna. The guys worked hard, and I could hear good-natured banter and shouts as they carefully shoehorned Philip's good furniture down the narrow basement steps. I peeked out from time to time, watching the men as they laughed and talked. Was Philip connecting with these guys? It felt strange, like separate worlds bumping into each other.

Seeing they'd almost emptied the truck, I fixed a pitcher of lemonade, set out the remains of Lucy's banana cake, then opened the door and called out, “You guys want some lemonade? Cake too! Come and get it!” I didn't have to call twice. Soon all eight of them had crowded into my kitchen, downing lemonade in copious amounts and demolishing the cake.

Philip pulled me aside. “I appreciate you letting me store my stuff in the basement, Gabby. Helps a lot financially. But I'll try to get it out of here as soon as I find an apartment next week.”

He seemed uneasy. Did he know I knew about his backsliding trip to the casino? The money from his mother? I had to admit it was only a gut knowledge, but I was pretty sure that's where he got it.

“It's fine, Philip. But we need to talk,” I said crisply. I'd confront him about that money when we had time to get some things straight. “You need a plan.”

“I know. Maybe we can talk tomorrow. I'll be staying at the Baxters' a few days.”

Tomorrow. Sunday
. I had a date with Lee.

“Okay. Depends on what time, though. I'm busy in the evening.”

He nodded. “Okay. Monday at the latest. I'll call you—oh, hi, Will.” Philip nodded at Will Nissan, who joined us. “Appreciate you coming by to help today.”

“No problem, Mr. Philip. Glad to do it.” The young college student turned to me, holding out his paper plate with the piece of cake. He'd taken one bite out of it. “Did you make this banana cake, Mrs. Fairbanks?”

I shook my head. “No, a friend did. It was for one of our residents at the shelter. Her eightieth birthday.”

“Man, it's good! Would you mind if I took a piece to my Nana? She asked me to make her a banana cake for her last birthday, so I used a box mix, but she acted insulted. Said it wasn't anything like the banana cake her mom used to make when she was a kid.”

I stared at Will. What was with that generation and banana cake? But I suddenly had a funny feeling. “Yeah, same for this lady,” I said slowly. “Will, your great-aunt that went missing. What was her name again?”

“Cindy. Well, that's what Nana calls her. Her real name was Lucinda—or
is
, if she's still alive.”

Goose bumps crept up my arms and down my backbone.
Lucinda .
. . that was Lucy's given name on her medical file down at the clinic! Could she be—?