Who Is My Shelter? (42 page)

As if I'd just spoken biblical prophecy, I heard the front door buzzer. “That might be them now. I'll go let them in.” I stood up and headed for the foyer, thanking God for Lucy's bum ankle. The way she was acting, I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd try to disappear in the two minutes I was out of the room.

I opened the big oak door. Sure enough, Will Nissan stood on the steps of Manna House holding the elbow of an elderly woman in a brown coat, wisps of gray hair framing her rather square face under a brown-and-tan knit hat.

“Please, come in!” I ushered them into the foyer. “Mrs. Simple? I'm Gabby Fairbanks, program director here at Manna House.” I held out my hand. “I'm so delighted to finally meet you. Your grandson has been a helpful friend to my, uh, husband.”

Maggie Simple shook my hand. Her skin was cool, soft. “Yes. Will told me about the gentleman who's been helping him with his architecture classes.” Her voice was polite but tentative. “Is . . . Cindy here?”

“Well, we know her as Lucy, but her given name is Lucinda. Yes, she's here. Sprained her ankle a couple weeks ago, though. In here.” I led the way through the double doors, wishing we had a private room where this at-long-last meeting could take place. The chapel? But moving Lucy anywhere would be an ordeal, so I tossed that idea. We'd just have to make do.

Mrs. Simple approached slowly, clinging to Will's arm. I quickly brought a chair next to Lucy's couch, and the elderly woman sat down on the edge. Lucy's face was expressionless, her eyes focused somewhere else. Dandy started to get up and sniff at the newcomers, but Lucy's hand gripped his collar and held him back. He whined and sat back down, as if confused.

Make that two of us
. What was going to happen here?

But oh my goodness. It was like looking at aging twins—or would be if Lucy's hair had a wash and a good cut. Same squarish, wrinkled face, same hazel eyes and heavy lids, same body build. Lucy's skin, however, was rough and leathery from years on the streets, while Maggie's had the soft, natural pink of a healthy woman in her seventies.

“Cindy? Is that you?” Mrs. Simple's voice wavered.

“Name's Lucy,” Lucy muttered. “Don't nobody call me Cindy.”

Will spoke up. “Lucy, you remember me from last night, right? My name's Will Nissan, and this is my grandmother, Maggie Simple. She's been looking for her sister, Lucinda Tucker, for a long, long time. We think we've found her.”

Lucy said nothing for several moments, then growled, “Don't got no family.”

“But it's me—Maggie! Your sister!” Tears had started to puddle in Mrs. Simple's eyes. She fished for an embroidered handkerchief tucked up her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “You've got a lot of family! Brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. Ma and Pa, they've been gone now, oh, twenty years. But most of us children got married, had a passel of kids and grandkids—like Will here.” She looked up into her grandson's face and smiled through the tears.

Lucy's lip seemed to tremble, just for a moment, but she still didn't look Maggie Simple in the face.

Will's grandmother wagged her head. “Things were bad back then, Cindy. I know that. But all that's past. No one thinks about . . . about what happened. Tucker family's doin' well now. 'Cept for one thing—our missing sister. Everybody thinks you're dead. But not me. I knew one day we'd find you. Will and me, we come to Chicago to look for you, and here you are.”

No one spoke. But women around the room were looking curiously our way and starting to make comments. I slipped away from the reunion and moved from group to group. “Lucy's got visitors and needs some privacy. Just leave them alone right now, all right? Thanks.”

I returned to Lucy's couch just in time to hear Lucy mutter, “Been a long time. Too long. Can't nothin' be different now.”

“But—” Maggie Simple started to say, but Will stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“I think maybe we should leave now. Maybe we can come back soon.” He helped his grandmother to her feet. But then he stepped forward and squatted down beside Dandy, taking the dog's face in his hands. “Thanks for looking after my Great-Aunt Cindy, Dandy. Tell her it's a big job for a dog, though. Tell her we'd like to help you out, look after her now. Tell her we want to bring her home. Can you do that, fella?”

Without another word, he stood and walked his grandmother out into the foyer. Maggie kept looking back, as if she was afraid to leave, afraid the sister she'd just found would be lost again. But she clung to Will's arm as I followed and opened the front door for them. As they stepped outside, Will turned back and gave me a lopsided grin. “That went well for the first visit, don't you think?”

chapter 40

Lucy refused to talk to me about her visitors. I wanted to tick off all the clues that led Will and me to realize she was his missing great-aunt, or . . . or shake her, the stubborn old fool! Didn't she realize what an amazing miracle this was?! That her family had not only found her but wanted to provide a home for her?

But after a few tries that got me nowhere, I gave up and decided to leave her alone. Maybe she was in shock.

Paul was ecstatic when I brought Dandy back home with me. True to her word, Lucy had let me take the dog home with a message for Paul, asking if he'd take care of him for her this winter.
“Jus' bring him ta see me when ya come ta work, promise?”
she'd fussed at me.
“When I'm here, that is.”

I'd promised, thanking God I worked in a place that let me bring a dog to work—well,
this
dog, anyway, who'd become the Manna House mascot after saving Sarge that night from a knife-wielding intruder. But it bothered me when Lucy said,
“When I'm here, that is.”
She obviously wasn't planning to change her come-and-go lifestyle anytime soon.

Well, we'd see about that.

When I got back to the House of Hope, Josh Baxter was already at work prepping walls in 3B, and Celia Jones stopped by to let me know she and her granddaughter were going to spend the rest of the weekend on the South Side with her brother's family, giving Keisha a chance to spend a little time with her mom who lived nearby. “We babysat Bam-Bam and Dessa last night so Shawanda could have a night out, didn't we, Keisha? So she should do all right while we're gone.”

“How about you?” I asked. “You doing okay sharing the apartment with Shawanda? You need to let me or Mabel know if you have any problems.”

Celia shrugged and smiled. “We're doing all right. And I'm sure it'll get better. Shawanda's still young. She just needs some stability.”

Philip had called while I was out and talked to both boys. I was sorry I'd missed his call, but decided to wait until his next call to ask how his business consultation with his father and uncle was going. He hadn't directly answered P.J.'s question the other night about whether he was going to move back to Virginia for good, but I had my own suspicions about what might happen. Either he'd come back here and start up a new company, which would be in direct competition with Henry Fenchel, or he'd hop back into the family business there in Petersburg. Both options would affect me and the boys—but right now, I needed to take things one day at a time.

I hadn't called Lee back either. But P.J. and Paul were both antsy to get out of the house for our movie-and-pizza date, and by the time we got back, I was so pooped, I couldn't wait to take a long soak in the tub and fall into bed.

Tomorrow. I'd call Lee tomorrow.

A loud clatter woke me several hours later. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. What was that? Sounded like something tumbling down the outside back stairs and breaking. I squinted at the glowing numbers on my digital clock. 2:12. Fumbling in the dark, I found my robe, pulled it around me, and peeked though the blinds on my bedroom window overlooking the back porch. A shadowy figure was bent over on my landing, picking up the pieces of . . . something.

Feeling my way, I moved quickly into the kitchen, sidled up to the back door, and moved the curtain on the window an inch. The hunched figure was a man. Could it be Josh? The tenant still in 2B coming home late? Or had Maddox Campbell come back for something? Not likely. He'd given the apartment keys back to Josh before he left.

Just then the man straightened and looked back up the stairs. By now my eyes had adjusted to the glow coming from the alley light. Youngish, slender, dark skin, shaved head—whoever it was, I didn't recognize him.
Drat!
Why hadn't I grabbed my cell phone? I should be calling 9-1-1 and reporting a stranger on my property! I was just about to run for the phone in the hallway when I heard footsteps coming down the back stairs and another figure appeared on my landing. What in the world?

Shawanda!

The two young people giggled surreptitiously, and I heard the word “flowerpot.” They kissed, then the young man hustled down the last few steps to the walk that led to the alley, tossed something into the dumpster, and the girl ran back upstairs.

Of all the nerve! Shawanda had snuck a
man
into her apartment tonight while Celia was gone.

I shuffled back to my bed. Good thing I hadn't called 9-1-1. But Shawanda would have to face
me
tomorrow, and as far as she was concerned, that might be even worse.

The next morning I was out at the dumpster before breakfast, picking out pieces of the flowerpot Lover Boy had knocked over as he snuck out last night. Thank goodness trash didn't get picked up on the weekend. Fortunately, the broken pot sat on top of the numerous bags of trash Maddox Campbell's moving crew had tossed. If the dumpster had been empty or even half full, I'd never have been able to reach the bottom.

Pieces in hand, I marched up the back stairs and knocked loudly on the kitchen door of 2A. I had to pound on the door two or three minutes before Shawanda peeked through the curtain, hair wrap knotted on her head, eyes bleary. She opened the door two inches. “Miss Gabby? Uh . . . whatchu want? Ain't it kinda early?”

I held up the pieces of the broken flowerpot. “We need to talk.”

The door opened another couple of inches, and she pulled her thin robe around her body. “Oh, sorry 'bout that. Was it yours? I, uh, knocked it off the porch rail last night by accident.”

“Cut the crap, Shawanda,” I snapped. “I don't care about the pot. Wasn't mine, might be Celia's. What I do care about is the young man who left your apartment shortly after two this morning— the one who knocked this over and woke me up.”

She squirmed. “Oh, uh . . . sorry that woke you up. He, uh, he's just a friend, came by to drop somethin' off for me, an' I
told
him it was too late, but—”

“Shawanda.”
No sense getting angry
, I told myself.
Speak calmly
. “Look, don't make this any worse by lying about it. You know the rule: no men in the apartments after ten p.m. The first time Celia's gone overnight, you broke the rule. That's serious.”

Shivering in the doorway, Shawanda's face morphed into a pout. “Don't see why it's anybody's bizness. Celia and Keisha, they gone, we didn't bother them none.”

“It's the rule, Shawanda. You signed an agreement to live by the rules here at the House of Hope.”

“But you treatin' us like little kids! I'm grown! What I do shouldn't make no difference to you.”

I realized this was getting us nowhere. And now I was shivering in the damp morning air. “I'm not going to argue with you, Shawanda. We'll talk about the consequences later. But I'm disappointed. I was hoping this arrangement would work out for you and the kids.” I shoved the pieces of flowerpot into her hand. “Better let Celia know she's minus a flowerpot when she gets back.” I turned and started down the stairs.

“Wait!” Shawanda came out the door and leaned over the railing as I descended. “You not gonna kick us out, are you, Miss Gabby?” Her voice had lost the pout and was shrill with anxiety. “You can't do that! No way can I go back to the shelter!”

But I just slipped back into my apartment and shut the door.

“I told her the truth,” I said to Jodi Baxter after the worship service at SouledOut later that morning. “I
am
disappointed. I was hoping the House of Hope could be a turning point for Shawanda.” I hadn't seen or talked to Jodi since the previous Sunday when she'd told me her husband and Harry were planning a gutsy talk with Philip, so we'd grabbed a couple cups of coffee and were huddling in a corner, trying to catch up with each other.

“Is that it? Break one rule and she's out?” Jodi seemed surprised.

I sighed. “I don't know. We didn't say definitely. But Shawanda's the kind of person if you give her an inch, she takes a mile. Poster kid for the cliché.” I smiled wanly. “Don't worry, I'll talk with Mabel and the Baby Baxters before I—what?”