Who Is My Shelter? (8 page)

Caught up by the view, it took me a moment to realize the room was empty. “Philip?” I called.

“In here.”

I followed his voice into the wood-paneled study, which was just off the living room. He sat at his desk, half leaning sideways in his chair, his free hand manipulating the mouse as he shut down his computer. Then he turned—and I was taken aback by the lines of pain in his face.

“Philip, what—? You're hurting!” I hustled to his side as he struggled to get out of the chair, trying to push up on the armrest with his broken arm as his other hand clutched his gut. But he waved me off.

“I'm . . . okay. Once I get up.” He finally stood, slowly straightened, and took a few shallow breaths. Then he headed slowly for the living room and sank into the recliner. “Thanks for coming. Wasn't sure if you would.”

An irritated retort sprang to my lips, but I bit it back. Pulling the hassock closer to the recliner, I sat down and leaned forward. “Philip. What happened this morning? My cell phone rang, the caller ID flashed your name, but all I heard was you and this Fagan person arguing. He threatened to shoot you!”

Philip looked at me strangely. “Your phone rang? You heard all that?” He looked dazed. “But I didn't call you. I don't know how . . .” His eyes left mine and he stared out the window for a long moment. “Must've been when that thug who was with him slugged me in the stomach. I had the phone here.” He patted his chest. “In the inside pocket of my sport coat.”

“He
slugged
you? Is that why you're hurting? Why didn't you go to the ER and get checked out?”

Philip shook his head. “Don't want to go back to the hospital. I'll be all right.”

I felt exasperated. “But, Philip. What were you doing out there anyway? You just got out of the hospital! If you needed something, I was coming back this afternoon and could have gotten it for you.”

He winced slightly and tried to smile. “Just needed to get out, get some coffee and a paper. Don't want to be cooped up here like a prisoner. Thought I could walk down to the grocery store if I took it slow.” The smile disappeared. “Didn't know Fagan's goons were still out there watching for me. They must've called him when I first came out, because when I got near the store, he drove up and cut me off at the alley. If those cops hadn't come—” Philip suddenly looked at me strangely. “You said you could hear us talking? Did
you
call the cops?”

“Not me. Harry did.”

“Harry?”

“Harry Bentley. Our former doorman, Philip. He's a retired Chicago cop—I
told
you.”

“Yeah, yeah, right. I forgot. But—” Philip looked totally confused. “How did he know where to find us? I thought those squad cars just happened to come by that alley and saw what was going down. Decided I was one lucky guy.”

I shook my head. “Not luck, Philip. God was protecting you. Mr. B stayed on the phone—two phones, actually, mine and his— for maybe fifteen minutes, telling the police where to find you.”

Philip stared at me. He seemed stunned.

I watched him as he sat there. He was still hurting, I could tell. His ragged breathing, the way he winced whenever he moved, his good hand holding his stomach. “Philip, you said one of those guys slugged you, and maybe that's what turned the phone on. You need to see a doctor, go to the ER, something! Please, I'll take you. You're obviously in pain. You need to get it checked out.”

There was no way he could deny it. Still, he shook his head. “I'll be all right.”

“You're not all right! Please. I said I'll take you.” Then I added, “For the boys.”

He considered that. Finally he nodded. “Okay, okay. I'm supposed to make an appointment with my doctor this week anyway. If I can get in tomorrow, I'll call you, tell you when.”

Tomorrow!
I'd meant today. Now. This afternoon. But tomorrow was Monday. I had to work! Maybe I should tell him to call a cab.

No, I'd promised. If I took him, then I'd know a doctor actually saw him. Well, all right. I'd take time off and take Philip to his stupid doctor, wherever that was.

I stood up. “I better go. Is there anything you want me to do before I leave?”

He closed his eyes, seemingly drained. But he gestured to a pile of his stuff on another chair. “Yeah. Take that robe back to whoever loaned it to me. And tell 'em thanks. But I didn't get it washed. Would you—?”

I picked up the brown robe. “Sure. It was Josh Baxter. He's the one who loaned it to you. I'll tell him.”

I turned to go.

“And, Gabby?”

“Yes?”

The muscles in Philip's face twitched, as if he was trying to control his emotions. “Tell Bentley thanks too. I think . . . he may have saved my life.”

chapter 7

The boys got off to school in decent time the next morning—P.J. was still riding the city bus—and I came in to work a few minutes early, knowing I'd have to take some time off later in the day if Philip got an appointment. Even then the coffee pot in the kitchen was down to the dregs, and I had to make a fresh pot before I could settle down to work.

I turned on my computer and squinted at the computer calendar. Second week of October. I typed in
8:30 p.m. House Mtg
on Tuesday, thanks to Precious. She'd left a note taped to my apartment door last night saying Josh, Edesa, and Tanya had agreed to eight thirty Tuesday evening for a meeting if we could meet in 3A so Edesa could put Gracie to bed first.
What about the other kids
? she'd written.
Maybe they should be there too. They need to know the rules. I'll see you then. My cousin's in town from South Carolina and I'm going to hang with her tonight, maybe tomorrow too. Sabrina's going with me. Ciao!
Then she'd added,
P.S. So what happened at church today
?

I was just as glad she was “hanging” with her cousin for a couple of days. If and when I talked to Precious about Philip's run-in with Fagan in that alley, I didn't want the boys around to overhear.

What else was happening this week? Last week had been a blur with Philip in the hospital and the boys wanting to go see their dad every day after school. His parents had flown in from Virginia and hovered in the hospital room a few days, which was awkward for everyone. We were all relieved when Mike Fairbanks had gone back to work and took Philip's smother-mother with him.

But in spite of all the hurly burly, there had been one huge, silent void.

Lee Boyer hadn't called me. Not once.

My head sank into my hands. What did I expect? He'd wanted me to declare it was over with Philip, to let my husband mop up his own mess. But I couldn't. Not right then. Not when Philip had just been worked over by some thugs and my sons were terrified for their father's life.

I squeezed back tears. Had I done the right thing to stand by Philip?
Yes
. Except I didn't know I'd miss Lee this much. Had I fallen in love with him without knowing it?

Raising my head, I let out a long sigh.
Okay, Gabby, suck it up. You'll never get anything done today if you start second-guessing about Lee
. I blew my nose and focused on the computer calendar once again.
Monday—staff meeting at ten
. Hopefully Carolyn would show up and give a report on the afterschool program, which I thought was going well. Considering. We still had to decide whether to open it up to neighborhood kids whose parents had asked for the extra tutoring help. And it was time to talk about adding a GED program here at Manna House for our residents who still needed to complete their high school education.

I continued to review the regular weekly activities we had scheduled: Estelle's sewing class this afternoon, still working on their apron project. The ESL class on Tuesday, which was about to lose its volunteer teacher because Tina, our Puerto Rican resident who spoke both Spanish and English fluently, didn't feel qualified to teach the formal written stuff. Cooking and nutrition on Thursday, Estelle again, no worries there. Jodi Baxter's typing class on Saturday.

Jotting a note to myself about calling some local schools that trained ESL teachers, I turned my attention to the list of new activities I wanted to add here at Manna House.
“One at a time, Gabby, one at a time
,” Mabel had warned me.
“We've got to make budget, remember?”

I grinned at the item at the top of my “proposed” list: a “Fall Getaway” weekend for some of the residents who'd never been out of the city, to see the fall colors and enjoy a bit of nature. But it was already October! If that was going to happen, I needed to get it on the calendar pronto. Maybe the last weekend of this month?

Philip still hadn't called by the time I gathered up my papers and headed for staff meeting at ten. I was tempted to phone and bug him about calling his doctor but talked myself out of it. Wasn't I always running ahead of God and trying to
make
things happen? Okay, I was even going to turn off my cell phone during the meeting.

I tried to catch Estelle after the staff meeting to find out what happened when Mr. Bentley went down to the police station yesterday, but she zipped out of the room without so much as a nod in my direction. What was she in such a hurry about?

But there was one new voice mail when I turned my cell phone back on.
“Gabby, it's Philip. I've got a two o'clock with Dr. Gordon. Can you pick me up at one?”

One o'clock? Why did he need a whole hour to get to his doctor?
Whatever
. I sent a text back to him—“OK 1:00”—and made a detour to Mabel's office to tell her I needed a couple hours for a doctor's appointment.

I pulled into the Visitor Parking space outside Richmond Towers right at one. Philip was already downstairs in the lobby waiting for me. He didn't say much as he lowered himself gingerly into the front passenger seat of my Subaru, just “Thanks for the ride. Here's the address.” He handed me a slip of paper. “Take Lake Shore Drive to the Randolph Street exit and I can direct you from there.”

Randolph Street? Philip's office was in the AON Center on East Randolph right downtown. Was his doctor in the same building?

Turned out he wasn't, but the building was right around the corner on North Michigan Avenue. I let Philip out as close as I could to the front door of the office building while I looked for a parking garage. After circling the block, I ended up in the AON Center parking garage after all and walked to the building where I'd let him out.

The receptionist in Dr. Gordon's office said Philip was already in with the doctor, so I leafed through a copy of
Money
magazine. The other options weren't much better.
Business Week . . . Harvard Business Review . . . Forbes .
. . Good grief. Didn't anybody besides CEOs come to this doctor? “Excuse me.” I waggled a hand at the receptionist. “Do you have
Good Housekeeping
or
National Geographic
or something?”

“Sorry,” she said. “Those are the doctor's personal subscriptions. We just put out the old copies.”

Humph. I should've brought a book
.

Philip came out half an hour later, looking a bit ashen. “Doctor wants me to get a CAT scan of my midsection,” he said as we rode the elevator down. “I think I can get it done at Weiss Memorial, but . . .” He swore under his breath. “Blast that Fagan. I don't have time for this!”

I kept my mouth shut. Philip wouldn't even
know
Matty Fagan if he hadn't tried to pay off his gambling debts with a shady deal.

“You want me to go get the car so you don't have to walk?”

“Where are you parked?”

“The AON Center garage.”

A strange light went on in Philip's eyes. “No, no, that's good. I need to stop by the office anyway. Only take a few minutes.”

A few minutes? Not likely.
I
was the one driving, and I needed to get back to work! But Philip had already started out the automatic door as if the prospect of going to the office had given him an energy boost.

Don't be a wimp, Gabby
, I told myself.
If he takes more than fifteen minutes, just tell him to take a cab home
.

By the time we got off the elevator on the sixty-second floor of the AON Center, tiny beads of sweat lined his forehead and he kept his right forearm pressed against his middle. I should have insisted on taking him home. But here we were—might as well see it through.

As we approached the door with a sign that read Fairbanks and Fenchel Development Corp., Philip hesitated. “Uh, Gabby, do me a favor. Would you go in and make sure Henry's not meeting with anyone? I don't want to meet any of our clients looking like . . . well, you know.”

I studied him for a moment. Why should I do that? It wasn't my idea to come up here to his office! And he'd been calling me Gabby lately instead of Gabrielle . . . what did that mean? He was acting as if we were on buddy-buddy terms.