The phone went dead. Stunned, I stumbled through the multipurpose room and into the TV room, turned on the set, and started flipping channels. Cartoons . . . cartoons . . . home renovation . . . cooking show . . . news . . .
There. Mabel Turner standing with the arched oak doors of the Manna House shelter at her back, camera lights bouncing off her maple-colored skin, finishing our carefully worded statement. “. . . grateful that no one was seriously hurt.”
Questions flew before she even had time to take a breath. “Ms. Turner! Ms. Turner! You said the dog was treated by a vet—how badly was he hurt?” . . . “Who does the dog belong to?” . . . “Why was he at the shelter? Are you taking in homeless animals too?” . . . “Where’s the dog now?” . . .
“Oh brother,” Mabel’s voice breathed in my ear. I jumped. Where had Mabel come from? “The one time I’m on television and I look like I just fell out of bed.”
“. . . belongs to one of our staff,” Mabel was saying on air, “and just happened to be here last night. Fortunately.” She smiled into the cameras. “Thank you. That’s all.”
Aware that others were pushing into the small TV room and peering over our shoulders, I deliberately slowed my breathing. That was it? Mabel had been very careful not to give out any personal information. What is Philip’s problem? But just then, the TV camera zoomed in on a perky blonde reporter with perfect makeup and a big microphone, saying, “Earlier this morning, a squad car brought back the shelter’s hero, a mutt named Dandy . . .” The footage showed Officer Krakowski lifting Dandy out of the car, swathed in bandages, followed by Lucy Tucker in her pajama bottoms, sweatshirt, and purple knit hat—and me, running up the steps and leaning on the door buzzer, pulling it open until the trio got inside, then turning around while voices yelled, “Mrs. Fairbanks! Mrs. Fairbanks! Can you—”
Close-up of Gabby Fairbanks, bags under my eyes, snarly chestnut curls that hadn’t seen a comb or brush (or a haircut) since who knew when, and chirping, “Uh, hi folks. It’s been a stressful night, as you can all imagine. I’m sure Manna House will issue a statement as soon as possible. Please be patient.”
Residents all around me babbled with excitement. “Hey, Lucy! You were on TV!” . . . “Didja hear that? They called Dandy a mutt! Stupid reporters.” . . . “Me? On TV? Where?” . . .
But their chatter was drowned out by the TV voices echoing in my head—“Mrs. Fairbanks! Mrs. Fairbanks!”—and Philip’s snarl on the phone: “. . . making a spectacle of yourself . . . always said you’d drag down the Fairbanks name someday!”
I never did get a nap that morning. Jodi Baxter showed up to teach her class, along with Estelle, who flounced in like a mini tidal wave, muttering that leftovers—the usual fare for weekend lunches, I gathered—would not do after the trauma of such a night. She immediately set about banging pots and pans and cooking something that began to smell mighty good.
“We saw it on the news,” Jodi told me. “Actually, Denny and I heard screeching upstairs, and the next thing we knew, Stu was pounding on our back door, telling us to turn on the TV.”
It took me a few seconds to remember that “Stu” and Estelle were housemates, and they lived above Josh’s parents in a two-flat. One day I’d get it figured out.
“But what’s this Josh and Edesa are telling me?” Jodi reached out and rested her hand lightly on my arm. I was aware of her gentle touch, and for some reason I wanted to cry. “Your husband locked you out, and you and your mother moved into the shelter?” Her eyes were round with disbelief, as if saying the words aloud felt like telling a fib.
I gave a little nod, afraid my high water mark was ready to breach and I’d soon be a blubbery mess right then and there. “Yeah, well . . .” I grabbed a tissue from my jeans pocket and blew my nose. Wasn’t sure how coherent I’d be on no sleep, but I really did want to talk to Jodi. “Um, if you don’t have to run off right after your typing class, I’d . . . guess I would like to talk to you.”
“Sure! Besides, I’d never hear the end of it if I left before Estelle’s sacrificial lunch offering. Cooking and sewing—that’s how she blesses people. Oh! Speaking of blessings! I need a few strong arms to carry in a couple of computers from our minivan. Software Symphony donated two more used computers to the schoolroom.” Jodi eyed me slyly beneath the bangs of her shoulder-length brown bob. “Of course, I bugged Peter Douglass about it mercilessly when I realized more women signed up to learn word processing skills than Manna House had computers.”
I couldn’t help but grin. Jodi Baxter wouldn’t exactly turn heads on the street, but she could turn a few hardheads into giving up what she needed. Sarge was gone, but I rounded up Carolyn and Tina to help Jodi and me bring in the computers, monitors, and keyboards. We made space for the equipment on the long table in the schoolroom that already held two computers, as Carolyn lifted the mass of wires and plugs out of a box. “Hm. Might be able to get these up and running for you,” she murmured. “Not in time for today’s class, though.”
I raised my eyebrows. What other talents lay underneath Carolyn’s scraggly ponytail?
Kim and Wanda showed up for Jodi’s typing class, along with one of the new residents, named Althea, who seemed to be Mediterranean-something. Sicilian? Turkish? She spoke good English—easier to understand than Wanda’s Jamaican patois. Jodi seemed comfortable, though, so I slipped down to my office to check on Dandy. Lucy was parked on my chair, leaning on the desk with her elbow, wrinkled hand holding up her head, which was still crowned in the purple knit hat, and snoring away.
“Lucy!” I shook her awake. “Go upstairs and get a nap. I’ll take over.”
Umph . . . gurkle . . . huh? Whatchu want, Fuzz Top? I ain’t “sleepin’.”
“It’s okay. You had a short night.” Huh. Didn’t we all. “Besides, I need to use my office.”
“Humph. Okay.” The phone rang just as Lucy hauled herself up from my chair. “You want me ta get that?” Without waiting for an answer, she snatched up the desk phone. “Miz Gabby’s office . . . Oh yeah? . . . Okay, I’ll tell her.” She hung it up. “You’ve got a visitor.”
I stiffened. A visitor? Philip wouldn’t . . . would he? “Did whoever’s on the desk say who it is?”
Lucy shrugged. “Only one way ta find out. C’mon.”
I followed meekly. If it was Philip, having Lucy pave the way wasn’t a bad idea. She wouldn’t take any guff from him. Or maybe it was just some reporter . . . Good grief. I’d almost rather talk to Philip. Didn’t the media know they were stirring up a hornet’s nest in my corner?
But my visitor was neither.
“Mr. Bentley!” I cried as Lucy and I came through the double doors into the foyer. The doorman from Richmond Towers—wearing slacks, a nice button-down shirt, and a tweed golf hat hiding his bald head, instead of his blue uniform and cap—stood holding a big bag of something. And next to him, carrying a couple of plastic store bags, stood his wide-eyed grandson. But the boy’s name had slipped my mind. “Uh, hi, young man. What brings you guys here two days in a row?”
“We saw the story about your dog on TV!” the boy piped up. “Grandpa said it belongs to your mama.”
Mr. Bentley looked a little embarrassed. “Yeah, DeShawn wanted us to bring something for the hero dog.” He hefted the load in his arms—a twenty-five-pound bag of dog food. “DeShawn has some stuff too—rawhide bone, dog toy, you know.”
“Yeah, but Grandpa! Who brought all that other stuff out there?” DeShawn tipped his head toward the front doors.
The boy had a beautiful face—large, dark eyes, smooth skin, an impish grin lurking beneath the surface. He looked up at Mr. Bentley with obvious respect. I stared, fascinated. Then what he said finally penetrated my brain. “Uh, what other stuff ?”
Lucy was two beats ahead of me, already pushing the doors open. “Uh-oh.”
“‘Uh-oh’ what?” I peered over her shoulder, then pushed the doors open wider.
The steps of the Manna House shelter were stacked with bags of dry dog food, towers of canned dog food, dog toys, dog chews, dog treats, and homemade posters in childish scrawls:
Dandy the Hero! Chicago loves Dandy! Get well, Dandy!
And a plethora of stuffed toy dogs sat atop the doggy loot—big ones, little ones, yellow and brown and spotted ones, with cute faces and floppy ears—like a child’s menagerie sprawled all over a lumpy bedspread.