The multipurpose room began filling early the next morning with residents and guests for the ten o’clock funeral service. The Kirkland & Sons funeral director and three of his staff had arrived at eight in their long, black hearse, unloading my mother’s metal blue casket onto a wheeled cart and setting it at the front of the circle of chairs. I was surprised at the number of flower arrangements that arrived. As the funeral staff opened the casket, I busied myself looking at the cards—a large spray of pink gladiolas from the Manna House board and staff . . . red and white carnations from SouledOut Community Church . . . a mixed flower arrangement of colorful mums and daisies from Mercy Shepherd . . . a spray of white lilies with a card that said, “With sympathy, the Fairbanks Family.” Probably Marlene’s doing. But nice.
Another flower arrangement arrived by messenger, a huge spray of bloodred roses, which the funeral staff set up on a large stand. It took me a few moments to find the card . . . and then I couldn’t believe my eyes. “With sympathy, Fairbanks & Fenchel Commercial Development Corp.”
Of all the nerve!
Estelle Williams, smelling like gardenias and dressed in a black-and-white tunic over wide, silky black trousers, leaned around me and read the card. “Humph. Want me to chuck ’em for you, honey?”
Ha. I could just see them sailing out the front door and landing in the gutter. “Yeah . . . later. After the service.” I didn’t want any drama—for my sons’ sake. Not today. But I took the card and stuck it in my pocket. No sense letting Philip “look good.”
“Well, I gotta tend to some last-minute food prep. You gonna spend some time with your mama?” Estelle tipped her head toward the open casket, and I followed her gaze. My mother’s face—so like her, and yet unlike her too—peeked out from the soft crepe lining of the shiny blue metal casket.
“Um, maybe when P. J. and Paul get here. Think I’ll go wait for them outside.” On my way to the foyer, I greeted several board members and got warm hugs from Avis and Peter Douglass, who were consulting with the female keyboard player from SouledOut about the service. Precious and Sabrina stood at the double doors, handing out the simple program and helping to seat people. “Thanks for ushering, Sabrina,” I said, giving the pregnant teenager a hug. “You look beautiful today.”
But I had to hide a smile as I overheard Precious send two of the residents back upstairs to “get somethin’ decent on—you look like some ho. This is a funeral for a grand lady, an’ don’t ya forget it!”
The foyer was a beehive. Slipping around the crowd, I pushed open the oak doors and stood on the steps, my black crepe skirt blowing in the stiff breeze of another warm Chicago day. Craning my head this way and that, I was relieved to see Lucy coming up the sidewalk with Dandy, wearing a bandanna around his neck like a doggy cowboy. I’d been half-afraid she’d disappear again, and Paul would be devastated.
“Hey there, buddy.” I bent down to give the dog a scratch behind the ears, his golden coat freshly brushed except for the area where the hair had not yet grown over his scars, when a familiar black Lexus SUV pulled up in front of Manna House.
I stiffened. Philip was driving.
The doors on the passenger side opened, and Mike Fairbanks and the boys piled out. Paul, unmindful of his good slacks and summer dress shirt, dashed over to Dandy, who immediately started barking and leaping all over him. Philip’s father slammed the car door and hustled up the steps after P. J. My father-in-law gave me a peck on the cheek.
“What is Philip doing here?” I hissed in his ear.
Mike Fairbanks turned and jerked his thumb in a get-moving motion. “He’s not staying. I made it clear he’s not invited . . .
Boys! Let’s go in.” They trailed Lucy and Dandy into the cool foyer.
I could have hugged him. Strange, I’d never felt that close to Philip’s father, but suddenly I found him in my corner. I started to follow them inside when I saw Lee Boyer crossing the street in the middle of the block, making him pass directly in front of Philip’s car. He had shed his jeans and boots for slacks, dress shirt, and tie. Stepping up onto the sidewalk, Lee peered over his wire rims at the car and driver, then at me. He raised his eyebrows . . . then came on up the steps and gave me a hug. “I’m so sorry about your mother, Gabby. You doing okay?” He followed my eyes as I lingered just long enough to make sure the SUV drove off. “Is that him?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
As we came into the multipurpose room, the young black woman from SouledOut was already playing some background music—hymns and classical pieces. Lee found a seat toward the back. People were still talking but had quieted to a low murmur, and those standing by the casket moved aside to make room for the boys and me. Mike Fairbanks crossed himself—odd, since he wasn’t Catholic—then quickly sat down in the front row.
I stood at the casket, my arms around both boys, as we looked at my mom’s body. A stranger lay there, hands crossed on a familiar Sunday dress. Her gray hair was done neatly, her glasses perched on her nose, but the waxy expression didn’t look anything like my mother, who could in turn be sweet or stubborn—sometimes both at the same time.
To my surprise, P. J. reached out a tentative finger and gently touched my mother’s hand. But as he touched the waxy skin, he recoiled, his face crumpling, and he darted to a chair next to his paternal grandfather. Paul, on the other hand, pressed himself into my side, clinging to my waist. He didn’t want to leave . . . until we heard a whine at our feet. Dandy had slunk up beside us, his doggy forehead wrinkled. He sniffed the casket, whining pitifully.
Paul lost it. And so did I. We cried and hugged Dandy and each other . . . and I heard other sobbing around the room as we finally found our chairs.
Once the casket was closed and the funeral started, Avis led us in a “celebration of life.” She read one of my mother’s favorite psalms, and we sang “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” and “O Love
That Will Not Let Me Go.” Someone had thoughtfully printed out the words and included them in the simple program. Edesa Baxter read my mom’s obituary, and as she read the words I’d written, I realized what an ordinary life my mother had led, nothing terribly exciting. And yet . . . she had been a faithful and loving wife, had raised three girls who had the same genes but were as different as rain, snow, and hail, had rolled with the uncertainties of the past few years since my dad died, and took comfort in the small, everyday joys of life—puttering in her flower garden, talking to her doggy companion, going to church, and making new friends . . . even in a homeless shelter.
How many so-called celebrities could say that?
Avis invited anyone who would like to share something about Martha Shepherd to come to the front. To my surprise, Hannah was the first one up. “Even though she white, we all called her Gramma Shep, ’cause she’d sit an’ listen to ya, as if you was important—and she let me paint her nails!” Hannah jerked a thumb toward the casket, which the funeral home staff had closed before the service started. “Jus’ look in there an’ see! An’ if ya want your nails done, I’ll—”
A chuckle went around the room as Avis Douglass cut her off. “Uh, no commercials, Hannah. We need time for others.”
Carolyn got up and said it was a joy to know someone who liked to talk books and play Scrabble, followed by several other residents, staff, and volunteers—all of them giving testimony to the smiling presence of this simple, older woman who brought a bit of sunshine into the Manna House homeless shelter.
Then Lucy got up and laid a hand on the closed casket. Her rheumy eyes glistened. Dandy, who’d been lying at Paul’s feet, got up and went to her, sat on his haunches, and looked up at the old woman. Lucy, dressed for the occasion in a clean but rumpled flowered skirt, white blouse, blue sweater two sizes too small, ankle socks, and sandals, didn’t address the people in the chairs. She spoke to the casket.
“Miz Martha, this is Lucy.” Her voice was husky. “Me an’ you, we was kinda unlikely to be friends, but that’s what you was—my friend. Don’t have too many friends. Got one less now that you’re gone. But you an’ Dandy here . . .” She reached down and patted Dandy, who seemed to be hanging on every word. “You was some of the best friends I ever had. An’ I really don’ know what I’m gonna do now that you gone, Miz Martha . . . but if you’re in that happy place they talk about ’round here, I’m thinkin’ I’d like to find out how to get there, too, so we could . . .” Her voice faltered. She stood there a moment, her shoulders sagging. But then she patted the casket. “Jus’ wantchu ta know, Miz Martha, you trusted me ta take care of Hero Dog, here, an’ that’s what I wanna do”—the old bag lady turned and gave me the eye—“though ain’t nobody tol’ me yet who he’s gonna live with. But if Dandy needs a guardian angel down here, that’s me.” And she shuffled back to her seat.
Avis beckoned to me. I saw both smiles and tears in the wake of Lucy’s eulogy as I faced the people who had gathered to celebrate my mother’s life. I suddenly felt overwhelmed at seeing all the faces seated in the rows before me—black, white, tan . . . young, old . . . homeless women and board members . . . Mabel Turner, who’d hired me on faith and whose patience toward me was long on God’s grace . . . Precious and Sabrina, Tanya and Sammy—two mothers like myself who only wanted to make a home for their children . . . Estelle Williams, who’d taken me under her wing like my own personal mother hen . . . Edesa and
Josh Baxter and baby Gracie . . . Josh’s parents and sister Amanda, who’d taken in a couple of strangers . . . and even some of Jodi’s Yada Yada Prayer Group sisters . . .
My mother had been in Chicago a mere four weeks—most of that spent here at Manna House—and yet the multipurpose room was full. I nodded and smiled at Harry Bentley, sitting beside Estelle, who had been my first friend here in Chicago. “Thank you, everyone . . . ,” I started, but the lump in my throat was so big, nothing more came out.
“All right, now,” Precious piped up. “Take your time, Gabby, take your time.”
There was so much I wanted to say. But as I struggled for words, I saw the double doors to the foyer open—and Philip slipped in.
Mike Fairbanks must have seen the stunned look on my face, because he turned his head to follow my eyes . . . and the next minute he was out of his seat and making a beeline for the back of the room. Almost at the same moment, I saw Lee Boyer and Harry Bentley get up from different parts of the room, like a pair of white and black cops, and head for the doors as well. Seeing his father and the other two men heading for him like bouncers at a nightclub, Philip backed out of the room, followed by the three men, and the doors swung shut behind them.
I caught Avis’s eye, shook my head, and fled to my chair. The pianist took her seat at the keyboard, and the next minute we were all standing and singing, “Some glad morning when this life is o’er . . . I’ll fly away . . .” I turned my head and looked toward the closed doors. What was happening out there? Leaning over to my sons, I whispered, “Wait here for me, okay? I’ll be right back.” Hoping not to be noticed as I ducked through the standing congregation, I slipped into the foyer. Empty. I crossed to the heavy oak front doors, turned the handle of one, and pushed it open a few inches.
Through the crack I saw Philip standing down on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette—since when?!—and looking off into the distance, while Mike Fairbanks, two inches shorter than my six-foot- two husband, jabbed a finger in his face. “—ashamed to call you my son! You know Gabby didn’t want you here today—and I don’t blame her. After what you did—”
This was my fight, and I was tired of running from it.
I stepped outside.
Mike stopped, finger in mid-jab, and all four men gaped at me.
I marched down the steps until I faced my husband. Gabrielle . . . strong woman of God. If that was my identity, I better start living into it—though I had to admit that the presence of my three benefactors cinched up my courage a few notches.
“You’re not welcome here, Philip. You know why. You turned my mother away from your home. You treated us both like dirt. She wouldn’t want you here today. I don’t want you here today. The least you can do is respect that.”
No hysterics, no name-calling . . . Thank You, God, for giving me words.
Philip took a drag on the cigarette, dropped it to the ground, and ground it out. “I’m sorry about you losing your mom, Gabby. I—” His left eye twitched, the way it always did when he was tense, and he turned his head, as if watching the El train crossing the street a couple of blocks down. “That’s . . . all I wanted to say.” He pushed past his father and started down the street toward his car.
Lee Boyer laid a comforting arm around my shoulder, but I was startled to hear him call out, “Fairbanks!” Philip stopped and half-turned his head. “Sorry isn’t good enough.” Lee’s voice was low and tight. “We’ll see you in court.”