The next thing we heard, the irate tenant from 2A was yelling at Josh that it was none of his blankety-blank business. That’s when the rest of us stuck our noses in his business. As we piled into the hall, I leaned over the railing and saw P.J., Paul, Sabrina, and Sammy craning their necks from below, listening to the whole mess.
Okay, that’s IT!
I don’t know if it was me reminding the young man—he had Mediterranean good looks, olive skin, dark hair and eyes, maybe Italian?—that I was the owner of the building, that I lived on the premises, and I was ready to call the police if he and his “woman” didn’t quit disturbing the peace, or whether it was being surrounded by the whole motley crew of us from 3A, 1A, and 1B, but the young man suddenly swore, thundered down the stairs, and disappeared out the front door.
Peace settled on the stairwell like pixie dust. We all looked at one another. The kids started to snicker from below.
“You hush!” Precious hissed over the banister. “That young man don’t need us to laugh at him. He needs some serious prayer. Her too.” She jerked a thumb at the door of 2A.
“Sí,” Edesa agreed. “Right now.” And she sat down on the stairs, motioning the rest of us to gather around. To my astonishment, she closed her eyes and began to pour out a prayer on behalf of the couple in 2A. I noticed that the door across the hall to apartment 2B opened a crack, then quietly shut again.
On Wednesday the clouds finally unloaded and the wind off the lake spun the rain around like tiny whiplashes, so I gave both boys and Sammy a ride to school, though I felt awkward not offering a ride to Sabrina, whose high school was in a different direction. I learned later she took one look at the weather and stayed home.
I half expected to see Lucy and Dandy when I finally blew into Manna House at nine, shaking rain off my umbrella. But when I signed in, Angela said she hadn’t seen her. However, more residents than usual seemed to be hanging around Shepherd’s Fold this morning, talking, playing cards, or just sitting. Even the TV room was crowded. The weather had put a damper on making the effort to show up at the employment office, social security, or public aid—at least until the rain stopped. So where was Lucy? Funny how I seemed to worry more about her in weather like this now that she had my mother’s dog than I did before.
Delores Enriquez and Estelle Williams were already setting up the portable nursing station in the dining room as I walked through to my office. Still hadn’t found out what happened last Sunday when Harry Bentley went to the police station after Matty Fagan’s arrest, but Estelle was busy taking names to see the nurse and setting out skeins of yarn on one of the tables for her knitting club, so I’d have to catch her later.
Somehow the dampness had chilled me to the bone, and I had a hard time staying warm in my office. After several futile phone calls trying to find a retreat center within a couple hours drive of Chicago where I could take some of the residents for a Fall Getaway, I headed for the kitchen to make some hot tea with lemon—hoping to ward off a cold—and ran into Estelle spooning sugar into her coffee. Although with Estelle, it was more like adding coffee to her sugar.
“Hey, Estelle.” I turned on the gas under the teakettle. “You know of any retreat centers or cabins on a lake somewhere close, maybe even southern Wisconsin, where I could take some of the ladies for a little getaway this fall? You know, see the fall colors, enjoy nature, stuff like that.”
Estelle raised an eyebrow. “Your latest brain child?”
“Well, sure. People do that all the time in Virginia to see the leaves turning color. Why not here?”
“Uh-huh. Good luck.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of folks who grow up in the city ain’t that comfortable gettin’ too close to nature.”
“But maybe that’s just because they don’t have the opportunity! That’s part of my job as program director, don’t you think? To give our residents life skills and new opportunities?”
Estelle chuckled. “Well, like I said, good luck! Especially if you get wet weather like this.”
I was not going to let Estelle rain on my idea. “Then we’ll just cozy up to a roaring fire in a big stone fireplace and play charades or something. It’ll still be fun.” The teakettle whistled so I poured boiling water over a tea bag and scrounged in the big industrial-size refrigerator for a bottle of lemon juice. “Hey, got two more things I want to ask you. Got a minute?”
Estelle glanced over the counter at the three women laboring over their knitting needles while waiting for the nurse. “If you mean ‘a minute’ like sixty seconds.”
I’d think she was just being feisty, except she seemed to be wearing a perpetual grin this morning. What was up with her?
But if she was only going to give me sixty seconds . . . “Can you and Harry come to a house blessing at the House of Hope this Saturday? You know, pray over it, like an official dedication. DaShawn’s welcome, too, for that matter. And second—”
“A house blessing?” Her eyes lit up. “Is that like a party, except to bless the building and the people? Who else you invitin’?”
“Well, I’m not sure who all. Manna House staff for sure, hopefully someone from the board, and folks like you and Harry and the Baxters who’ve been supporting this idea. It’s going to be a potluck, too, so can you bring a dish?”
Now Estelle was chuckling again, almost to herself. “Uh-huh, that’s it. That’s the perfect time, all the right people . . .” She looked at me almost as an afterthought. “Yep, yep, we’ll be there. I’ll bring some food too. Uh-huh, couldn’t be better . . . okay, okay, I see ya wavin’ at me, Bertie! I’m comin’.” And Estelle scooted out of the kitchen with her coffee cup toward the table of knitters.
Rats. Didn’t get to ask her what happened last Sunday! Maybe I should just give Mr. B a call and ask him.
When I got home from work, I called Philip and said the boys would like to visit him that evening if he wasn’t too tired. “Tired? Why would I be tired? Just sitting here when I should be working.” He sounded frustrated. “Sure, sure, bring the boys. I’ll be glad to see them. Just an hour, though, okay?”
I’d boiled a chicken the night before, so I made a pot of chicken noodle soup for the boys and at the last minute packed up the leftover soup to take to Philip. I pushed aside the incongruity of taking chicken soup to my estranged husband. It couldn’t be easy cooking for himself with one arm in a cast. I’d do the same thing for Mr. B or anyone else who was laid up, wouldn’t I? It didn’t have to mean anything.
The rain had let up and the last few rays of sunset poked through the patchy clouds. The boys and I showed up at the penthouse shortly after seven and had a moment of déjà vu when Will Nissan opened the door, wearing the same faded jeans, gym shoes, and baseball cap as if he hadn’t taken them off since the last time we saw him. “Hey, Mrs. Fairbanks. Mr. Philip said you guys were coming over. How ya doin’, P.J.? Hey, Paul.” The young man grinned as if genuinely glad to see us.
Couldn’t say the feeling was mutual. Will had been here the last time my sons had come to see their dad. Couldn’t they spend some time with their father without having to share him with some eager-beaver college kid who was probably just using Philip to get an internship or something? And I noticed it was “Mr. Philip” now instead of “Mr. Fairbanks.”
But Paul, ever Mr. Friendly, gave the young man a high five and said, “Hey, Will! Find your missing aunt yet?” Even P.J. nodded a greeting before heading for the living room.
“Haven’t been looking!” Will called after them. “Pretty much a lost cause, I think,” he muttered to me under his breath. But he must have picked up on my reticence. “Sorry if I’m intruding. I was in the neighborhood to see Nana, she’s still in the hospital, and thought I’d drop by to see how Mr. Philip was doing, see if he wanted to play cards or something. But, uh, since you guys are here . . .”
He left his comment hanging, as if waiting for me to give him a thumbs-up or thumbs-down. That’s right. Make me the bad guy. On the other hand—why was I worried about him being here, anyway? The boys didn’t seem to mind. Might even help Philip and me avoid any awkward conversations. Let Philip make the call if he wanted to spend time alone with the boys.
Which is what I said to Will. “Philip might want to spend some time with the boys—but that’s up to him.” I smiled sweetly. “Would you tell him I’m heating up some chicken noodle soup? How about you, would you like some?”
“Oh, man! Is it homemade? Sure, if you’ve got enough.” He grinned self-consciously. “Tell you the truth, my Nana is a great lady, but her culinary expertise extends to meatloaf and Stouffer’s frozen lasagna. Anyway, I’ll tell him.” He headed for the living room at a trot.
The kitchen was a mess. Dishes in the sink. Peanut butter jar open on the counter, knife stuck in it. Half-eaten frozen food entrees in the fridge—uncovered. What was the matter with Philip? He was normally so fastidious. Was it that hard to do things one-handed?
After starting the soup reheating on the stove, I tried to tear off some plastic wrap from the box in the drawer and stretch it over some of the leftovers in the fridge—and decided that, yes, the job needed two hands.
Oh Lord, I groaned, half thought, half prayer. How’s he going to manage for the next six weeks? I can’t be over here mothering him every day.
By the time I’d washed the dishes in the sink and cleared off the counter, the soup was steaming. I served up two big bowls, found some crackers, and carried them out to the living room on a tray, where Will, P.J., and Paul were sitting on the floor beside Philip’s recliner playing Uno, snickering because P.J. had played a Draw Four card on his dad.
“Ah, saved by the soup!” Philip said, giving up his cards as I set a soup bowl on the wooden TV tray by his chair. “Smells good, Gabby. Thanks.”
Will and the boys scooted over to the floor near the glass-topped coffee table so Will could eat his soup and keep playing.
I pulled the hassock near Philip’s recliner. “What happened with the CAT scan?” It was the first time I’d taken a good look at my husband since we’d arrived, and I realized the bruises around his nose and eyes were starting to fade and a dark shadow covered his head. New hair.
“Had an appointment today, took a cab over to Weiss Memorial.” He leaned forward to spoon the hot soup into his mouth, dribbling some on the arm of the leather recliner. Frustrated, he dropped his spoon and swiped at the spill with a paper napkin. “Doc has to read it, I guess. Maybe he’ll call tomorrow. But the pain is better—except for my ribs. Supposed to take deep breaths with that thing”—Philip pointed to the plastic spirometer they’d given him in the hospital—“but the ribs . . . uh-uh.”
I retrieved the spoon. “And the meeting with the county board yesterday? You didn’t try to go, I hope.” I knew I was pushing it, asking questions that were none of my business. But, hey, bringing the soup should give me some leverage for snooping.
“Said I’d be there, so you bet I showed up. If Henry thinks he’s getting rid of me, he’s got another think coming.” Philip managed a couple of spoonfuls of soup without spilling, then muttered, almost to himself, “But probably a mistake. I was a distraction, looking like this. Did everybody a favor by leaving early.”
He leaned back in the recliner, the soup only half gone. After a long minute he spoke again. “Henry called later. Said he salvaged the deal, no thanks to me. Told me to keep my butt at home.”
“I’m sorry, Philip.” I was too. Seemed like Henry Fenchel was kicking Philip while he was down. Though I had to admit his partner had good reason to be upset, the way Philip had been “playing loose” with the accounts.
“Ha! I win!” Will laughed. The card players broke up. “The soup’s good, Mrs. Fairbanks. Thanks.” The young man turned his full attention to the bowl on the coffee table while P.J. put the cards away and Paul wandered over to the bank of curved, floor-to-ceiling glass windows along the outside wall. No one had pulled the drapes, so the ribbon of lights along Lake Shore Drive splayed out below, like a rippling border on the edge of Lake Michigan, which lay beyond the lights like a thick, dark blanket.
“Hey, Mom, come here!” Paul called. “I think I see Lucy and Dandy in the park.”
I joined my youngest at the window, trying not to give in to the queasy feeling in my stomach as I looked downward where he pointed. The narrow park below, which lay between Richmond Towers and Lake Shore Drive, was lit by sporadic streetlights along its jogging paths, as well as the lights falling from the luxury buildings and the bright lights from the Drive. Still, the distance from the high-rise along with the shadows from trees and bushes made it difficult to identify the half-dozen people walking the paths, a few with dogs. But one lone figure sat on a bench across from Richmond Towers. Couldn’t make out the person’s features from above, but the wire cart parked at the end of the bench and the light-colored dog cavorting nearby gave her away.
I gave Paul a squeeze. “Think you’re right.”
“Who’s Lucy and Dandy?” Will had joined us at the window.
“Homeless ol’ bag lady,” P.J. snorted from the couch. “She spies on us.”
“Dandy’s my grandma’s dog,” Paul added. “Or was.”
“A friend of mine,” I murmured.
“Yeah! She’s the one who found my dad when he got beat up.”
Oversharing, Paul.
Will laughed. “Whoa. Sounds like a story there. I’d like to meet her.”
But when we looked again, the bench was empty.