Philip glared at me over dinner that night—baked catfish, wild rice, steamed broccoli—which we ate in the formal dining room. The room was large enough to seat all Twelve Days of Christmas. Made me feel like the lonely partridge in the pear tree. At least we were eating at the same end of the table.
“Why didn’t you override that crazy ‘wave’ idea, Gabby? For crying out loud, we’ll look like an aquarium.”
So this fiasco was my fault? “I tried, Philip. Really I did! I suggested neutrals—sandstone, with red ochre and brown accents. Mona just turned up her nose.”
“Whatever.” He attacked his fish. “Henry loves it, but it’s not going to happen. Not if my name is Philip Fairbanks. My mother would throw a conniption . . .”
Let your mother do it, then. I swallowed my smart remark and adjusted my attitude. He needed encouragement. “Look, Philip. You need a professional decorator, an impartial third party. Don’t pit Mona Fenchel and me against each other. We don’t know each other well enough to buddy-buddy over decorating your offices. I backed off because I know it’s important to you that we get along.” And besides, I had a sudden date with the toilet. But I wasn’t about to tell Philip I got seasick in his new restroom.
He brooded over his glass of chardonnay. Philip was not a drinking man, but he did love good wine with his dinner. However, I couldn’t help but snicker at the glowing description of the Italian brand he’d brought home. “The nose reveals bright pear, apricot, and fig aromas with hints of cinnamon, allspice, and vanilla.” Give me a break.
Finally he set down his glass. “Well, we’ll just have to get a professional decorator. Henry was sure you two women would get a kick out of decorating the suite together. Would have saved us some big bucks too. I should have known you weren’t up to it.”
I strangled the hot words that flared up on my tongue. So the professional decorator was his idea now? Wasn’t that what I just said? And did anyone ask me if I wanted to decorate the offices of Fairbanks and Fenchel?
Standing up abruptly, I stacked my dishes and marched into the kitchen, dumping my plate and silverware into the dish-washer without rinsing or scraping. The fancy-smancy dishwasher could clog up for all I cared. Clog up and spill soapy water all over the penthouse . . . out the door . . . down the elevator . . . flood the whole building . . .
The TV news came on in the living room. “—attacked a Tel Aviv restaurant today, killing nine people and wounding many more. The group calling itself Islamic Jihad claimed responsibility for the suicide bomber, who . . .”
I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, suddenly feeling small and selfish. What was a spat with my husband over what color to paint his new offices compared to families who’d just got-ten word that their son or daughter or husband or aunt had been blown to bits while eating out in a favorite restaurant? And what about the suicide bomber? Dead too. What would make someone do something so drastic, so utterly bloody and violent?
Glancing into the dining room, I noticed Philip’s empty dishes still sitting there . . . and for a nanosecond, I felt an urge to do a little jihad myself. Good grief ! Was it really too hard for the man to bring his own dishes to the kitchen?
How Philip talked Henry into hiring a professional decorator, he never said—and I didn’t ask. But at least I wasn’t the one who had to stand up to Mona Fenchel. Underneath all the tension of the past few weeks, I knew Philip was worried about the launch of his new business. He’d chafed at Fairbanks Brothers, Inc. back in Petersburg, frustrated when his fresh design ideas had been turned down by the conservative philosophy of his father and uncle, the “Fairbanks brothers” who’d started the commercial development company back in the late sixties. Mike Fairbanks had been twenty-nine then, was sixty-six now. His motto was, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” The commercial buildings he and Matt Fairbanks had designed and built over the last thirty-odd years had a reputation for quality, durability, and function—and they weren’t about to tinker with that formula just to stand out in the crowd with some funky design.
I knew leaving the security of a position in a stable family company was a risky leap for my husband. To his credit, he didn’t want to start a competing company in Virginia, so he chose Chicago. But that left the question of who would inherit his father’s share in the company when Mike Fairbanks retired. Philip’s two sisters were married and settled elsewhere and had no inter-est in running the business. His father had threatened to sell out when the time came, “. . . since you don’t want to help me build it up,” he’d told his only son.
“Aw, he’ll come around,” Philip had boasted to me. “Then we can merge the two companies, and do twice the business.” But after fifteen years of being married to the man, I suspected all that bluster hid a smidgen of insecurity, though he covered it up with all the fervor of a Rottweiler burying a bone.
On Tuesday, Philip went to work with no instructions for me to carry out, so I spent the day exploring the environs around Richmond Towers. Ohh, it felt good to walk. The sun was out, and the temperature hiked to a comfortable sixty-five . . . though at Mr. Bentley’s suggestion, I went back for a small umbrella “just in case.” Well, not a suggestion exactly. He just said, “Goin’ out, Mrs. Fairbanks?” while turning the pages of his newspaper as if I wasn’t standing there. “Chicago weather has a way of sneakin’ up on you.” I took the hint.
I spent the morning checking out the shops along Sheridan Road, asking if Tedino’s Pizzeria delivered, chatting up the staff of Curves—though I felt a bit dizzy by all that spandex going great guns on those exercise machines—and familiarizing myself with the local Dominick’s grocery store two blocks away, bringing home two top sirloin steaks and a movie I rented at their kiosk. Philip would like that.
After putting the steaks to marinate in some olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and minced garlic—lots of garlic—I topped off my day with a brisk walk through the pedestrian underpass to Foster Beach, took off my sneakers, and wiggled my toes in the damp sand. The soothing sound of waves lapping on the shoreline drained the last of yesterday’s tension out of my spirit. I just needed to work harder to adjust to our new life here in Chicago, I told myself. Find ways to be supportive, take care of things so Philip could give his full attention to developing the new business. And after all, P.J. and Paul would be here in six weeks. There should be lots of fun things to do in the city during the summer. We’d explore, take in the ethnic festivals, go to the beach. I was just lonely for them, that was all.
That’s what I told myself. I only wished I believed it.
I might go crazy before the boys even got here.
On the way home—my feet safely ensconced in my gym shoes this time—I passed the bush where I’d met Lucy . . . did she frequent this part of the park? I wandered up and down the jogging path both ways, but didn’t see anyone except a few mothers pushing strollers and talking on their cell phones, and an older Asian man sitting perfectly still on a bench. The yuppie joggers must all be at work this time of day.
But this was Tuesday . . . didn’t Lucy say the nurse came to Manna House on Wednesday? And that she might come to get her cough “checked out”?
I walked this time. Two miles straight down Sheridan to the north edge of Wrigleyville. Weatherman had said thunderstorms later in the day, but I could return by El if I needed to. I knew I was getting close to the shelter when I passed the Sheridan El Station, where the El crossed over the street, then passed Rick’s Café, a few other eateries, and the Wrigleyville North Bar, which was obviously a sports bar for die-hard Cubs fans.
Took me forty minutes to walk the two miles, though. Turning the corner by the Laundromat, I gratefully dragged myself up the steps of the church-turned-shelter and pulled open one of the large oak doors. Man oh man, I couldn’t wait to sit down.
“Hello again, Mrs. Fairbanks. Welcome!” Angela’s sweet voice, carrying only a slight trace of a Korean accent, met me in the cool foyer. “Everyone is downstairs. Mrs. Enriquez the nurse is here.” She laughed behind the open window of the reception cubicle and went back to her computer.
“Thanks.” I smiled. For some reason, a sense of—of what? well-being?—settled over me as I headed into the multipurpose room. Maybe it was just familiarity. After all, this was the third time I’d been here in less than a week.
Well, everyone wasn’t downstairs. A thin person, covered by a gray trench coat, was sacked out on one of the couches, a brown hand hanging limply over the side. The ponytailed woman named Carolyn and another resident with a big, loose Afro were hunched over a game of chess near the coffee carafes. I gave Carolyn a wave as I headed for the stairs, but her attention was obviously on how to slaughter her opponent with her knights and pawns.
Downstairs, the dining room resembled a Greyhound Bus Station waiting room. Fifteen or more women sat scattered around the tables, chatting or talking in a loud voice to someone across the room. Several were filling out forms, while two or three jiggled a young child on their knees. A bored-looking young black woman sat in a corner, leg crossed and swinging, filing her nails. Another, lighter-skinned, maybe Latino, tight-lipped and nervous, paced back and forth. She probably needed a cigarette.
I pulled out the closest chair, hoping to see someone I knew by name, but came up zero. A “privacy booth” had been created in one corner of the dining room with a simple room divider. Nearby, an array of medical supplies had been stacked on the closest table. A fifty-something African-American woman wearing a food worker’s hairnet sat at the end of the table, knitting something blue and bulky from a bag of yarn at her feet, her elbow resting on a clipboard.
The pacing woman was making me nervous. They needed some activities going on while people waited. Something to entertain the kids . . . a “learn to knit” group . . . a nail salon . . . a book club . . .
A woman wearing typical blue hospital scrubs came out from behind the screen, pulling on a fresh pair of latex gloves. “Who is next, Estelle?” The nurse had dark, wavy hair and a round, pleasant face. A motherly look about her.
The knitting lady peered at the clipboard. “Aida Menéndez . . . Aida? You here?”
A young girl—she looked eighteen at the most—got up and let herself be trundled behind the screen by the nurse. The two began talking a rapid stream of Spanish.
“Hey! Miz Delores! You said I was next!” The loner in the corner waved her nail file.
“Pipe down, Hannah. She said no such thing.” The woman named Estelle thumped the clipboard with a knitting needle. “I got your form right here . . . three more ahead of you.”
The bored young woman shrugged and went back to doing her nails.
“Ya gotta fill out a form if you wanna see the nurse,” a growly voice said in my ear. I jumped and turned. Rheumy blue eyes met mine.
“Lucy!” I couldn’t help grinning. “Where’d you come from?”
“Question is”—the old woman squinted at me suspiciously—“where’d you come from? Seems like you poppin’ up all over the place.” She turned her head, hacking a few jagged coughs into a faded red bandanna.
I decided to make light of it. “Came to ask if you wanted to go out for coffee. Couldn’t find you under the bush in the park, so I decided to try the next best place.”
She darted a look sideways at me, bandanna still over her mouth, and a sudden pang clamped my mouth shut. What if she thought I was making fun of her? But before I could say anything, Estelle called out, “Lucy Tucker? Lucy! Get over here, darlin’.”
Lucy shuffled off, muttering into her bandanna.
“Be sure to use the cream on that rash,” the nurse was saying to the young girl as she left the makeshift examining room. Then her attention turned to Lucy. “About time you got yourself in here, Lucy. Still got that cough, don’t you?” She shook her head and rolled her eyes behind Lucy’s back. “Obstinada.”
They disappeared behind the screen—but Lucy was anything but quiet. “All right, all right, don’t rush me! . . . Get that thing outta my mouth, I’m gonna choke . . . whatchu mean, hold my breath? A person’s gotta breathe, don’t ya know . . .”
Estelle hollered over her shoulder, “Don’t make me come in there, Lucy! You want lunch or don’tcha?” Several of the women waiting for a turn snickered.
After a while, Delores Enriquez came out alone, bent down, and talked in a low undertone to Estelle. Estelle frowned and scanned the room. “Anyone know where Miz Mabel is?”
“She’s out,” someone said. “Saw her leave a while ago.”
I made my way over to the table. “Is something wrong? Can I help?” And just how do you think you can help, Gabby Fairbanks?
The nurse straightened up. “And you are . . . ?”
I held out my hand. “Gabrielle Fairbanks. I’m, uh, a friend of Lucy’s.”
“No she ain’t!” a raspy voice hollered from behind the screen.
Estelle looked at me with a smile of recognition. “Oh, that’s right! Precious told me about you.” She turned to Delores. “This is the lady who found Lucy out in the rain, sent her here last week.”
“She cut her foot an’ I was helpin’ her!” Lucy hollered.
“Actually, that’s right,” I admitted.
Delores raised her eyebrows hopefully. “Do you have a car?”
I shook my head. “Sorry. I walked.”
The eyebrows fell. “Lucy needs to go to the clinic at Stroger Hospital. She’s running a fever, could be pneumonia or bronchi-tis. And she needs someone to go with her.” She lowered her voice. “To make sure she goes.”
“That’s all right. I’ll take her. We’ll get a cab or something.”
I had no idea what I was doing. But it couldn’t be that hard, could it? Just give the cabbie the name of the hospital, no sweat.