Jodi’s eyebrows shot up when I told her about Philip wanting to talk. “You’re kidding.”
I snorted. “Would I kid about something like that?”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing! Just . . . I’d call him later. Actually can’t remember exactly what I said. It was like he’d thrown marbles under my feet and I couldn’t get my balance! I mean, he barely returns my calls when we have to make a decision about the boys—and now he wants to talk? Doesn’t that just rot your socks?”
Jodi giggled. “Now you sound like Lucy.” Then she sobered up. “He actually said he wanted to talk about you two? Not the boys?”
I made a face. “Huh. Even talking about the boys would have been a big deal. We haven’t had an actual conversation since—” I felt color rise into my face. Not since the disastrous day I’d ignored everybody’s advice and confronted Philip in his office about kicking me out of the penthouse. But he’d whittled me down good, made me feel like he’d done me a favor kicking me out and putting me on the street where I belonged. “Anyway,” I finished lamely, “he said not just the boys, but about us.”
“Whew.” Jodi blew out a long breath, staring into her Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Wonder what he’ll say when you talk to him.”
If I talk to him.” “
Her head jerked up. “Gabby! What do you mean, if ? What if your husband wants to—”
“Ex-husband.” My voice was as cold as the coffee. I tossed the remains of my cup into the closest potted plant.
A long silence sat between us. I studied my nails. Badly in need of a manicure. I should go back to Adele’s Hair and Nails and give Hannah the nail girl some business. Especially if I was going to talk to Philip for longer than two minutes. He’d notice if I had ragged nails.
Finally Jodi spoke, her voice soft. “Gabby. I know you’ve been through a lot . . . no, I take that back. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but it sounds awful from what you’ve told me. But what if Philip wants to talk about getting back together? Maybe he’s willing to work on the relationship. Isn’t that what you want?”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Don’t know what I want. I guess, in one way, yeah. I’d like us to be a family again, especially for the boys’ sake. But . . .” I didn’t want to say it, but Jodi—whose own husband adored her—couldn’t possibly understand the stress I felt just being around Philip, who knew all the right buttons to push to reduce me to pulp. Talk? Did we even know how? I shrugged. “He probably just wants to talk about getting a divorce. Probably wants to talk me into a ‘no-fault’ or something, no alimony or child support. Might as well just let our lawyers talk.”
“Oh, Gabby.” Jodi laid a hand gently on mine. “There’s only one way to find out. And that’s to talk to him. That’s all I’m saying. Just talk. But I’m not in your shoes. You’re the one who has to decide, and it’s got to be hard. Do you want to pray about it?”
I jerked my hand away and stood up. “No. Not now. I—I’m sorry, Jodi. I need to get the boys home.” Which was a pathetic lie, but I was close to tears and wanted to get out of there. I didn’t want to pray about it! Didn’t want Jodi or God or anyone else to tell me I “should” talk to Philip.
I was miserable as I drove home from SouledOut. How could I treat my friend like that? Jodi Baxter, of all people! Hadn’t she listened patiently to me spilling my guts the past month and a half about the breakup of my marriage? Hadn’t I asked her to be my prayer partner? So why had I gotten all riled up when she wanted to pray with me about this latest wrinkle?
The boys—bored as usual on a Sunday afternoon—wanted to do something. Me, I just wanted to pull the blinds, turn on the fan, and take a long nap. “Look, Mom.” P.J. shoved The Chicago Guide to Summer Festivals in my face. It listed a Greek festival going on that weekend in the Lincoln Square neighborhood. “They’ve got souvlaki or whatever you call it and a bunch of other neat Greek foods. And live music and dancing and lots of stuff. It’s not that far. See?” P.J. spread a Chicago city map out on our makeshift dining room table and found the Lincoln Square neighborhood north of us where the Greek Orthodox Church hosting the festival was located.
I gave the map a cursory glance. “I don’t know, guys. Parking could be a nightmare.” Lame excuse. But I let it hang there, hoping it might carry the day and I could crawl into my cocoon.
P.J. snatched up the brochure and the map and stomped out of the room. “Fine,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Paul and I can go by ourselves if you don’t want to. I can figure out how to get there by bus.”
That did it. They probably could get there by themselves—I saw lots of teenagers using the El and buses to get around town. But I knew if P.J. and Paul were out and about, navigating a still-strange city by themselves, I could forget a nap even if I stayed home in the bed with the covers over my head. I sighed and picked up my purse. “Okay, okay! You guys win. Let’s go.”
As it turned out, I said to Estelle the next day, leaning over the kitchen counter at Manna House, the Greek Festival was noisy and fun and took my mind off stewing about Philip. “I even got talked into trying one of the traditional line dances by a fifty-something Greek gentleman with dark twinkly eyes.” I giggled. “Much to the embarrassment of my sons.” I held out my arms to the side shoulder-high and did a few steps with a line of imaginary partners. “Dum de dum de dum . . . Opa! ”
“Uh-huh.” Estelle poured two cups of fresh coffee, added cream to one, and passed it over the kitchen counter. “You gotta watch out for those fifty-something Romeos who can dance your feet off. Next thing you know they gonna be down on their knee promising undying love.”
I stopped dancing. “Estelle! Did Harry Bentley ask you—?”
She cut me off with a look. “Now, don’t you go readin’ more into that than just good advice, girl! I’m just sayin’.” She snatched up the required hairnet to cover her topknot and took a tray of hamburger patties out of the freezer to thaw.
I hid a grin. It was definitely true that Estelle had been swept off her feet by Mr. Harry Bentley dancing the Mashed Potato at Manna House’s first-ever Fun Night. But something else niggled at my brain . . .
“Um, speaking of Harry, I missed you guys at church yesterday. Jodi said something about you needing to check up on your son.” I stirred some more powdered creamer into my coffee, trying to be casual. “I didn’t realize you had a son. Is everything okay?”
For a few moments, Estelle busied herself banging trays around and pulling condiments out of the refrigerator. Then she sighed and came back to her coffee. “Oh, he’s grown. Usually takes care of himself. But he’s . . . where’s that sugar?” She dumped twice as much sugar into her coffee as she normally used.
“What’s his name?” I prompted.
“Leroy. After his daddy. But his daddy left when the doctors diagnosed the boy as schizophrenic and bipolar.” She reached for the sugar again, but I grabbed her hand. “Oh, right,” she said. “Already did that.” Estelle’s chest rose and fell as she heaved a big sigh.
“So . . . is he okay?”
She shrugged. “As long as he takes his meds. But he’s on disability and can’t work. So he has too much time on his hands. Sometimes he gets rebellious, doesn’t take his meds, and then . . . well.” She wagged her head. “Just help me pray for Leroy, Gabby.”
I wasn’t going to let her off that easily. “And yesterday?”
She gave me a look. “You sure are nosy this morning.”
“Ha. Got a right to be. You know all my business, but turns out there’s a whole lot about Estelle Williams I don’t know. Like why you ended up here at Manna House in the first place.”
“Sometimes,” she murmured, “you just gotta keep goin’ forward, not lookin’ back . . .”
My own eyes caught the wall clock behind her head. “Rats! It’s ten already. Staff meeting!” I grabbed my coffee and headed for the stairs. “You coming?”
Unlike the Manna House board meeting, where the pastors and businesspeople sat in a neat circle of chairs, the staff—both paid and volunteer—were sitting helter-skelter on any available surface in the schoolroom. I squeezed into a school desk. Josh Baxter jumped up and offered his chair to Estelle and leaned against the computer table. I saw him wink at Edesa across the room.
Huh. Newlyweds.
Attendance at the Monday staff meeting usually fluctuated, depending on who was around that day. Today the room was surprisingly full—even Sarge, the blustery night manager who usually left when Mabel arrived, had stayed. When I raised my eyebrows at her, she threw up her hands. “Got to put in my two bits about the name for the multipurpose room, no?”
Naming the multipurpose room! I’d forgotten that was coming up today.
“Which is first on the agenda today,” Mabel said. “Everybody here?” She offered an opening prayer, surprisingly short for Mabel, and got down to business. “As you all know from last week, several people have suggested we name the multipurpose room in memory of Martha Shepherd, known to most of our residents as ‘Gramma Shep.’”
Chuckles and nods skipped around the room.
“Do I take that as agreement for naming the room in memory of Gabby’s mother?” Mabel asked.
This time there was a chorus of “Aye!” and “Yes!” Precious, there as a volunteer, piped up, “Better be, or we gonna have a mutiny on our hands among the residents.” Everyone laughed.
“All right. Suggestions for the actual name?”
Ideas flew. Everyone liked the idea of including my mom’s last name—Shepherd—in the name, because of its double meaning of Jesus being the Good Shepherd. But then the discussion got sticky. The Martha Shepherd Room? Too formal. “What about Shepherd’s Crook?” Precious said. “Ain’t that the stick thing the Good Shepherd carries, ya know, with that hook thing on the end?”
Estelle wagged her head. “Uh-uh. You know whatever name we come up with, it’s gonna get shortened to something. You want us to be calling that room ‘The Crook’?”
That got a laugh.
“Could call it The Crook an’ Cranny,” Sarged quipped. “That’s how we shoehorn people in here, into every crook and cranny!”
“That’s ‘Nook and Cranny,’ Sarge,” someone snickered, amid general laughter.
Shepherd’s Nook? Some people liked that one. “It sounds cozy,” Angela Kwon said, twirling a lock of straight black hair around a finger. Others protested that “Nook” didn’t have any connection to “Shepherd.”
“What about Shepherd’s Fold, then?” Edesa Baxter suggested. “Mi tío—my uncle—in Honduras raises sheep. That is what he calls the sheds where he pens the sheep safely for the night. Kind of like a shelter.”
I liked that. A shelter for the sheep. So did several others— though “The Fold” for short didn’t have the snappy ring to it that “The Nook” did.
A few other suggestions were made, but we kept coming back to Shepherd’s Fold. Josh raised his hand. “We could have a little plaque on the wall that says, ‘Shepherd’s Fold . . . In Memory of Martha Shepherd’ or something.”
Heads nodded. Mabel said, “Everyone agreed?”
“Bueno! Bueno!” Sarge gloated. “Though could somebody get me one of those shepherd’s crooks to use on the pesky stragglers that keep comin’ in at ten past eight every night. Capiche?”
The room broke into laughter. But my eyes misted as Mabel prayed a prayer of blessing on the new name for the multipurpose room. I couldn’t wait to tell Aunt Mercy and my sisters. I hoped my sisters would be pleased. I knew my mother would be.
Mabel stood after her “Amen.” “I hope you all don’t mind cutting staff meeting short today. I have a dentist appointment.” She made a face and pointed to her cheek. “Cracked my tooth yesterday eating caramel corn with Jermaine.”
“Works for me.” I wiggled my way out of the tight school desk. “I have to go pick up P.J. at Lane Tech. But this is the next-to-last time, I promise! School starts in two weeks!”
I managed to get out the door right on the heels of Mabel and Estelle just before traffic snarled behind me as everyone tried to scoot out the schoolroom door at the same time. But that’s how I overheard Mabel murmur to Estelle, “Is Leroy all right? Did the fire damage your house too much?”