Who Do I Talk To? Read Free Page B

were “local calls only.”
    At the bottom of the stairs, I peeked around the corner, hoping Estelle Williams—the shelter’s weekday lunch cook—hadn’t come in yet. The fifty-something African-American woman had offered to stay overnight with my mom her first night, but when I showed up unannounced, offering the lame excuse that “Lucy and I found my mother’s dog, so I thought I’d just stay the night,” she decided to go on home.
    â€œNo sense all of us smotherin’ your mama,” she’d muttered. She didn’t ask any questions but had given me a funny look. It was hard to hide anything from Estelle. The woman could read my face like an open book.
    I heard pots banging. So much for Estelle coming in late. But her back was turned. Maybe I could just slip into the tiny office, get Dandy, and—
    â€œIf you’re lookin’ for a certain yellow dog, Gabby Fairbanks, Lucy already took him out.” Estelle’s voice stopped me before I even had my hand on the doorknob. I turned. The big-boned woman was coming around the wide counter that separated kitchen and dining room, a puffy, white hairnet perched on her head and a white apron covering one of the loose, handmade caftans she usually wore. She made a beeline for me and without ceremony gathered me into her arms. “Oh, baby. You don’t have to pretend with me. I know all about it.”
    My eyes burned hot but stayed dry. “You know? How—?” My voice was muffled against her broad bosom.
    â€œMm-mm. I was still here when Harry showed up last night with his car crammed front to back with your suitcases and boxes. I helped him shoehorn all that stuff into this lame excuse for an office.”
    Harry Bentley. Estelle’s new love. “He—he told you?”
    â€œHumph. Not Harry. But, honey, I already knew your man kicked out the dog . Already knew he gave your mama an ultimatum. Why else is Gramma Shep here? When Harry showed up with all your stuff . . . It ain’t exactly rocket science, Gabby.” The woman held me at arm’s length. “You want to talk about it, baby?”
    I shook my head. “I will, though. I promise.” Estelle meant well, but I had to get out of there! “I’ve got to find my boys. Know the closest place to get a phone card?”
    She gave me another funny look, as if adding up all the bits and pieces. Without a word, she moved to the counter, grabbed her oversize bag, rummaged in it, and pulled out her own cell phone. “Take it. Use it. No fussin’ at me either. Girl, you don’t have time to go lookin’ for someplace ’round here that sells phone cards.”
    Hunched over Estelle’s cell phone on the front steps of the shelter, I punched in my in-laws’ home phone number. I didn’t know it by heart—we’d always had their number on speed dial—but I still had juice in my defunct cell phone, thank God, and was able to access my phone book . I need to write down all the phone numbers before my battery’s totally gone , I told myself, as the phone rang in my ear.
    One ring . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . and then the answering machine picked up. “Y’all have reached Mike and Marlene Fairbanks—” I flipped the cell phone shut. No way was I going to leave a whimpering message on their answering machine.
    My spirit sagged. Were they out? Just not answering their phone? Oh God! I need to talk to my boys!
    An elevated train squealed and screeched over the trestle that crossed the street a block away. I sat on the wide front steps for several more minutes, trying to think what to do. It was a perfect Chicago day, temperatures in the seventies, sunny blue sky above . . . well, somewhere up there above the three-story apartment buildings and storefronts that rose all around me. I closed my eyes. A breeze off Chicago’s lakefront somehow found its way into the