Where Do I Go? by Neta Jackson Page B

Philip would never stand for it. And he’d probably be right. You didn’t just take homeless people off the street into your home. The police, the mayor—and surely Mr. Bentley!—would all say it wasn’t wise. What did I know about this woman, anyway?
    It had started raining while we’d been in the clinic. “You’d think we moved to Seattle,” I muttered, holding my umbrella for Lucy as the taxi finally pulled up. I gave the driver the address of Manna House. I didn’t know if they could put up someone who was sick. Lucy really needed a private room. But where else were we going to go?
    The swish-squeak, swish-squeak of the windshield wipers and Lucy’s sporadic coughs were the only sounds inside the cab for the next ten minutes, lulling me into a kind of stupor, so I was startled when Lucy poked me with her elbow. “How come you ain’t praying for me ’bout this bronchitis? Ain’t that what the Bible says to do when someone’s sick?”
    â€œUh, sure, Lucy. I’ve been praying for you.” That was a lie, but maybe I could send up a prayer now and make it retroactive.
    Lucy turned her head toward the other window. “Huh. Ain’t what I meant.”
    Good grief, what did she want me to do, pray out loud right here in the cab? The driver would think we were nuts!
    Silence reigned until the taxi pulled up in front of Manna House. I asked the cabbie to wait and tried to hustle Lucy into the doors of the shelter, though Lucy wasn’t hustling. To my relief, Mabel Turner’s office door was open, and she was talking to Estelle, the knitting woman. Estelle’s hairnet was gone, revealing loose, kinky hair with streaks of silver, caught into a knot on the top of her head.
    â€œOh, thank goodness you’re back.” Mabel came quickly into the foyer. “Delores Enriquez said you’d taken Lucy to the clinic, but she didn’t get your cell number, so we couldn’t call.” She turned to Lucy. “What’s going on?”
    â€œI’m hungry, that’s what,” Lucy snapped, but the coughs took over.
    â€œCome on.” Estelle took her arm. “They’re serving supper downstairs. Meat loaf and baked potatoes tonight. How’s that sound, Your Highness? You hungry too, Mrs.—? Sorry, I forgot the name.”
    â€œJust Gabby is fine. Thanks anyway, but I need to get home and the cab is waiting.”
    Estelle shrugged and followed Lucy, who was heading for the lower floor. “Hey, Aida. How ya doin’?” Estelle called out to the young Latino girl curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs. I’d seen her earlier in the shelter’s makeshift clinic. The girl glanced at Estelle with dull eyes, but said nothing.
    I wanted to ask about her—she seemed way too young to be out on the street, or even here in the shelter—but Mabel was looking at me expectantly. “So . . . ?”
    â€œNurse said bronchitis. No medication, but she’s supposed to drink plenty of water. They said hot showers and a vaporizer would help.”
    Mabel frowned. “She needs a separate room. Hm. Can’t do that here right now. But maybe . . .” She turned back into her office, got on the phone, talked a little while, then came back out into the foyer, smiling. “The Baxters will take her for a few days. He’s driving down to get her and Estelle.”
    I was confused. “Josh and Edesa Baxter? He said they lived in a tiny studio. How do they have room for—”
    â€œNo, no, not Josh.” Mabel laughed. “His parents , Denny and Jodi Baxter. They were here Sunday night. You met them, I think. Josh told me on the sly to call them if I ever needed temporary space. With Josh married and his sister at college, they have a couple of empty bedrooms right now.”
    â€œWow. That’s generous.”
    Mabel laughed. “Well, Josh said his mom might not officially