Who Is My Shelter? by Neta Jackson

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.
    â€œSaid 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.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œHa! 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.
    â€œHey, 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.”
    â€œWho’s Lucy and Dandy?” Will had joined us at the window.
    â€œHomeless ol’ bag lady,” P.J. snorted from the couch. “She spies on us.”
    â€œDandy’s my grandma’s dog,” Paul added. “Or was.”
    â€œA friend of mine,” I murmured.
    â€œYeah! 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.

chapter 10

    The topic of Lucy had always been a bone-in-the-craw as far as Philip was concerned. Glancing uneasily toward the recliner, I saw he was dozing. “Maybe another time, Will. I think we better go. Come on, boys. Philip? Philip, we’re leaving.”
    Philip shook himself awake and, to my surprise, asked if the boys could sleep over this Friday night as usual, though I’d have to bring them. “If they get too bored, I’ll send them home in a taxi,” he said.
    P.J. looked at me. “Uh, I dunno, Dad. I’ve still got cross country meets. City championships are this Saturday, and regionals the following week. After that”—he shrugged—“depends on whether we qualify