Where Do I Go? by Neta Jackson Page B

wouldn’t remember her name. He might never meet her. Even her check would go to the cleaning service, not to her personally.
    As Philip drove our Lexus through the wet streets, I was captivated by the way each drop on the windshield briefly captured glints of streetlights before it was swiped away. My thoughts drifted with each swipe . . . how had Camila ended up in Chicago in the first place? Had she always cleaned other people’s houses? Did she have a husband? Kids? Uncles and cousins living in the same house? That was the stereotype, anyway—
    â€œWhat’s that address again?”
    â€œWhat?—oh.” I squinted at the ticket packet. Blue Man Group. Briar Street Theater. “North Halsted . . . there, isn’t that it? Wow, I didn’t know it’d be so close.” We’d only been driving ten or fifteen minutes. Could this be near the Manna House shelter? For a moment I felt as if I’d come through a time warp. I’d spent a good part of the day at a shelter for homeless women, eating taco salad off a paper plate with a crusty old woman named Lucy . . . and now here I was, attending a popular show on Chicago’s hip north side, if the number of restaurants, good-looking folks in late-model cars trolling for parking spots, and people in evening dress, dashing about under umbrellas on a rainy Friday night, meant anything.
    Parking was terrible. Philip finally let me out in front of the theater and told me to look for the Fenchels while he parked . . . which was crazy, given the crowd inside the foyer, waiting for the doors to open. The chatter sounded like a false-teeth convention—not exactly the opera crowd, which was okay by me. Finally I spotted Henry Fenchel at the bar, flirting with the barista while she twisted the cap on a bottle of Sam Adams and handed it to him along with a glass of white wine.
    As he turned, Henry’s eye caught mine. “There you are! Philip parking the car? Say, would you like a drink? You can have this one. I don’t know where Mona disappeared to.”
    â€œRight here, darling.” Mona Fenchel seemed to appear out of nowhere and took the glass of wine. “But we can get another one.” She smiled sweetly. “Chardonnay?”
    I shook my head. A glass of wine with no food in my stomach, and I’d be loopy enough to dance on the piano if they had one. “Thanks anyway. Philip will be here shortly.” I hoped. I wasn’t sure I could handle two Fenchels by myself.
    Mona raised her glass happily. “Good thing it’s Holy Week or whatever they call it. Otherwise I don’t think we could have got-ten weekend tickets at the last minute. Thank God for keeping the Christians and Jews occupied elsewhere.” She giggled.
    It was all I could do to keep my mouth from dropping open. If God wanted to strike her dead right then, it would be all right with me. Although if I remembered my Bible stories correctly, the earth opening up or fire falling from heaven usually consumed a good many bystanders too. Forget it, God, I muttered silently. Do it when I’m not around.
    To my relief, Philip finally showed up, a bit damp. Mona looked him over and then glanced at my outfit—silk mauve blouse, contrasting fawn-colored slacks and jacket, and sling-back heels. “You’re both so dressed up,” she purred. “We should have told you to come casual.”
    For the first time I noticed that both she and Henry were wearing jeans—designer jeans, but denim nonetheless. She giggled and sipped her wine. “Sometimes the audience gets a bit splattered during the performance. But . . .” She fingered the material of my jacket. “If you get it dry-cleaned right away, any stains should come out.”
    I could feel my back arch. Get your hands off my jacket! Did it occur to you to tell us how to dress for this show? But I said nothing, slipped my hand through Philip’s arm as the doors