Who Do I Lean On? by Neta Jackson Page B

that cart. “Well, okay. If you gonna be here the whole time. C’mon, Dandy.” She lumbered through the door, Dandy at her heels, but before they disappeared I heard her holler, “Hiya, Estelle! Whatchu makin’ for lunch today?”
    I shut the door, isolating my cocoon. If I got started talking to Estelle, staff meeting would be here and I wouldn’t have gotten a thing done!
    I was startled by a knock at my door. Estelle Williams poked her head in. “You comin’ to staff meeting, girl?”
    â€œWhat—? Oh, thanks, Estelle.” Where had the time gone? I’d been trying to take five or ten minutes to pray before starting my workday—how hard should that be?—but it was still a struggle not to check my e-mail first to see if there was anything urgent and plunge right back into work I’d left undone on Friday. Especially since I’d cut back to half time for the next few weeks until the boys started school. Fewer hours. Same amount of work.
    But I grabbed a pad of paper and a couple of folders and scurried up the stairs behind the shelter’s lunch cook, who was still wearing her white net cap and big white apron over wide navy blue slacks and a rumpled white blouse. “You go on, Estelle,” I huffed at the top of the stairs. “I need to check on Paul and try to catch Mabel before the meeting.”
    â€œThen, girl, you shoulda come up ten minutes ago. I’ll save you a seat.” Estelle had a mild way of scolding me, like she’d dripped honey all over a prickly pear.
    Mabel was striding across the multipurpose room, professional as always, notebook in hand, makeup perfectly blended with her creamy walnut skin, talking to Stephanie Cooper, a thirtysomething social worker with straight, straw-colored hair and wearing jeans, who worked two days a week at the shelter as a case manager. “Mabel!” I called. “Can I see you a sec? Oh wait . . .” I glanced around the multipurpose room. No kids. “Oh no! Anybody seen Paul and Sammy and Keisha?”
    â€œThey wanted to take the dog for a walk,” one of the couch-sitters offered.
    â€œNot by themselves!” I shrieked. All I got was a shrug. “Sorry, Mabel,” I called over my shoulder. “Gotta find Paul.” I dashed into the foyer, where Angela was turning over phone duty to one of the residents for the next hour. “Angela, did you see the kids go out with Dandy? Was Lucy with them?”
    â€œYeah, I saw them. Not Lucy though. But I think Hannah went with them—no, wait. It was Tanya.”
    At Hannah’s name, I was about to bolt out the door, staff meeting or no staff meeting. The wannabe cosmetician was barely twenty, and not the brightest crayon in the box. But if Tanya had gone with them, it was probably okay. Sammy’s mom was a real sweetie, one of the young women I was hoping to recruit for the House of Hope, if it ever materialized.
    But now . . . Oh no! I’d wanted to check with Mabel about bringing up the House of Hope idea at staff meeting! Could I catch her before—?
    I ran back through the multipurpose room, past the TV room and toddler playroom to the “schoolroom,” which boasted four computers, several school desks, and assorted chairs. Mabel was already praying over a circle of bowed heads crowned with Stephanie’s straw-colored hair, all varieties of black hair—straight, straightened, kinky, and salt-and-pepper—and now my mop of auburn curls as I slipped into the chair next to Estelle.
    Rats! I didn’t get a chance to ask Mabel first .
    â€œ . . . praise You, Lord, for Your hand of protection over each resident in this house. You are the Creator and Sustainer of every woman who comes through our doors, each one precious in Your sight. You are a gracious and merciful God, patient with all our shortcomings . . .”
    Mabel’s prayers still took some getting used to. I expected staff