Nine Nights on the Windy Tree

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Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 15

by Martha Miller


  “You never heard from her?”

  Bertha took a deep breath. “When I was growing up, I used to fantasize that she’d come and take me away. She was always rich and beautiful in my daydreams. But, no, she never even sent me a birthday card.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was a long time ago. My father died two, maybe three years after my mother left. Grandma gave me a good home. Probably better than either of my parents could.”

  “He drank himself to death?”

  Bertha nodded. “You might as well know that in addition to bad hair, alcoholism also runs in the family. I cleaned up eighteen months ago. I go to meetings. Work a program.”

  “Boy. You have a lot of most important things in your life.”

  Bertha shrugged. “Most people in their thirties are carrying some baggage. I can’t relate to people who have perfect childhoods, perfect marriages or relationships, perfect weight and hair. It’s not in my experience.”

  “Sometimes folks only appear to have perfect lives.”

  “Maybe,” Bertha reluctantly admitted.

  Toni moved slightly and snuggled against Bertha.

  The room was cool, and Bertha found the smaller woman’s soft body heated her side. She wondered what time it was and wished she could stay in bed all day, take a nap, and do it all again. She could hear Jerome’s video game upstairs going over the usual notes. She laid her head back and savored the moment.

  Toni whispered, “I’ve got to go.”

  “I know.”

  Toni gently untangled herself and sat up. “I’ll see you Friday night for dinner?”

  “Yes.” Bertha rolled to put her feet on the floor. “But that seems like a long time away.”

  Toni turned and smiled at her. “I’ll call you tonight, before work.”

  “Right,” Bertha said.

  Toni sat naked on the end of the bed, pulling on her black uniform socks. Bertha was looking for her cleanest pair of jeans when the doorbell rang.

  Toni said, “You’re having a busy morning, Counselor.”

  Bertha quickly slipped into her oversized T‑shirt and headed for the living room barefoot.

  Alvin stood on the front porch with a paper bag in his hand motioned for her to open up. He didn’t wait for an invitation but stepped into the living room and started talking. “What the hell happened to your back door?”

  “My apartment got broke into.” Bertha started to explain, but he cut her off.

  “God, it doesn’t matter which end of town you’re on. Hey, did you go back to bed after we talked?”

  “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “Have you got the information on the wage assignment? I have the disks right here. I can set them up on your computer pretty quickly—” He stared toward the bedroom door.

  Bertha turned. Toni Matulis was there, fastening her uniform pants. She didn’t have her shoes on and her hair was pretty messed up.

  “Alvin,” Bertha said, “this is Officer Toni Matulis.”

  Toni extended her hand, and Alvin took it. They shook and then stood there awkwardly.

  Finally Alvin said, “Maybe I should have called first.”

  Toni said, “I was just leaving.”

  Alvin’s complexion reddened. “Oh no,” he said. “Not on my account.”

  “She has a babysitter,” Bertha offered.

  Alvin turned to Bertha, trying to suppress a smile. “Mind if I go ahead and load this form for you? You do still have a computer, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I have a computer?”

  “The break-in. What did they get?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Alvin. “What’s the point of breaking in, if it wasn’t burglary?”

  “It’s a long story. Load the program, and I’ll call Mrs. Reed. I’ll explain it all while we work on the document.”

  Alvin turned to Toni, who was running a pocket comb through her lush red hair. “It’s nice to meet you, Officer Matulis.”

  Toni had a hairpin between lips. She nodded and muttered “Same here,” without removing it.

  Alvin switched the computer on, and Bertha motioned Toni back into the bedroom, where she gathered her into her arms and they kissed.

  Bertha felt awkward about dressing in front of Toni. She scolded herself for it but was glad when Toni had her shoes on and kissed her good‑bye. Bertha pulled on a pair of shorts that barely came below the oversized T‑shirt. She reset her ball cap and went back into the living room.

  “So,” Alvin said, turning and meeting her eyes. “Tell me about your break-in.”

  Bertha straightened up. “I have a lot to tell you.”

  “Obviously.”

  “You want some coffee?” Bertha was already heading for the kitchen.

  “You got coffee made?”

  Bertha stopped. “I can heat it up.”

  “You’re offering me heated-up coffee?”

  “And rolls.”

  “Sounds good,” Alvin called. “By the way, Mrs. Reed got the service this morning. She sounded very upset. I had the beeper, so they got me. I figured the sooner you had this file the better. That’s why I came over.”

  *

  Mrs. Reed picked up the phone. When Bertha identified herself, she said, “I’ve been trying to call your office all morning. I never can get ahold of court-appointed lawyers.”

  Bertha knew that was probably true. She wasn’t as busy or as condescending as most of them, and she usually tried to do better. She apologized and explained what little she could about access to her office.

  “I talked to the woman at your service hours ago,” said Mrs. Reed. “Have they called you?”

  “I haven’t forgotten about you. I have my secretary putting the program on my home computer as we speak. We’ll be able to have the wage assignment ready and make our court time if you have the details ready.”

  Mrs. Reed sounded calmer. She read the list slowly while Bertha jotted it down. Jimmy had been treated for depression, including one hospitalization. The medical bills and the child support his father was in arrears totaled a little more than six thousand dollars. In addition, Mr. Reed’s income was twice that of hers.

  Bertha told Mrs. Reed to meet her outside the courtroom in an hour. She handed the list to Alvin and asked him to fill in the blanks while she got dressed. They talked, shouting from room to room.

  Searching under her bed for her dress shoes, Bertha noticed the crowbar she’d carried in from the Jeep. One shoe was next to it—the other under it. She said, “I don’t understand why the service doesn’t just call me. I’ve been here. I have call waiting.”

  “I know,” Alvin shouted. “I was on the way home. I called them from a gas station, and the woman there told me Mrs. Reed was pretty upset. I just turned the car this direction. I worry about you, you know.”

  Bertha stood in the arched doorway holding one black shoe. “With all the crap happening the last few days, I worry about me.”

  “Tell me about the break-in,” Alvin said.

  “Keep working. I have to get dressed.”

  Bertha rushed around the bedroom gathering her dress clothes. She wished she had the simple outfit that hung in the office. She checked the skirt she’d worn home Friday night. It needed to be dry cleaned, but she thought she could get one more hour out of it. She grabbed a new package of panty hose and sat down on the unmade bed to pull them on. Then she looked at the pillows and thought for a moment about Toni.

  In the bathroom, washing the scent of Toni off her face and hands, and patting her unruly hair in place, Bertha admonished her smiling reflection. “What the hell are you doing? She’s white. She has a child. You might have to face her in court someday.”

  *

  While the file printed out for the second time, Bertha sat with Alvin and brought him up to date on the events of the weekend. Up to this morning anyway. She didn’t know what to say about Toni Matulis.

 
“So, the woman who came to your office Friday was Joe Morescki’s secretary. Not his wife,” Alvin said when she finished.

  “That’s what she told me.”

  “Some big pieces are missing here.”

  “I don’t know why I let her walk past that policeman.”

  “You’re a sap, that’s why.”

  “There’s just too much happening at once. I don’t know which way to turn.”

  Alvin smiled. “Seems like a perfect time to start a new relationship.”

  “It’s not a relationship.”

  “Pardon me.” Alvin drew the words out.

  “I’m not sure what it is.”

  “Oh. Those are the best kind.”

  Bertha flushed; the tips of her ears felt hot. She thought the redness must look nice against the blond hair, with the dark roots.

  The printer had stopped. “Is that finished?” she asked.

  “It is. But before you go, I need to tell you what I found out at City Contracts.”

  Bertha tapped her foot impatiently.

  Alvin held up his hand. “Give me a minute. This might be important.”

  “Sorry.” Bertha sat as still as she could.

  “I have copies of several contracts. All of them went to one of the Moresckis. I mean all of them.”

  Bertha nodded. “Sounds like Joe Morescki is an alderman’s cliché.”

  “You remember Cal Mossman?”

  Bertha’s mouth dropped open. She sat completely still. Of course she remembered Cal. He’d been one of the big connections in her drug-using days. He ran a crack house and paid the law to keep the heat off. A real dangerous guy. But he’d always been fond of Bertha. The attraction was the state’s attorney’s office. He had more than one connection there. Bertha thought she might still owe him some money. Toward the end he’d let her lose track of those things.

  “What about him?”

  “His brother Mark worked for the old man. He got Cal on there. Put one or two contracts in his name.”

  “What the hell would a drug king want with a city-development contract?”

  “Who knows? Bob told me that there was a big blowup recently. Mark was fired and Cal left on his own. Morescki bought both of them out.”

  “Which Morescki?”

  “The old man.”

  “If I know those two, he had to offer them a good deal.”

  “Maybe he made an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

  “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. We might be able to prove double-dipping on the city council, but that’s all I see.”

  Alvin nodded slowly, then asked, “You think Cal would talk to you?”

  Bertha felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

  “You knew him pretty well. Right?”

  She nodded.

  “You might be able to get to the bottom of things if you could talk to him.”

  “Let me think about it,” Bertha said reluctantly.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The crowded elevator opened on the tenth floor of the county building at 12:55. A very red-faced Pat Reed met Bertha as she got off.

  “This is going to be fine,” Bertha tried to assure her.

  “Why does your office have to be out of commission on my case?” Mrs. Reed demanded.

  Bertha let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry.”

  Mrs. Reed recovered quickly. “This must be a real mess for you, the murders and all.”

  Bertha nodded and looked around the crowded hallway. Harriet Tinker, the juvenile bailiff, was motioning. “Excuse me a moment,” she said as she hurried after the short, bow‑legged light-skinned black woman.

  “Wallace wants to do this in chambers,” Harriet whispered. “Where the hell you been?”

  “My office—”

  Harriet held up one hand to silence her. “You got it ready? Your client here?”

  Bertha patted her briefcase. “Mrs. Reed is over there.”

  “Good. Room Nine.”

  Bertha said “Thanks” to Harriet’s back.

  She watched the woman walk away, her large, firm buttocks moving under her navy-blue uniform skirt. Above everything, Bertha could hear the scrape of Harriet’s orthopedic two-inch heels on the marble floor. The sound reminded her of the hollow sound of her own heels Friday as she’d crossed the lobby of the Lambert Building.

  “It’s after one.” Pat Reed wrung her hands.

  “You and I will meet with Judge Wallace in chambers. It’s this way.” Bertha walked along the crowded corridor and around the corner, where they were suddenly alone. She wished Pat Reed would calm down. White women were usually so apprehensive. In Bertha’s experience black women handled court dates with a calmer demeanor. When they were afraid, black women tended to be more indignant than anxious. Once Grandma had told her that blacks were the descendants of lion hunters, and they knew better than to show fear in the presence of power.

  *

  Judge Wallace’s chamber was small, about the size of Bertha’s bathroom. There were no windows, and the judge’s desk took up most of the floor space. A bookcase covered the wall to his left, and a credenza stretched across the wall behind him. He sat at his desk smoking a cigarette. The tiny room was stuffy, and Pat waved her hand in front of her face as she stepped toward the seat farthest from the door.

  Bertha’d forgotten to warn her that Judge Wallace was a militant about smoking. He stiffened a little and then stubbed out the remainder of the offending cigarette. He said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Reed, Ms. Brannon.”

  Bertha did her best to smile warmly as she sat her briefcase in her lap and snapped it open.

  “You have the assignment drawn up?” Judge Wallace simultaneously reached for his glasses and the papers Bertha passed to him.

  He skimmed the document, stopped, looked at Mrs. Reed, and asked, “Mr. Reed is in arrears six thousand, three hundred, and thirty-four dollars?”

  “Yes, sir.” Pat nodded.

  “Those figures bring us up to today,” Bertha added.

  The judge said, “I’ll need to see the divorce papers.”

  Bertha let out her breath slowly. She’d told Pat about them this morning, but she should have looked at the papers herself before they came in. The more sleep Bertha lost, the more she behaved like the bad old days when a screw-up was a common event. She scolded herself and made a mental commitment to get some rest tonight. She hoped the decree was exactly as Patricia Reed had described it to her. If not, the anxious white woman could be in for a costly delay.

  Pat Reed reached for her purse and slid the papers out of a side compartment. As she passed them to Judge Wallace, she looked at Bertha and smiled quickly.

  Bertha returned the smile with what she hoped looked like confidence.

  Judge Wallace asked, “Mr. Reed works for the State Department of Revenue?”

  “That’s right, your honor,” Bertha said. “Since he has clearly demonstrated his unwillingness to support his son as ordered, we’d like the six thousand, three hundred, and thirty-four dollars to be paid over a period of one year. In addition, we request that child support of six hundred a month be deducted from his wages until Jimmy Reed’s eighteenth birthday.”

  Judge Wallace cleared his throat. “Counselor, we have to leave Mr. Reed the minimum wage.”

  “That’s leaving him more than Mrs. Reed has been raising his son on, Your Honor. In addition, Jimmy will be eighteen in two years and no longer a minor in the court’s eyes. We maintain that the arrears must be paid in the shortest reasonable time.”

  “Nevertheless,” Judge Wallace said, picking up his pen and turning the wage assignment to the last page. “The arrears will be paid in addition to the court-ordered child support over a period of twenty-four months, and the assignment will stay in place until Jimmy Reed’s eighteenth birthday. Mr. Reed will also pay all cost incurred in the collection.”

  Bertha nodded humbly and said, “Thank you.”

  After the papers were signed, Judge Wall
ace turned to Patricia Reed. “Your attorney will file the wage assignment with the circuit clerk this afternoon, and your ex‑husband should be notified within a week. Your payment will arrive by mail from the circuit clerk’s office.” He reached for another cigarette, hesitated, and then added, “Many divorce decrees these days include support during the child’s college education. You might want to talk to your attorney about bringing Mr. Reed back into court to make some amendments. You could, at that time, get the child support raised to include any increased income Mr. Reed has had since the time of the divorce. Surely the man has had a cost-of-living raise.”

  Judge Wallace seemed to want to say more, but when Bertha quickly checked her watch, she and Pat Reed were excused. Bertha knew the circuit clerk’s office could take awhile. The only thing she’d eaten all day was a breakfast roll.

  Mrs. Reed followed Bertha along the empty hallway. Afternoon sessions were going on in two of the four courtrooms. There were only a few nervous-looking witnesses on the benches outside the double doors. Bertha looked them over as she passed. The same people were always ending up here. She and Mrs. Reed got onto the elevator together, and Bertha pushed the buttons to the third and ground floors.

  “Will you represent me when I’m ready to take my ex back to court?” Pat asked softly.

  “I’ve been on the salary of the public defender’s office,” said Bertha. “I take some sliding-scale clients, but I have a full load of them now. Court time takes money.”

  “Could I make payments?”

  Bertha nodded, her money boundaries crumbling. “We could work something out. Call my secretary next week.”

 

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