“You’ll be back in your office next week?”
Bertha got off the elevator at the third floor and could see a line coming out of the double doors that led to the circuit clerk’s office. She said over her shoulder, “I’ll be back in my office tomorrow.”
*
Bertha pulled her Jeep into Grandma’s driveway. Dark clouds were gathering in the west, and the temperature had dipped below ninety. She got out and looked toward the corner at the charred remains of Latch’s Store. Someone had pulled down the few surviving beams and part of a brick chimney. Mrs. Latch’s house was empty. The drapes were gone, and one of the side windows was broken.
“Helluva mess, ain’t it?” Grandma called from the front porch.
Bertha shut the door to the Jeep and struck out across the yard, her high heels sinking into the soft earth as she walked. “Yes ma’am, it sure is. I see Mrs. Latch is gone.”
“Jasper’s truck was here this morning to get the last of it,” Grandma said. “Edith come over here, crying. Said she ’spect she won’t get back by here too often.” Grandma sighed. “We both know she meant never.”
Bertha examined Grandma’s face. “If you’re lonely, you could come stay with me for a while.”
“I’m just fine.” Grandma started scooting the walker around to go back in the house. “I didn’t ax you to take me in.”
Bertha reached to hold the door open. “I was inviting you for a visit.”
Grandma made her way into the house and slowly sat on the sewing-machine stool. She turned her weathered face upward. “I got two bedrooms here. If you want a visit, bring your bags next time.”
Bertha kicked off her heels, sat in the rocker, and rubbed her aching feet. The linoleum-covered floor was cool. The curtains were moving slightly, and a breeze was coming in the east window. She looked at Grandma and caught her staring.
“That skirt needs cleaned,” Grandma said.
Bertha looked down at the skirt. “You’re right. I’ll take it in before I wear it again.”
Grandma smiled. “Go ahead and take off them stockings. You look like you going to jump out your skin.”
Bertha obediently hiked up the skirt and shimmied a little as she pulled the sweat-dampened stockings over her hips. She plopped back in the rocker and pulled the things off each toe, then stretched her long legs out in front of her. She was tired to the marrow of her bones.
“That was just the thing.” Grandma laughed. “I know my girl.”
“Yes, ma’am. You sure do.”
They were both quiet for a moment, and then Bertha asked, “You had supper? What about we go out?”
“I ain’t going nowhere wit you looking like that.”
“I missed lunch, and I’m hungry. How about I go get a bucket of spaghetti?”
“I wouldn’t eat what’s left in a week.” Grandma shook her head. “I’m feeling a craving for pizza. We could split a small. I’ll buy.”
Bertha leaned forward. “Your doctor told you to quit pizza.”
“I quit. Now I’m starting.”
Bertha stared at her for a long time. Finally she said, “Small isn’t going to be enough. And I’m buying!”
“We can get it delivered, so you don’t have to put your shoes back on.”
*
Grandma gummed her pizza and sipped the grape Kool-Aid. Through the kitchen window, Bertha could see Edith Latch’s house.
“I’m gonna miss old Edith,” Grandma said. “She been right across that driveway since she was a young girl just married.”
“You’ll see her again.” Bertha tried to reassure her.
Grandma shook her head. “It’s over. At my age you recognize what’s over pretty fast. Edith and me is over.”
Bertha watched her take another large bite of pizza. A piece of cheese stuck to her chin. Bertha pulled a second wedge from the box that sat open between them.
Grandma sighed. “Everything ends.”
Bertha’s mind raced. She tried to think of something that didn’t end. Her mind went from one thing to the next, rejecting each.
Grandma’s voice was softer now. “I used to cut ladies’ hair when I was young. Me and Gladys Thompson had a little place. Black ladies couldn’t go to no white places back then. Course, they still can’t. No white lady can figure out how to do Negro hair. The summer I met your grandpa, Gladys got a fever. Took to her bed and never got out. All that ended. Poof. Gone. Everything ends.”
Bertha set down the wedge of pizza and reached for Grandma’s wrinkled hand. “I know it’s sad.”
Grandma looked at her. “You don’t know it like I know it.” She reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a clean handkerchief.
Bertha had learned to iron those hankies when she was a little girl. She realized that a third woman today was about to cry in front of her. She rubbed Grandma’s hand.
“All those friends I had when I was young. Everything ends.” Then Grandma blew her nose, stuffed her hanky back in her dress pocket, and picked up the pizza again.
They ate in silence. When it felt safe to change the subject, Bertha said, “Remember you told me about a man who talked to you about the house?”
“Sure do. He come around this morning, more interested in buying the house than loaning me money.”
“This morning? He just came to your door?”
“Right after Edith pulled out the driveway.”
“What did he say?”
“He wanted to come in and talk. Said he’s glad my house don’t catch fire.”
“Oh, Grandma. You didn’t let him in?”
“You think I’m a fool?” Grandma shouted. “Elder Power girl come up my driveway about then. I told him to get off my porch. He jest smiled and tipped his hat.”
“I think the guy is dangerous. I don’t want you here alone.”
Grandma jerked her thumb toward Edith’s house. “I think he had something to do with that fire.”
“Me too.”
Grandma folded her arms across her chest and said, “Well, I ain’t going nowhere. White people always take what they want. They think they entitled. They bring blacks to this country. Just go steal some people, make ’em slaves. They took the red man’s land. Men who never had a thought that land could be owned. Never dreamed it could be taken. White people figure everybody just play by their rules.”
Bertha leaned back in her chair, her head throbbing. She was no longer hungry. The smell of the pizza was sickening. Grandma went on with the rant, but Bertha didn’t try to stop her. She was trying to think of a way to have someone come and stay with Grandma, someone who could keep her safe for the night. If Grandma saw this as blacks against whites, she wasn’t going anywhere. She had to find her ex‑pusher, Cal Mossman, tonight and learn what she could from him.
Chapter Nineteen
Before Bertha left Grandma’s Monday evening, she called Elder Power and asked for them to send someone overnight. She was transferred to a case manager, who informed her no one was available.
“I need someone tonight.”
“Is Mrs. Brannon ill?” the woman asked. “We keep a nurse on call for emergencies. Of course, you would be charged accordingly. Could you or another family member take care of her?”
That’s why I’m calling you, thought Bertha. She said, “I can’t stay tonight, but I can make other arrangements by tomorrow.” At least she hoped she could.
After putting Bertha on hold twice, the case manager agreed to send a nurse by eight thirty. Bertha thanked her and hung up.
“They sending my girl back tonight?” Grandma asked.
Bertha figured being honest was best. “They’re sending a nurse.”
“Nurse? I ain’t sick.”
“Look. We both know that fire was set.”
“That’s right, but nurses are expensive.”
“We can’t afford any trouble over here. I don’t think you should be alone.”
“I don’t need no nurse. The only thing I’m sick of
is people’s noses in my bizness. I’m calling Lucy.”
“What?”
“Lucy will come. If you can’t stay, my daughter will.”
Bertha thought Aunt Lucy might actually come for a while. But she wouldn’t be able to make it by tonight all the way from Chicago.
“Give the nurse one night until Aunt Lucy can get here.”
Grandma sighed. “I reckon I would feel better with somebody here. But I ain’t sick.”
“We’re paying. You don’t have to be sick.”
Grandma nodded quietly.
“Let’s call Aunt Lucy now.”
Grandma pointed. “Number’s over there. You call. I don’t know what to tell her.”
Bertha went to the phone table and looked through some old magazines for the address book. When Aunt Lucy answered, Bertha explained about the fire on the corner. Aunt Lucy said she’d be on the train tomorrow. She could take three vacation days, but she needed to be back for a meeting at the bank on Friday.
Relieved, Bertha told her that things would be cleared up long before Friday. Then she handed the phone to Grandma and left them talking. Bertha munched on cold pizza, cleaned the mess off the kitchen table, and put the leftovers in the refrigerator.
The nurse arrived on the porch at eight thirty sharp. He was a small, dark-skinned man with a narrow face. His hair was in shoulder-length dreadlocks, and his gold-rimmed glasses almost matched Grandma’s. He wore a white uniform and had a stethoscope in his front pocket. Bertha introduced him to Grandma, and she sat quietly on the sewing-machine stool while he took her vitals and made notes.
“That’s a bad fire on the corner,” he said to Bertha.
“That does worry me,” Bertha said. “So close to my grandmother.”
“If it were close to my kin, I’d be worried too.”
“Your people from around here?” Grandma asked.
“No ma’am,” the nurse said softly. “I’m from over by Danville. My parents still live there. I got four younger sisters. Two of ’em in nursing school.”
“A medical family,” Grandma said, nodding. “Tha’s good. My Bertha there is a lawyer.”
The nurse read the thermometer and then shook it down. He looked at Bertha. “You must be very proud of her.”
“Lord, I am,” said Grandma. “Now you just get comfortable and tell me all about your family.”
Bertha relaxed. Grandma was going to be okay. “Good night, Grandma.” She brushed the old weathered cheek with her lips.
As Bertha drove home, she thought about Cal Mossman. If she couldn’t find his number, she was sure she could get it from someone. That’s how drug connections worked, a‑friend‑of‑a‑friend until you were right next to Mr. Big.
*
At home the answering machine was flashing. A Detective Harris of Homicide.wanted to see her in his office at nine in the morning. She checked her watch. That was only eleven hours away.
Bertha kicked her skirt into the bottom of her closet, where there was a growing pile for the dry cleaners. She hesitated, then reached up and started pulling things from the top shelf. She ducked as a falling shoebox grazed her shoulder. Several boxes sat around her on the floor by the time she located the old leather purse. Colleen had cleaned out the bag and tossed it up there while Bertha was in the hospital detoxing. Colleen brought the wallet, which was empty, to the hospital and told Bertha she’d flushed the coke and about a hundred colorful pills and was taking the pot with her. That’s when she told Bertha she was moving.
Bertha sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the worn purse. It had a frayed shoulder strap. The zipper was hard to work, maybe from sitting in the closet for so long. There were two compartments and a side pocket.
She pulled out three hair picks, a book of Pat Parker’s poetry she’d forgotten she had, a small canister of pepper spray, some torn theater tickets, stale chewing gum, and a Swiss Army knife like the one she’d seen on Toni Matulis’s key ring just that morning. In the side pocket, she found her address book. She flipped it open, and something fell out on the bed.
Bertha’s hands shook a little as she picked up the sealed envelope. She didn’t think she’d seen it before, but things toward the end were still fuzzy. The envelope was the size of an invitation or birth announcement with her name written across the front in a familiar scrawl. She turned it over in her hand several times before she tore the envelope open and pulled out a note card. Bertha read Colleen’s writing slowly.
I wanted to throw this book away, but your counselor asked me not to. She seems to think you’ll get rid of it yourself someday. After your crazy behavior and lies, I have trouble believing anything anymore. So I’ll just say, you’re too good for this. You always were.
Love always, Colleen.
Bertha was surprised by the burning tear that rolled down her cheek. She was tired and frazzled. The day had been a long one that followed a series of long days. She wanted to hold Colleen’s note to her chest, roll over on the bed, and go to sleep. What had her sponsor said? Don’t get too hungry, angry, lonely or tired. Her sponsor was who she needed to be calling right now. But she wouldn’t. It was late, and this wasn’t an emergency. She’d missed her Monday-night meeting for the first time in eighteen months. That knowledge left her feeling a little unsettled.
Bertha flipped the book to Cal Mossman’s number and picked up the phone. She tried his pager first. It wasn’t in service. She tried his cell phone. Same thing. Finally she dialed his home number. It had been disconnected. She turned to the front of the book and started going through the names, looking for someone who might help her. She came to Jewel, an old drugging friend from the state’s attorney’s office who had been the secretary she shared with twelve other associates, and dialed the number from memory. The phone rang for a long time. As always, there was no machine.
She was about to give up when a soft, sleepy voice whispered, “What?”
“Jewel, that you?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s me, Bertha.”
“Bertha, where the hell you been?” Jewel sounded more awake.
“I’ve been around.”
“You busted? Do time?”
Bertha answered slowly. “Kind of.”
“That’s too bad, honey. What can Jewel do for you?”
“I’m looking for Cal.”
“That bastard. What you want with him?”
“I just need to talk to him.”
“Baby, you been out the picture too long,” Jewel drawled. “You want Percy T. He’s much nicer than Cal. He’s a brother. That’s where I do business. You got a pencil? Let me give you his pager number. Tell him you’re a friend of mine.”
“Sorry, Jewel. I really need to find Cal.”
Jewel let out her breath like a deflating balloon. “Well, he lives at the same place. I don’t keep a phone on him. But you know where it is.”
“Yeah,” Bertha said. “I know.”
“Listen, honey, don’t be a stranger. Come by and see me. We’ll party.”
“Thanks.” Bertha’s hand trembled as she hung up.
Bertha turned back to the room. Boxes were sitting all around the closet. The bed was unmade, and towels remained on the floor from that morning. Bertha remembered that Toni Matulis had cried into one of them. She started changing clothes. The night was warm. She went to the drawer. Her favorite T‑shirts were beyond wearing. She pulled a clean, not‑so‑favorite black Harley T‑shirt with an eagle’s wings that had belonged to Colleen and a pair of running shorts from the drawer. She put batteries in her flashlight and retrieved the tire iron from under her bed.
The Jeep was low on gas. Bertha decided to get some tomorrow. Here it was only Tuesday and she needed to fill her tank already. She had a meeting with Homicide at nine, and she needed to pick up Aunt Lucy at the train at one thirty. How long would it take to find Cal and talk to him? If he worked for the Moreskis, then it had to be something criminal, and the sooner she talked to him, the
sooner the problems would be cleared up.
Cal Mossman made more in a day than most people earned in a year, but he kept the apartment in Our Lady of Fatima Public Housing—the name was shortened in the nineteen-sixties to Fat Lady Projects. He said he’d been raised in the projects and didn’t care about moving out. Going there always scared Bertha, but back when she had the cocaine she’d liked being scared. Now she wished she had her gun.
The streetlights that actually worked were intermittent. Bertha parked on a side street. Few people drove their cars in there. Even the cab drivers had better sense. She gathered the flashlight and jack handle, and walked around the high fences of the playground, where some teenage boys had a bottle of wine and a boom box.
One of them called, “Hey, Sis,” but Bertha kept moving.
She walked down the road and held her breath as she passed overflowing dumpsters, pungent with the smell of rotting garbage. The sidewalks that ran between the long, narrow, two-story housing units were dark. The only lights came from a couple of porches too far apart for comfort.
Bertha always had trouble remembering if Cal’s was in the fourth or fifth row of apartments. Her only choice was to walk through both rows until she saw the wooden crucifix that was nailed to his front door. The mother of one of his clients had put it there years ago, cursing him after her son’s death. Cal had liked it and left it there.
Between the rows of brick buildings was an uneasy silence. Bertha’s heart pounded as she made her way through the fourth row. A dog, growling and barking viciously, startled her. Was it tied up? The dogcatcher certainly wasn’t going to come in here to enforce the leash laws. She raised the tire iron and looked around. She couldn’t see anything. A light came on, and an angry woman’s voice quieted the dog. Bertha didn’t like the silence either. She continued along the walk between the gloomy, intimidating buildings. She found Cal’s apartment in the center on the east side. She recognized the bright-orange living-room drapes that had been there forever.
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 16