Widow

by Martha Miller

  “I’ll cook. I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll be good. I promise.”

  The garage door rose and Bertha rolled the Jeep inside next to Toni’s little black Honda. It was to have been Doree’s car. Toni had been in the market for something newer. The fact that Doree wasn’t throwing a fit told Bertha the extent of her stress. Doree had been a tantrum thrower ever since Bertha had known her. The first time she met the kid, she’d pitched a fit over eating broccoli—a foreshadowing of things to come. Bertha asked herself it they were really in any danger. The truth was she didn’t know yet.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Sorry. I just pulled into the garage.”

  “You been to see Grandma?”

  “Yeah. Aunt Lucy wanted to see her before I took her to the train. She’s going home.”

  “You need me then. I can help you out around the house.”

  “Doree, be yourself with Emily and at school. You’re as good as they are. Act like it.”

  Doree started to sob. “Please.”

  Bertha took a deep breath. The kid always could get under her skin. “You being in Indiana has nothing to do with your behavior.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  Although she’d immediately regret it, Bertha said, “Because someone made a threat. You’re safe in Indiana. You won’t be there a minute longer than necessary. I promise.”

  “A threat?”

  “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Okay.” Doree hung up without saying good-bye.

  *

  Bertha made her way through the garage and into the house. Inside, she turned on a light in each room she entered. The kitchen, white and clean and waiting, was a lonely place. She pulled a pint of chocolate-chip ice cream, which Aunt Lucy must have put there, out of the freezer and got a big spoon from the drawer. She walked into the family room and picked up the remote. The TV came to life, but ignoring it she reached for the Sunday paper that was lying on the coffee table untouched. She flipped through a couple of pages and looked at Police Beat. Most of the perps would be in her courtroom in the morning. Soon she tossed the paper on the coffee table and started on the ice cream.

  How had this happened? From out of nowhere, everything changed. Was there something that she should have seen? She’d gone over and over conversations she’d had with Toni in the days before the shooting. She couldn’t remember anything, no special or dangerous cases. Things had just decided to happen exactly opposite from how they should. One moment it seemed like there was no other plausible way for things to go, and then something shifted and everything changed. What were the odds of her ending up right where she was: a widow, alone in a big house with a pint of ice cream and an empty future stretching out before her? Slim to none, but for some strange reason it had happened. The least likely outcome, like cherries on a slot machine, like the perfect storm.

  Bertha remembered a friend from her softball days. The woman had hit a pop-up, and the wind picked up and somehow blew the ball directly back down, hit the plate, come up, and it broken her nose. The broken nose had given the woman a sexy-ugly, butch-like look, and she hadn’t gotten it fixed until she could no longer breathe through it. She’d actually met her future lover that night in the E.R. What were the odds of any of that? Maybe there were lots of paths, and just when you were comfortable with one, things decided to change. Life might be like walking in a dark forest with a flashlight. You could only see so far ahead.

  The spoon scraped the bottom of the carton, and Bertha set the container on the floor. Obviously thinking and eating was as bad as thinking while driving. She’d long ago gotten the Little Debbie Cake monkey off her back, but ice cream was a whole other food group. She put her feet, still in her high-topped tennis shoes, up on the coffee table and leaned back. She admired the shoes for a moment. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw the security light next to the back door come on. A shot of adrenaline went through her. She stood up and moved toward the window.

  From it, Bertha could see that low clouds had blocked the moon and stars, leaving the rest of the neighborhood in darkness. She spotted the sinister silhouette of a man, the security light at his back, who stood near her back door, waiting.

  Chapter Seven

  The silence of the room had a kind of weight that existed only at night. Bertha decided she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t home. Every light in the house was on. The guy knocked on the door and startled her. She called out, “Who’s there?”

  “Bertha? Is that you? It’s Randy.”

  Through the window Bertha could see a police uniform. She swung the door open and motioned for him to come in. “Kind of late, isn’t it?”

  “I know. But I saw the lights, and I wanted to check how you’re doing.”

  “Oh, I’m muddling along. I worked last week. Felt good to be away from here for a few hours.”

  Looking around the room like he’d never seen it before, Randy took his cap off and ruffled what was left of his short spiky hair. “Doree out?”

  “She’s staying with her mother’s relatives for a while.” Then Bertha asked herself why she was hedging. What harm would come from Randy knowing where the kid was?

  “Good. She needs to be out of the way right now. At least until we can figure out what’s going on.”

  “She doesn’t agree.”

  Bertha returned to the couch and nodded toward a recliner for Randy. Once they were both sitting, Randy said, “Fred Cook has returned to his beat.”

  “That’s rather quick. Doesn’t Internal Affairs have to do an investigation?”

  Randy nodded.

  As implausible as Fred returning to work sounded, she asked herself if she should be upset. Had Toni’s death been dispensed with too quickly? Was the investigation still in progress, and had Fred been cleared of any suspicion? Why had Randy thought this was so important that he came to her at this time of night? “So it’s done then?” she asked.

  “We can assume. It’s been a long day. Mind if I smoke?”

  Bertha was dog-tired. What the hell? She was alone here and the ice cream had steadied her nerves. She stifled a yawn. “Go ahead.” She pushed the lid from the empty ice-cream container toward him. “Ashtray.”

  “Thanks.” Randy fished his cigarettes from his shirt pocket and tapped one out. Soon blue cigarette smoke was hanging in the air like a ghost beneath the table lamp.

  At length Bertha said, “So Cook is back at work.”

  Randy nodded. “Don’t know how to say this, and I can’t tell you where I heard it, but some suspect he had help from higher up the food chain.”

  Bertha’s hands, folded in her lap, appeared foreign to her. “Who could trump IAD?” While she said it out loud, she didn’t expect an answer. They both knew who could trump IAD. She added, “Well, that sucks.”

  “You know a lot of things suck. After a while you sort of settle for trying not to suck yourself.”

  “Interesting comment for a gay man…

  Randy chuckled.

  Bertha remained sullen. “Why the hell should the mayor’s office care about Fred Cook?” The cigarette smoke, which now swirled lazily about the room, stung her eyes, and without thinking she waved it away.

  “Sorry.” With only half of it smoked, Randy stubbed out the cigarette. “I should be going so you can get some sleep.” He stood. “I can see myself out.”

  Then he was gone, leaving Bertha to wonder what all that had been about. He definitely knew something he wasn’t saying. From outside, she heard wet gravel sucking at shoes, a car door slam, and the engine come to life. She felt a draft and looked toward the door. He’d left it open a few inches. She pulled herself to her feet and crossed the room. The cool, damp air from outside felt good. She could see Randy’s squad car rolling down the street toward the intersection. Someone in the passenger seat was lighting a cigarette. Had his partner been waiting in the car? Above her a sickle of a moon was partially covered by dark clouds. Bertha tried to concentrate.
She was missing something, but was too tired to think about it anymore.

  *

  In her office, Monday afternoon, following a morning of the usual DUI, domestic-violence, burglary, and aggravated-assault hearings, Bertha examined the afternoon docket.

  Alvin peeked his head in the door. “Some of us are going to O’Brian’s. Want to come?”

  Bertha held up a brown bag. “Brought my own.”

  Alvin nodded, waved, and pulled the door shut.

  The office was cold. Rain fell outside, and the sky was gray enough that she flipped on the overhead light. She’d spent more time than usual in her office lately, sometimes coming back after dinner. Since Randy’s visit, since she learned that the police weren’t doing much on Toni’s death investigation, she’d become obsessed with it, which seemed a natural path. What else was there? Going out of her way to drive by the crime scene, she’d sometimes pull the car over because the tears blinded her.

  Twice she’d eaten at Rita’s Pizza place across from the Crones Nest, the place where she’d met with Scottie on the night of her assault. She watched people go in and out. The place was busier on Friday and Saturday nights. More couples than in the old days. Back then, when you found a woman, you stayed home to keep her. Young women seemed easy with open displays of affection on the outside of the Crones Nest. She and Toni had gone through that phase so long ago she’d almost forgotten. There’d been a time when she couldn’t keep her hands off Toni. The image came speeding back to her whether she wanted to remember or not.

  Bertha pulled the lunch bag to her and took out two peanut-butter sandwiches and a thermos of soup. After a sleepless night, she needed the protein and caffeine to get through the rest of day. She promised herself she’d go straight home after work. Maybe she’d pick up something from a drive-through. She’d eat and sack out on the couch until about eight, then go to bed. She watched a blond spider crawl along the window ledge and, finding the end, start to descend. Picking up the first sandwich, she returned to the docket.

  Shortly before the afternoon session was to begin, she heard a knock at the office door and called out, “It’s open.” And as incomprehensible as it seemed, Fred Cook came in.

  “Hello, Judge,” he said.

  “Fred. What brings you here?”

  He stepped farther into the office, then, walking with his head down with a hangdog expression on his face, came toward her. “I’m appearing in front of, what’s his name? The courtroom at the end of the hall.”

  “What’s her name. Judge Flowers. Cora Flowers.”

  Fred moved some papers off a chair and without invitation sat.

  Bertha asked, “How you feeling?”

  “Better. I’m back on my beat.”

  “So I heard. How’s your wound?”

  “It’s fine. Took a few weeks for the pain to let up. Now I’m doing physical therapy.”

  “Well, it’s good you’re back to work,” Bertha said.

  “It isn’t easy, you know.”

  If it wasn’t easy, then why was he doing it? But she knew the answer because it was the same answer she had for herself. As annoyed as she felt toward Fred, she understood his need to work. “What can I do for you, Fred?”

  He shrugged, with a spirit of detachment. “I don’t know. I feel like shit most of the time. I’ve never lost a partner before.”

  “Nor have I.” He was clearly uncomfortable, but by God, she didn’t have any comfort for him.

  As if she hadn’t spoken, he went on. “I keep replaying it over and over in my head.” Then tears flooded his eyes and made twin trails down his face.

  Bertha was almost levitating from the pain, and the asshole was crying. What did he want? Couldn’t he find sympathy elsewhere? Maybe this was what people destined for padded rooms felt like after being carted away. She picked up a box of tissues and tossed them toward him.

  He blubbered “Thanks” and blew his nose. “I’ve been going to church. But I’ll tell you what, God is a ruthless bastard.”

  Bertha felt like she was looking up from the bottom of a deep well, her throat constricting from emotion. How could she get this guy out of her office? Much more of his weeping and she’d need to strangle him.

  Alvin stuck his nose in the door. “About ready, Judge?” Seeing Fred Cook, he apologized. “I didn’t know you were with someone.”

  “It’s all right. Fred was just leaving. Weren’t you, Fred?”

  “Yeah.” He stood and rubbed his palms up and down his thighs. “Like I said, I’m in the courtroom down the hall. It was good to see you, Judge Brannon. Remember, if I can help you with anything, just call me.”

  Fred Cook stood and turned sideways, making his way past Alvin.

  Bertha gathered the remnants of her lunch and tossed them in the trashcan; angry and distracted, she didn’t realize Alvin was still standing there until he said, “What was that all about?”

  “Who the hell knows?”

  *

  Tuesday evening, Bertha sat at Alvin and Jerry’s kitchen table while the two worked on some kind of chicken-and-pasta dish. She couldn’t think of anything to say—no friendly small talk anyway. The last time she’d been at Alvin’s was a cookout in July. Toni and Doree had been with her. She remembered Toni standing at the sink, making a pitcher of fresh lemonade, singing “American Pie.” While eating outside, she’d gotten sunburned in the shade, and at home that night Bertha rubbed vinegar on her shoulders. She remembered the red background to Toni’s freckles.

  The nightly news played on the flat-screen in the family room, which the kitchen overlooked. Half turned, she stared at the screen.

  Alvin said something.

  Bertha turned toward him. “What?”

  “I saw we had Hootie Martin back in court. Must be snow in the forecast.”

  Bertha smiled. Hootie was homeless. He stayed the maximum time in shelters and then the Salvation Army, but those places were full in cold weather, so he’d get arrested in some creative way. A couple of times a year he did a thirty- to sixty-day stint in the county jail. It was meals, a cot, and intermittent showers. She said, “Nothing in the world can match the glamour of a late-stage alcoholic.”

  Alvin asked, “What was it this time?”

  “Horse rustling.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me. He stole a horse.”

  “Where did he find a horse?”

  Bertha’s spirits rose. In fact, she felt giddy. She made an effort to keep a serious expression and said, “Park patrol.”

  “He rustled a police horse?”

  Both Alvin and Jerry laughed, and soon Bertha was laughing with them.

  Jerry set a tall glass of iced tea in front of Bertha and asked, “Will he have a trial?”

  “Nope. Plea deal.”

  “Let me guess,” Alvin said. “Sixty days in jail and community service at one of the shelters.”

  Bertha was laughing so hard she could hardly speak. “Technically a horse costs more than $300, so I had to reduce the charges.”

  Alvin said, “How?”

  “It was an old horse.” That was it. Her composure was gone.

  She watched Jerry set the casserole dish on the table while wiping away tears of laughter. For a moment she’d forgotten all that weighed on her. Wasn’t that what she wanted, a moment of peace? Alvin retrieved warm bread from the oven. Bertha skipped the salad and dished up the chicken and pasta in white sauce. When Alvin said, “Go ahead, Bertha. Don’t wait for us to sit down,” she hungrily stuffed a piece of warm garlicky bread in her mouth.

  “Thanks for the invitation, by the way. All I’ve got at home are vegetables that Aunt Lucy stocked in the frig. I have a head of lettuce turning into primordial ooze.”

  “What an appetizing image,” Alvin said. After that they ate quietly. Now and then one of them would remember Hootie Martin and burst out laughing again.

  When Bertha slowed to put a bite of salad in her mouth, they’d made it special after all,
she said, “Thanks so much for this. It really felt good to laugh. I need to do it more often.”

  After a moment, Alvin said, “You’ll get your life in order again.”

  Bertha chewed a bite of salad and put her fork down. Her tight smile was a shade away from being a grimace. “Toni’s only been dead two months.”

  “I know.” Alvin placed his hand over hers.

  She pulled away. ”Please don’t do this.”

  Jerry hastily jumped into the conversation. “Being widowed is going to feel like crap for a long time.”

  Bertha wanted to say Thanks, Sherlock, but she refrained. She wondered if they’d discussed this beforehand, like an intervention. Earlier that day she’d been leafing through the books on the nightstand, each one a book Toni had given her. Out loud she said, “I don’t want a girlfriend. I may never want another.”

  Alvin grabbed her hand again. “We don’t mean a new woman.”

  “Then I guess I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The coffeemaker made a beeping sound and Jerry stood. “Who wants coffee?”

  “Not me,” Bertha said. “I need to be going. This has been a lovely—’’

  “The house is empty,” Alvin said. “Why don’t you consider getting a cat or a dog?”

  Jerry set a mug in front of her and filled it. “Will you have some dessert? I made something special for tonight.”

  Bertha guessed she’d better have the goddamn dessert if he’d made it special, but then she was leaving.

  “I don’t know what I’d have done ten years ago when Randy left if I hadn’t had the dogs. I know it’s not the same, but…”

  Bertha remembered sharing chocolate Little Debbie Cakes with Alvin’s cocker and Lab, but she caught Jerry’s expression and decided not to say anything about the dogs Randy had walked out on. It shouldn’t make a difference, but she could see that it did. “I haven’t had a pet since I was a kid and Grandma had a little sheltie/terrier named Bounce. I loved that dog.”

  “Did you ever have a dog or cat? As an adult.”