When Nana was out of the room, Kofi whispered things he had heard from his male friends at the market about drugs and prostitution that the judge was involved with. He warned Miriam in the strongest terms possible to stay away from where the judge did his business—his dirty business—lest she get stolen away by the slavers—and Nana with her. His voice dripped with dire threat of what could happen to women alone and unprotected, and he emphasized what fate might befall a girl like Nana because, Miriam guessed, Kofi knew his senior wife was fond of the girl.
Of course, certainly, he might be right, though he seldom was, and most often when he spoke like this—a story of the bogeyman, as Miriam saw it—he was merely trying to keep Miriam under his control. The pull he exerted made her feel stubborn, though, not submissive.
The next day, after Kofi had left the house, Miriam took her favorite ballpoint pen and carefully filled out the application for a peddler's license, leaving all questions of citizenship and green card numbers blank. Using a paper clip, she affixed two photos of herself snapped by a photographer last year at the market.
She was alarmed at her own audacity, as she was, of course, afraid that she lived here illegally, and that she'd be sent back to Ghana should the authorities discover her unlawful status. And something in her also trembled at the idea that the judge was a gangster—and had maybe prostituted and had killed the white girl. But Miriam hadn't forgotten the pale white face or the body empty of animation bouncing on the stretcher between two policemen. The judge was her only clue, and she'd learned nothing yet. In an odd and undefined way, Miriam had become responsible for the white girl who had been so badly victimized.
* * * *
Everything was different when she went back. The woman wasn't at the desk inside, but rather a strange Spanish man with bulging eyes. Miriam didn't know whether she ought to approach. Her mouth was dry.
"Can I help you?” he called from across the room. He gestured her forward.
"The woman...” Miriam began.
"Not here now. I'm Mr. Caldrone, the office manager.” He spotted her application and held out his hand. “Come on.” She could almost hear, “I haven't got all day,” but he didn't say it. She gave him the page, and he nodded in an indication that she could leave now.
Reluctantly, Miriam trudged away, past a bulletin board, which, being an unredeemed reader of notices of all kinds, she stopped to look over. There on the board, staring out at her across a flyer marked MISSING, was the face that had been on her mind for two days. She took in the information as a cat who has gone weeks without food might inhale a dish of milk.
Ellen Newcomb, wife of Judge Ronald Newcomb, last seen on Wednesday night, wearing ... The judge's wife! The dead woman was the judge's wife. The black judge had a white wife and maybe he had killed her. Now he was acting a part by tacking a poster up on a piece of painted-over board and claiming she was “missing.” Miriam at once felt sad and angry and discouraged by the apparently common rules of human life.
She walked home in the cold with the wind blowing unpleasantly at her neck, suddenly certain that the judge had killed the woman and left her in the park to hide that fact. It's a dump job. She could hear the words as plainly as if the man were speaking them right now. Close to her building, she all at once noticed, with a shiver caused by more than the cold, that the judge's limousine was here, double parked in the street. Or maybe it was someone else's long, white car?
Miriam's heart pounded with a sudden fear, and all sorts of wild thoughts entered her mind: The judge knew she suspected him and had followed her home. The judge knew she was an illegal alien and had come to threaten her.
But no. The car door opened and Nana gracefully slipped out of the passenger's side, then turned back to wave at the driver. The girl smiled, the very picture of youthful beauty and health. Miriam envied her with more a thrill of admiration than of jealousy, and in a way she felt proud to have the girl in her own otherwise charmless home. But rushing forward to meet the young woman, Miriam also felt great anxiety for the girl. No one had warned Nana about the judge. Neither Miriam nor Kofi had wanted to mention the words “drugs” and “prostitution” in front of her. Now the child might be in danger.
Nana saw her co-wife and stopped. Then Miriam came forward and took the girl's arm, holding tightly. “The white woman was the judge's wife,” she said. “Stay away from those people."
"Oh no,” responded Nana in surprise, the exclamation meaning nothing in particular. Her eyes were murky and hard to read. Caution was not the ruling guide of youth, Miriam knew. Miriam would have to be wary for her.
* * * *
The thought that a man might be entitled to murder his own wife plagued Miriam as the two women climbed the dirty, old marble stairs. Though well brought up by strict parents who had sent her to learn at a British-run school until she was sixteen, Miriam remained influenced by a great deal she had seen among her own people early on. Her mother, her father's sole wife, was never beaten by her husband, but the prevailing attitude toward men who did beat their wives—even to death—was that while such a thing was regrettable, certainly, who knew what happened in a marriage or what offense the wife might have committed? And the husband was the husband, after all. One simply tried to ignore such things. Interfering in the marital affairs of others, unless one was a relative, was not proper.
The case of a white woman with a black man would be even more confusing, especially when the woman was young and very pretty, and the man was influential and had money.
"So, Mama,” said Nana, startling Miriam, who had shut their apartment door behind them and begun to unbutton her fraying old tan coat. “You have solved the murder.” She smiled. “I knew you could. The judge killed his wife. Now you will go to the police and he'll be arrested."
"I suppose so,” said Miriam weakly, her knees losing a little of their strength, and not just from the climb but from the prospect of carrying through on this.
"Oh, Mama, it is good. Women shouldn't be murdered in this country, should they?” Nana set down the little secondhand leather purse Miriam had polished for her with shea butter to make it shine. “You will make everything right.” The tears came to Nana's eyes, and Miriam would have thought her softhearted but knew she wasn't exactly that.
"Was it something that happened at home?” Miriam asked. She meant, of course, at home in Ghana, which Nana undoubtedly understood.
The girl, her coat still on, settled on the sofa. The air inside the apartment was cold. “He and the first wife beat the third wife,” Nana said. She bit her lip, ordinarily an affecting gesture but now a heartbreaking one. “She was thirteen.” This was said in the tone of greatest intimacy, and the two women looked at one another, communicating some secret knowledge that only the two of them might share—a background, a deep shame, a terror of an evil that couldn't be stopped.
Miriam nodded. “I'll just rest a minute,” she said. “Then I'll go out."
* * * *
The police station, though shabby, was intimidating in its imposition of authority. Miriam forced herself into the building as she had forced herself into many frightening situations throughout her life. If they investigated her, if they threw her in jail, if they threw her out of the country, well, she would have to accept any of that in the name of justice.
She waited at the desk to be noticed, and wet her lips so she could speak when she finally was seen. “About the white woman found in Marcus Garvey Park a few days ago,” she said, once she was acknowledged.
The black man standing high above her, behind the thick wooden counter, stared down until he picked up the phone. He then motioned her to a bench across the room, and she went and sat.
Soon, another policeman, a white man in a suit, brought her upstairs in a little elevator. She was grateful not to climb any more stairs but felt uncomfortable in that small compartment, alone with him.
Reminding herself of Nana's former co-wife and the necessity to speak up for the woman in the pa
rk—for all women, it seemed—once settled at his desk, Miriam began nervously in a subdued voice. “The white woman found last week in Marcus Garvey Park,” she said. She cleared her throat. Perhaps she shouldn't have mentioned the word “white” to the white man. Perhaps he was sensitive. She rushed on. “Judge Newcomb's wife.” She looked at the white policeman, who gazed at her, seemingly interested, but a bit puzzled. “Sometimes a husband might be the one to murder a wife,” she whispered, though here she was on surer ground. She knew that was true.
"The woman,” he said. “Yes, Ellen Newcomb.” He nodded. He knew.
"The notice at the Judge Newcomb Community Service building,” she said, reluctant to finish her sentence.
"I know. Someone finally put two and two together,” he said kindly.
"But perhaps she was killed by a family member?” Miriam persisted. She didn't want to tell about the limousine being seen at the park. She didn't want the boy interrogated.
"She wasn't killed,” said the white policeman, letting out his breath. “She overdosed on heroin. She was a habitual user.” He showed Miriam the inside of his right arm, covered by the gray cloth of a suit that looked comfortably warm. “She had needle marks. Tracks."
Miriam was surprised—stunned, really. No one had killed the woman then. No one! That was good. That was best. She was glad. Nana would be glad as well. But no, they must both mourn the woman and remember her anyway. Miriam ventured a little smile of relief at the policeman and stood up. “Good,” she said. “Good.” Now all she wanted was to get away before she was arrested for something or other. She thanked him sincerely and found her way as directed.
She felt almost happy until the moment she was out the door. Then she realized that of course something was very wrong with this case. The body was a dump job. Ellen Newcomb had been dumped in the park, so that even if she had killed herself by way of a drug overdose, the person who had dropped her there for the playing children to find the next day was hiding something. Hiding giving her the drugs, hiding giving her the overdose. Hiding killing her. Miriam should have said about the limousine.
She stopped at the store and bought two identical apple crumb pies, breaking her budget for the next week. But she wasn't about to buy a pie for Martin and his mother and not have such a treat for her own family's dinner.
After depositing the one pie in her own apartment, she climbed another two flights and knocked on the door of the boy who had seen the limousine, calling out, “It's your neighbor from downstairs."
Karen answered the door and Miriam made her offering, then asked for Martin's help in using the stepladder to get something from her cabinet.
"You don't need to give us something to get Martin to help you,” protested his mother. “He'll be happy to help you anytime."
"Oh the pie is just a neighborly act,” countered Miriam. “I bought one for our dinner as well."
She waited until she and Martin were in the safety of her own apartment to question him again. Who had he seen? How could he describe the man?
"He wasn't too old. He was a big guy and black,” Martin said. “Which cabinet was it?"
Miriam let the boy bring down the cans of soup she'd had Nana place on the upper shelf the day before.
"Oh yeah,” he said. “One more thing. I think he was talking to someone in the car. Someone in the front seat."
* * * *
Miriam could hardly concentrate on preparing the dinner, pondering the question of who had killed and/or dumped the girl. Had the judge's wife given herself an overdose, then been dumped? But for what reason? Did the judge want to get rid of her body because having a drug addict wife was an embarrassment? But why then publish a flyer, seeking her out? Miriam was dizzy by the time she heard Kofi come in the door, but one thing was clear: Wallace, the limo driver, was the one who had planted the body high up on the hill. Why hadn't the police thought out all that? Were they afraid to accuse a prominent citizen? Had the judge paid them off? Or did they just not care? The judge might dispose of his own wife as he wished, and they, as in many communities at home, would turn a blind eye.
Miriam went and greeted Kofi, helping him settle his merchandise in the closet and helping him off with his heavy shoes and on with his slippers. A fresh vegetable stew with tough beef softened by much cooking enticed. While Kofi washed his hands, Miriam went into the bedroom to call Nana to the meal.
But the girl wasn't there.
A chill went through Miriam. When had Nana left? And why had she not returned for her meal? The child might disappear from time to time, but a hearty eater, she never missed dinner.
Miriam's stomach clenched with fear, and she was in no mood to eat, thinking of the girl and the fact that Nana had gone out yesterday with the limo driver, who might be involved in the death of the judge's wife.
Miriam placed a hot bowl of food in front of Kofi, already seated at the table, and announced she had to go out at once.
Kofi gave her a censorious look but put nothing in words. So Miriam took his silence as permission and hurried into her coat. She was tired after so many trips out today and walking up and down the stairs so many times. But she didn't hesitate. The Judge Newcomb Community Service Center was her goal.
* * * *
The car was outside the building. Miriam didn't know whether to be easier in her mind or even more fearful than she had been. What did the limo being here indicate? Well, at least Nana hadn't driven off with Wallace to a deserted spot where she would be strangled.
And there came the driver, lightly springing down the front steps with an athlete's self-confidence. He smiled at Miriam, which inclined her to feel a modicum of relief. “Hello, Mama,” he said, and a spasm of horror ran through her. That he knew what Nana called her disturbed Miriam deeply.
"Where is my daughter Nana?” she demanded.
"Oh, she's inside,” he said with absolute calm. “Caldrone, the office manager, promised her a job."
Maybe this boded well, but Miriam's impulse was to respond with indignation. A job? How dare he?
"No,” she said. “Not my Nana. Not here. You are the man who made a dump job of Ellen Newcomb. Our Nana will not become a dump job at your hands."
Wallace's eyes widened at the same time that the rest of his face suddenly collapsed. “I ... Yes. It's true.” He closed those large eyes and put his palms up over them. Then he took away his hands and faced his accuser. “She'd taken an overdose of heroin, and if they found her here, the judge was sure to be in the center of ugly news reports. So we took her to the park to leave her there. I feel sorry about that. It's wrong, I suppose, but not horribly wrong.” Without words, he begged Miriam to understand.
"So, the judge was willing to make a dump job of his own wife,” she observed. She waited for that final admission.
"Not the judge. Of course not the judge. Mr. Caldrone, the judge's office manager."
Mr. Caldrone! And Nana was in there with him now. Miriam, had she ever been granted God's grace to become a mother, would not have been a careless one. Not bothering to answer the chauffeur, she ascended the stairs of the townhouse as hastily as she could, a bit worse for an entire day's wear.
Wallace hovered in abashment, then followed her in.
"No, no,” Miriam heard Nana call out in shrill tones. Miriam rushed past the barrier of the front desk to rescue the young daughter—well, co-wife—from being raped, Wallace close behind her.
But the only part of Nana Miriam found exposed in the private room beyond was an arm. And the man Caldrone stood with a needle.
He turned with the noise of Miriam and Wallace entering and Miriam's shout for him to stop.
"It's not me,” said Caldrone, dropping the syringe and retreating from Miriam, now advancing on him, the flat of her palm raised and her eyes on fire with an instantaneous fury. “The woman asked for the drug."
Miriam came alongside, slapped the man hard, and released the girl from his grip. Then pulling the sweater sleeve down over the tend
er young flesh, she held the woman's hand warmly in reassurance. This was the killer, Miriam realized. He, all along. Maybe he had addicted Ellen Newcomb or maybe not, but he had certainly supplied the drug. And, accident or plan, Ellen Newcomb had died, and Caldrone had dumped her.
A short, balding black man peeked out of the corner office. Miriam recognized the judge from his picture on the wall.
And Miriam told the judge directly how his wife had been dumped by the same man trying to force the needle into her own daughter's arm, and that maybe Caldrone had actually killed the judge's wife.
Miriam and Nana stared at the judge. Did he care? Miriam wondered. Had he himself ordered the dump job?
But before her eyes, the judge slowly, then with more conviction, began to weep.
* * * *
"He was trying to seduce me,” said Nana in annoyance hours later, after they had been driven home by the police. “That ugly man! And so old!” Of course, the man was nowhere near the advanced age of her own husband, Kofi, but then Kofi had been unable to force his attentions on the girl.
"Poor Wallace,” Nana added. “Do you think he'll have to go to jail too?"
"No,” answered Miriam with assurance. “On television the one who is so much less guilty will turn state's evidence.” She believed that was the phrase. “The poor judge,” added Miriam. “He's the one I feel sorry for. He loved his wife."
"She was very pretty,” Nana said. “I suppose the other man seduced her with the drug, the way he tried to do to me.” She drew herself up in the couch that served each night as her bed. “I, however, am not so foolish a girl."
"Well, why in the world did you go over there?” asked Miriam severely.
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