Nine Nights on the Windy Tree

by Martha Miller

  Bertha lifted her cup to take a sip. Alvin quickly wiped the coffee ring and slapped a gold coaster down. Bertha stretched her long dark legs out; she could see her worn high-topped tennis shoes reflected on the gleaming black linoleum floor. She talked about the night before while Alvin fussed about the kitchen. She described the dark hallway, the mess in the office, the shoe protruding from the supply closet, the gun, the bloody body, the sudden knowledge that the murderer was still in the building, the 9-1-1 call, and the long wait for the police to arrive.

  At last Alvin poured his own coffee and sat across from her, stirring in the cream. He said, “What I don’t get is, why us? Why our office?”

  Bertha nodded. “Sally Morescki wouldn’t have come to me if Levine hadn’t sent her. She went to him originally.”

  “Levine sent her to us?”

  Bertha took a long draw on her coffee. It was warm and sweet, and she could feel the caffeine spread through her system. “He probably thought she was a nut case with no money. That’s how I had her figured.”

  Alvin shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

  Bertha shrugged. “All I have is what she told me. It was the end of the day on Friday. I was in a hurry to get home and out of my court clothes. I suppose I should have called him.” She met Alvin’s eyes and added, “I have no excuse.”

  “That’s not my point,” Alvin said.

  “Then what is?”

  Bertha’s head was pounding. The Lab laid his snout across her lap and whimpered. Wishing she were at home in bed, she reached to the counter for a snack cake and tore off the individual cellophane wrapper.

  “Levine wasn’t in yesterday,” Alvin said. “I don’t think he’s been in all week.”

  The dog nabbed the entire cake. Bertha jumped, and coffee sloshed out of her mug across the table.

  Alvin pushed a box toward her. “I know you’re a sucker for this brood, but chocolate isn’t good for dogs. Give them the dog biscuits.”

  “Where the hell is he?”

  “Levine?” Alvin said as he wiped up the coffee spill. “Isn’t this the week he’s in Chicago?”

  “Damn,” Bertha said. “Damn. You’re right.”

  “And another thing,” Alvin said. “Who’s going to clean up all that blood? It is in your work area, you know.”

  Bertha shrugged. “I’m not even sure when we can get back into the office. I’ve got work to do there on Monday. A wage assignment.”

  Alvin reached for the cordless phone and passed it to Bertha. “Call her.”

  “Who?”

  “Your new client. The one with the murdered husband.”

  “I didn’t get a number.” Then Bertha remembered the conversation with Pop Wilson the night before. “Give me the phone book.”

  Alvin went to look for it. Bertha pulled a bone-shaped gray thing out of the dog biscuit box and held it out to the cocker, who sniffed it and waited for something better. Bertha offered the biscuit to the Lab, who held it between his teeth and dropped it on the kitchen floor. Alvin laid the phone book in front of her.

  There were six Moresckis. Joe and Sally had the same residence but different numbers.

  “I don’t know,” said Bertha, “if I really want to open this can of worms.”

  “She hired you, didn’t she?” Alvin pressed her.

  “Yes.” Bertha allowed that she might have been more interested in the call if she’d had at least four hours of sleep.

  “We had a murder in our supply closet.” Alvin’s voice grew louder, taking on an edge of excitement. “I’d say the can is open. Someone wants you involved in this pretty bad. We have to figure out what’s happened.” He thrust the phone toward her again.

  Bertha pressed the numbers slowly. By the third ring, she was trying to form a message in her mind for the machine.

  A woman answered. “Morescki residence.”

  Bertha said, “Sally Morescki, please.”

  “Mrs. Morescki isn’t in.”

  “Will she be back this morning?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Bertha Brannon, her attorney.” Bertha could hear another woman’s voice in the background. On the chance that Sally was there, Bertha added, “It’s very important.”

  “Every call this morning is very important. I got here an hour ago, and all I’ve done is answer the phone.”

  “I know it must be hectic over there.” Bertha tried to win her over.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” The woman sighed. “Look, try the shop. Sometimes she stops in there on Saturday mornings to do the books.”

  “The shop?” Bertha motioned to Alvin for a pen. “Do you have the number?”

  Alvin patted the skin-tight pockets of his shorts, as if it were a possibility, then turned to a shelf over the sink. He nearly tripped over a dog in the rush to pass her a red pencil.

  Bertha wrote the number on the front of the cover of phone book. “If Mrs. Morescki comes in before I reach her, please ask her to call me.” Bertha gave the woman her home number, hung up, and immediately dialed the number to the shop.

  A woman answered again. “Sally’s Fashion Boutique. How may I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Sally Morescki,”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Morescki isn’t in this morning. Is there something I can do for you?”

  Bertha left her home number with the woman and told her that reaching Sally was important. The woman promised to deliver the message.

  Bertha hung up and turned to Alvin. “It’s a fucking fashion boutique.”

  “No shit?”

  “The woman I met yesterday didn’t look like the fashion-boutique type,” Bertha said. “Or the type to have a maid answer the phone.”

  Alvin refilled Bertha’s coffee cup. “You never can tell about people.”

  “I can,” Bertha insisted. “I’m a pretty good judge of people.”

  Alvin nodded. “I know.”

  “Then what in the hell is going on?”

  The kitchen was quiet. The dogs had given up on further food and were lying on the floor at her feet. Bertha’s question sat there, unanswered. Finally, she opened the phone book again.

  “Where are the tarot readers listed?” she asked. “The Yellow Pages?”

  “Who you looking for?”

  “Madame Soccoro. The one who sent Sally to find a lawyer.”

  Alvin nodded. “She’s not listed, but I have her in my Rolodex. You won’t get her though. If she’s in at all, her phone will be busy. Sometimes you have to call over and over for days to get through. Then she’ll give you an appointment in a month.”

  “Find the number.”

  “I’ll try.” Alvin left the room.

  Bertha unwrapped another snack cake, and the dogs sat up at attention. She shoved the cake in her mouth and glared at them.

  Madame Soccoro’s phone actually rang. Bertha was surprised after Alvin’s warning and disappointed when the machine clicked on. Bertha listened to the message and a series of beeps then said, “My name is Bertha Brannon. I need to speak to you as soon as possible about—”

  After a sharp beep, a woman’s soft voice said, “Miss Brannon?”

  “Yes.” Bertha was stunned to have gotten through.

  “I’ve been expecting your call,” the woman whispered.

  “Is this Madame Soccoro?”

  “Yes. I can’t talk right now. I have a client here. I can see you at, let me see ...” Bertha heard the sound of papers shuffling. “Can you come in at two this afternoon?”

  “Yes. I’ll be there.”

  “I will see you then.”

  The receiver clicked in Bertha’s ear. She put the phone down and looked at her watch. It was a little after ten.

  Alvin said, “You actually spoke to her?”

  “Yeah. I have an appointment this afternoon. Write down the address for me, will you?”

  “Sure.” He pulled a blank card from his Rolodex and grabbed the red pencil. �
�You know, it’s weird,” he said as he wrote. “I’ve never heard of anyone getting through like that.”

  Bertha wasn’t listening. She stood up and drained her coffee cup. “I need to get home. I have time to shower and grab a few hours’ sleep.”

  Alvin followed her to the door shaking his head. As Bertha pushed open the screen, he said, “Wait a minute.”

  She stopped.

  He went into the kitchen and returned with the snack cakes.

  “You can keep them,” she said. “I’ve got plenty. Grandma leaves them in my Jeep every Saturday.”

  “I’ll take one,” said Alvin, reaching into the box. “But Randy won’t have this stuff in the house. It’d be a shame to waste them.”

  Bertha headed for the driveway with the snack cakes in her hand. Dark clouds rolled across the late-morning sky. A hot wind caught the bill of her ball cap, and she reached to steady it as she slid into the Jeep and tossed the snack cakes in the back. She thought about her quiet, cool bedroom and the unmade bed that waited. She would force herself to shower first, maybe give her dry hair a treatment, then set the alarm for one o’clock and crash. She considered taking the phone off the hook until she remembered the messages she’d left for Sally Morescki. By the time she swung into her own driveway and parked in back of the two-story house, the first large drops of rain hit her dusty windshield. There was a flash of heat lightning in the west.

  Jerome Green was sitting on the back porch. He watched Bertha come across the yard.

  “Hi, buddy. How’s it going?” Bertha said, mounting the steps.

  “Where you been?” the child asked.

  “Took my grandma to the store.” Bertha smiled. “It’s Saturday.”

  “I know that,” Jerome said. “My mama said to bring you. You weren’t here.”

  “Well, I’m here now. What does your mama need?”

  Jerome was barefoot and shirtless. He wore a yellow pair of cotton shorts that were slung under his round belly and hung almost to his knees. “She’s sick,” said Jerome. “She say to bring you. I been waiting for you a long time.”

  Bertha frowned and looked toward Rhonda Green’s apartment door. It stood open. She could see the stairs. “Does she need medicine?” Bertha thought something must be wrong. Rhonda Green had never sent one of the kids to fetch her before. She was a very independent woman.

  Jerome took Bertha’s hand and said, “You come with me.”

  Bertha followed him up the stairs. She’d never seen the apartment above her. Toys were scattered on the floor, but the place was clean. Jerome’s younger brother, Miguel, sat in front of the television with a baby blanket pressed against his cheek, sucking his thumb. The bluish light from the set cast an eerie glow in the dark room. Bertha could hear the rain coming down hard on the roof.

  Jerome pointed to the door of a room that was right above Bertha’s own bedroom. “She’s in there,” he said.

  “Rhonda?” Bertha called. “Rhonda, it’s me—Bertha. Did you need something?”

  She heard a faint voice but couldn’t understand. She turned to the six-year-old and said,

  “Should I go in?”

  Jerome shrugged. “She say to get you.”

  Bertha tapped on the door. “Rhonda, it’s Bertha.” She turned the knob slowly and pushed the door open. The room was fairly dark, but she could see the woman in the bed. A light came from the bathroom. Bertha could see stained towels all over the floor.

  Rhonda pushed herself up in bed and said breathlessly, “I need help.”

  Bertha stepped toward her. “What is it? Are you bleeding?”

  Rhonda’s breaths were deep and ragged. She managed to exhale the word, “Miscarriage.”

  “Where’s the phone? I’m calling an ambulance.”

  “No,” Rhonda croaked. “No insurance.”

  “Fuck that,” said Bertha. “You don’t want to die, do you?”

  “They won’t take me.” Rhonda fell back on her pillow. “Besides, I got those babies out there.”

  “All the more reason why you need to get to the hospital.” Bertha turned and saw Jerome and Miguel standing in the bedroom doorway looking wide-eyed and frightened. She took hold of Jerome’s shoulders and said, “We need to go to the emergency room. Can you help me with your brother?”

  “But it raining.” Jerome fought back tears.

  “It’s all right to get wet today,” Bertha promised him. “Your mama needs to see a doctor.”

  Jerome took Miguel’s chubby little hand and said, “Come on.”

  “Can he manage the stairs?” Bertha ran after him, swooped the baby up in her arms, and rushed down the stairs. She sat Miguel down just inside the back door and turned to Jerome. “Now you guys wait here. I’m going to get your mother.”

  Jerome said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  When Bertha returned to the bedroom, Rhonda Green was moaning in pain. Her nightgown was as bloodstained as the sheets. Bertha pulled a blanket from the end of the bed and wrapped it around the slender woman as she helped her to a sitting position. “Can you walk?” she asked.

  Rhonda nodded, tried to stand, and fell back on the bed. Bertha reached for her and helped her stand. “I got you,” she said as the woman fell against her. They started inching toward the stairs.

  The heavy rain felt like a lukewarm shower. Bertha’s T-shirt was soaked and clinging. Rain dripped from the exposed ends of her yellow hair. Images of the blood upstairs were mixed with flashes of the night before in her tired mind. Dark stains, the coppery smell so strong that, at the moment, she could taste it.

  Bertha helped the boys with seat belts. Miguel was crying and smelled like he’d made a mess in his diaper. He needed a diaper bag and a bottle. He probably would have been more comfortable in his own car seat, but Bertha didn’t have time to look for it. Rhonda Green was not going to die on her. Jerome was quiet. Thunder boomed. Lightning had struck something nearby.

  Bertha met Jerome’s eyes and smiled. “That made me jump too.”

  Jerome said softly, “You gonna be okay, Mama?”

  Bertha patted his arm. “She’s going to be fine.”

  She slid behind the steering wheel, started the Jeep, turned the windshield wipers on high, and backed up. When did the bleeding start, Bertha wanted to ask. But Rhonda was quiet. Her eyes were closed. Bertha knew she was conscious when she winced as the Jeep rolled through a puddle. Bertha was dimly aware of her own burning eyes and a faint, throbbing headache. She put the Jeep in first gear and said under her breath, “What a weekend.”

  Chapter Six

  The emergency room was packed, but Rhonda Green, slumped in a wheelchair and wrapped in a blood-soaked blanket, was taken ahead of the others. With Miguel on her hip, chewing on the cardboard box that contained Little Debbie Snack Cakes, and Jerome sitting beside her, Bertha talked to a woman at a computer. She gave Rhonda’s name and address.

  When asked about insurance, Bertha said, “She’s probably got something through her job at the bank. I’m her neighbor. I don’t know the details.” She saw no reason to tell the woman that Rhonda worked two part-time jobs, probably all she could find, and between them she had no insurance.

  The computer woman pointed to a room full of people and said, “Wait in there.”

  They were all soggy from the rain. Jerome was shirtless and barefoot, Miguel was still in his terry-cloth footed sleepers, and the only thing dry on Bertha was the hair protected by the baseball cap. She found an empty seat in the waiting room and tried to think what to do next. Several people gave her disapproving looks when Miguel started wailing. An old man with an ice pack on his head moaned and looked as if he might vomit if the noise didn’t stop. Bertha tried to jostle the toddler on her knee, but her attempts were futile.

  “He’s hungry,” Jerome informed her.

  Bertha pulled the box out of Miguel’s hands, retrieved a snack cake, and opened it. She tossed the cellophane wrapper on the table covered with magazines next to her and offered the b
aby the cake.

  Miguel snatched it and smeared the chocolate and marshmallow cake across his brown cheeks. A slobbery glump landed on Bertha’s thigh and slid down the inside of her leg. A white woman, who was holding her own nicely dressed toddler, looked at Bertha with a horrified expression.

  “My mama gives him milk and food from a jar,” Jerome said. “I think he’s gonna have a bellyache now.”

  “He looks happy to me,” Bertha said. “You want one of these?”

  Jerome nodded. Only after he had the treat safe in his hands did he add, “He don’t smell so good, do he?”

  With that, Miguel started crying again. An orderly poked his head around the corner, probably to make sure she wasn’t beating the kid. The white woman across the room glared at Bertha as her own little girl started to fuss. Jerome, his cheeks stuffed with snack cake, put both hands over his ears.

  Near the entrance, a man in filthy work clothes, with drunken friends holding him on either side, limped and staggered toward the reception desk. A thin African-American orderly rushed up behind them with a wheelchair, and all four of them fell. The orderly screamed from the bottom of the stack, and as a security guard pulled one of the men up, a second one rolled under a desk. Several minutes passed before they were all sitting in front of the computer talking about their buddy’s fall from a roof.

  Just as she realized that Miguel was laughing, a woman behind her said, “Bertha, is that you?”

  Bertha turned, and found herself confronted with the last woman on earth she wanted to see her soaking wet, covered with snack cake, and holding a smelly baby.

  “Hello, Colleen,” she said.

  “My God. It is you.” Colleen stepped closer. “What are you doing here?”

  “My neighbor’s ill. I brought her in. These are her kids. I thought you worked nights on ortho.”