“I got a chance for days in E.R.,” Colleen said. “I’ve been on days for over a year.”
“You cut your hair.” Bertha was really looking at her now.
Colleen touched the ends of her very short hair self-consciously. “It was such a bother. Long hair takes so much time.”
Bertha couldn’t think of anything else to say. She’d imagined running into Colleen hundreds of times. She’d had so many things to tell her. Now all she could think was that her long blond hair was gone. Bertha remembered how Colleen used to lift it off her neck and drape it across her pillow at night. Bertha had loved to stroke the silky, fine texture.
Miguel was quieter now, his face tear-streaked and covered with marshmallow, his upper lip shiny with snot. He leaned his head wearily against Bertha, and the mess was smeared across the front of her wet T-shirt.
Colleen smiled. “Your hair’s different, too.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Colleen wrinkled her nose. “The baby needs to be changed.”
“I know. I didn’t have time, and his mother was in no shape to help me.”
“But she gonna be fine now,” Jerome said.
Colleen touched Jerome’s dark hair. “Of course she is, honey.”
The delicate, creamy hand. The black woolly hair. Bertha had to look away. Colleen crossed the room and engaged the white woman in a conversation. She hadn’t even said “Good-bye.” She just left.
Then the woman looked at Bertha and said something to Colleen. Bertha watched them. Finally the woman reached for a large vinyl bag that sat by her chair, rummaged around, and pulled out a disposable diaper. Colleen said something else to her, and the woman took out a second one.
Bertha smiled at her and waved. The woman smiled weakly and looked away.
“Can you change a diaper?” Colleen was beside her again.
“Do I have to?”
“There’s a changing table in the ladies’ room,” Colleen said. “I’ll get a couple of wash cloths and towels. He needs to be cleaned on both ends. Be sure and get it all off, Bertha. No half measures here.”
Bertha said in a high falsetto, “I don’t know nothin bout changin no babies, Miss Scarlett.”
Colleen didn’t smile. “She’s your neighbor, Bertha.”
Bertha wasn’t sure if fatigue or sadness washed over her. She stood slowly. “Thanks, Colleen.”
“I’ll see if I can find some dry hospital gowns for these kids,” Colleen said.
Bertha nodded, motioned for Jerome to follow, and went to find the ladies’ room.
*
Colleen not only produced dry hospital pajamas covered with ducks and bunnies for the boys, but also put together a tray of orange juice, cut-up bananas, and soda crackers, which they wolfed down hungrily.
Bertha spilled a little juice on her cutoff jeans while holding a paper cup for Miguel. Jerome had told her the baby drank from a cup at home all the time. After the second spill, Jerome admitted that Miguel’s cup at home had a lid to it. By noon Miguel was curled up on Bertha’s lap asleep with his thumb in his mouth, and Jerome was looking at the pictures in the last magazine on the table. A nurse came to the waiting room door and called Bertha’s name.
Bertha stood and felt a sharp cramp in her leg. She shifted Miguel to her hip, and he cried out sleepily, then rested his head on her shoulder.
The nurse said, “You can come back now.”
Bertha picked up the bag with the boys’ damp clothes and followed the nurse through a maze of hallways. Jerome hurried to her side, trying to keep step with her. They finally walked into a room, and Bertha saw Rhonda Green on a gurney. Her dark skin was a striking contrast to the white linen. She had an I.V. in one arm and a blood-pressure cuff on the other.
“She’s sedated,” the nurse whispered. “Wait here for the doctor.”
“Mama.” Jerome ran to the sleeping woman, his bare feet slapping on the cool tile floor. “Mama.”
Rhonda moaned and turned her head toward her son. She smiled weakly and lay still.
“She’s taking a nap,” Bertha said. “Come over here. We’ve got to wait for the doctor.”
Jerome considered the request. “I won’t wake her up.”
Bertha pulled a stool next to the gurney and helped Jerome up with her free hand. “Okay,” she said. “She might rest better with you over here after all.” She sat down on a molded plastic chair, shifted Miguel onto her lap, and waited. The room was cool and quiet. Bertha couldn’t help thinking that everyone got to sleep but her. Then she closed her eyes.
“Miss Brannon?” A voice startled her and she jerked her head up. A middle-aged African-American woman in a white lab coat stood next to her.
Bertha blinked. She shifted Miguel and shook her arm that had fallen asleep under his weight, wondering how long she’d been sitting in that position and what the time was.
“My name is Doctor Brooks.” The woman extended her hand.
Bertha took it. Her handshake was firm and professional.
“How well do you know Mrs. Green?” asked Dr. Brooks.
“Not very well,” Bertha said. “We’re neighbors. She and the kids live upstairs.”
“Can you tell me who performed the abortion?”
Bertha shook her head slowly.
“The nearest clinic is St. Louis,” Dr. Brooks said. “If she didn’t go there, then we’re probably dealing with something homespun. Looks like a standard scraping. But with a pregnant uterus, it’s much more difficult. Nicks like this are pretty common.”
“Nicks?”
“I think the clinic uses suction,” Dr. Brooks went on. “I’m going to assume this was something done locally and illegally. I’ll give her a round of antibiotics. Can’t assume there were sterile conditions. She’s lost a lot of blood and will need a transfusion. Red count low, platelets high. I’m pretty sure the hemorrhage has stopped. If not, we may need to do surgery. We could cauterize the lining. That usually does it. I’m going to admit her. We need to watch her overnight.”
“Admit her?”
“Miss Brannon, your neighbor nearly died,” said Dr. Brooks. “I can’t tell you how many women bleed to death because they don’t come in soon enough.”
“God.”
“I don’t suppose you know who her own doctor is?”
Bertha shook her head no.
“What about family?”
Jerome was resting his head on the rail to the gurney with one hand on his mother’s shoulder. Miguel sucked his thumb vigorously. They were both quiet. She asked, “Can I talk to her?”
“You can try,” said Dr. Brooks, who was already heading toward the door.
Bertha approached the sleeping woman. “Rhonda?” she said. “Rhonda?”
Rhonda Green opened her eyes, blinked twice, and shut them.
“Can you hear me?” Bertha asked.
“M-m-m,” Rhonda moaned.
“They’re going to keep you overnight,” said Bertha. “Is there someone who can take care of the kids for you?”
Silence.
“Rhonda,” Bertha said again.
“Can’t you keep them?” a woman behind her asked.
Bertha turned. It was Colleen.
“Colleen, I really would try, but I haven’t had any sleep, and I have a very important appointment at two. I can’t keep them.”
Colleen walked closer to her. “Then our only choice is to call Child and Family Services and put them in a temporary foster home. Even that could take hours. You can’t just leave them here.”
Bertha sighed. Jerome was watching her expectantly.
“Bertha, you’ve got to do it,” said Colleen. “It’s just overnight. You could take them to their own home, for God sakes. Don’t you think they’re scared enough?”
“I really have knocked myself out,” Bertha said.
Colleen stepped closer and lowered her voice. “You saved the woman’s life, Bertha. Maybe that was just a reflex, but you did the ri
ght thing. I can see you’re tired. Frankly, you look like hell. And I can just imagine what that’s about.”
“Stop.” Bertha closed her eyes and reeled with the verbal blow. Colleen still knew her soft places.
Colleen exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. I hear you’ve cleaned up your act.”
Bertha’s mouth was dry. She was tired.
“Forget it.” Bertha turned to Jerome. “Your mama has to stay at the hospital overnight. We can come back and get her tomorrow.”
“I can stay too,” Jerome said. “You don’t have to watch me.”
“She’s just gonna sleep,” Bertha said. “I’m hungry. How about we drive through McDonald’s and get some lunch?”
Jerome shook his head stubbornly. “You take Miguel. I want to stay here.”
Bertha pulled the plastic chair next to Jerome. She sat down and said, “Your mother needs to sleep to get better. If you want, I can call someone else you can stay with. Do you have a grandma or an aunt?”
Jerome nodded. “In Chicago.”
“That’s a long way away. Your mother only needs to be here overnight. Why don’t you let me help you? You can sleep in your own bed and have your own toys. I’ll bring you back tomorrow to get her.”
Jerome’s shoulders slumped in surrender. “Okay,” he said.
“Know what I’m doing after lunch?” said Bertha. “I’m going to visit a gypsy fortune-teller. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
Colleen chuckled behind her. “Jesus, Bertha, are you ever going to grow up?”
Bertha stood, helped Jerome off the stool, and said, “I hope not.” Then she headed for the door.
Chapter Seven
Bertha checked the address again. The white house looked no different than any other on the street. The neighborhood was older, full of small Cape Cods that a realtor might try to sell for starter homes or rental property. There wasn’t a sign. The last thing she wanted to do, at this point, was knock on the wrong door.
The rain had stopped, and the warm air was sticky. Dark clouds in the southwest still threatened. Miguel whimpered from the backseat. He’d sat in a high chair at McDonald’s for about five minutes, munching on french fries, and then insisted on getting down. He had a big voice for a little boy. From her booth she watched him run up and down the aisles and into the play area, where he squealed with delight and climbed into the box of balls. Several customers had stared at the two boys dressed in hospital pajamas, and at Bertha, whose T‑shirt and cutoffs were stained with snack cake and orange juice. Bertha’d intended to eat in the Jeep but thought better of it when she remembered her first experience with Miguel and food.
“Mama don’t let him in there.” Jerome pointed to the box of balls.
“Why not?” Bertha asked, looking at the glass-enclosed play area. There were safe-looking bars and stuff to climb on. What could happen?
“Cause he throws the balls,” said Jerome.
About that time Miguel bounced a blue plastic ball off the head of a little white boy. The kid screamed, and his mother gathered him into her arms and tried to quiet him.
Bertha walked slowly to the play area and stood with her hands on her hips over the box of balls. She towered over the white woman with the screaming child. The ends of her bushy blond hair stuck out from the edges of the baseball cap. She folded her arms across her chest, covering the orange-juice stain, and waited. The woman glared at her and backed away slowly, stroking her little boy’s freckled forehead.
Bertha turned to the smiling toddler. “Now why you want to go and do that?”
Miguel laughed, flashing four perfect white teeth.
Bertha tried to sound angry. “Get your funky behind out of that box of balls!”
“No!” Miguel crossed his plump, brown arms over his yellow-duck pajama top.
Bertha reached into the box of balls and hoisted him out.
He cried, “Mama! Want Mama!”
She felt as though every customer’s eyes were on her while she packed up the remaining food and left.
When they were all settled in the Jeep, Jerome said, “I told you so.”
Now, in front of the house, Bertha checked her watch. It was five after two. She said to Jerome, “Wait here. I’m going to see if this is the right house.”
“Don’t look like a gypsy lives here,” Jerome said.
Bertha shrugged. “Well, you never know.”
She rang the doorbell and waited. She was ready to hit the bell again when the door cracked open and a woman said, “Miss Brannon?”
“That’s right. Are you Madame Soccoro?”
“Yes.” The woman nodded toward the Jeep. “Go get the children. I’ll see if I can find something for them to do while we talk.”
Bertha nodded and said “Thanks.” She went to retrieve the boys.
“It smells funny in here,” Jerome said as they stepped through the open door.
“That’s incense,” Bertha told him.
“Do all gypsies smell like incense?”
Madame Soccoro answered. “I’m not a gypsy. Sometimes people get us confused. I’m a witch.”
Jerome’s eyes grew wide. He stepped close to Bertha and squeezed her hand.
“Don’t be afraid,” Madame Soccoro said to him. “I’m a good witch. Come on. I have a game for you to play.”
Bertha followed Madame Soccoro through an arched doorway into a small dining room. She was a dark Latina woman, her English so precise Bertha thought it might be a second language. Madame Soccoro was of average height and a little more than average weight. She could have been thirty‑five or forty‑five, maybe more. She wore faded blue jeans, a red shirt, and heavy gold earrings. She had long crimson fingernails and curly black hair that hung to her waist. Though her skin was as dark as Bertha’s, her eyes were pale green. She picked up a cylindrical box and knelt beside Jerome.
“These are very special blocks,” she said. “They are many shapes and colors. You can make designs with them or build whatever you can imagine. Some are very small, and you must use them on the table so your brother doesn’t get them.”
Jerome drew himself up tall. “I’m too big to play with blocks. Do you have a computer?”
Madame Soccoro was undaunted. She pulled the lid off the carton and scattered the wooden blocks across the table. “You can make a whole city with these. Or a picture.”
Jerome stepped close to the table.
Madame Soccoro sorted the blocks by shape and color. After a moment Jerome reached for a red triangular block and placed it with the others; then he picked up a purple square.
“We will be in the next room.” Madame Soccoro stood, touched Jerome’s shoulder lightly, and pointed to the doorway that led to the living room.
Jerome nodded and continued arranging the blocks.
The smell of musk and sandalwood was strong. A love seat was covered with a colorful shell-stitched afghan. Two long‑haired gray cats were curled together sleeping on a single cushion. Crowded into the small room were an overstuffed recliner, an antique rocking chair, and a mismatched ottoman. A card table and two folding chairs were set up near the window. An antique floor lamp towered over one corner of the table.
Madame Soccoro led her to a chair. “Have you ever had a reading, Miss Brannon?”
Bertha shifted Miguel on her hip, a muscle in her lower back protesting. “No. That’s not why I came today. I need to talk to you about something.”
“Set the child down, Miss Brannon,” Madame Soccoro said, lighting a stick of incense and securing it in a hanging plant. “He will be all right. We can watch him.”
Bertha put Miguel down and said, “You don’t know this one. He has a lot of energy.”
“It’s the age, Miss Brannon.” Madame Soccoro sat down at the card table and adjusted the lamp.
Miguel waddled across the room to a magazine rack and pulled out a newspaper. He plopped down on his butt and pulled the sections apart. Bertha started after him.
“Let him play,” said Madam Soccoro. “I have read it.”
Bertha saw the headlines. It was today’s paper. She wondered if this woman was aware of Bertha’s connection to those headlines. If she were psychic, she would know. Miguel pulled at one large sheet after the other. He seemed content so Bertha sat down.
Madame Soccoro slid a deck of rather large cards across the table toward Bertha. “Shuffle the cards, Miss Brannon.”
“Please, call me Bertha.”
“What an interesting name,” said the witch. “Very rare these days, old-fashioned in a way.”
“I’m named for my grandmothers. The one on my father’s side is Bertha Adele. Folks call her Addie. My grandmother on my mother’s side was Augusta Olene. I’m Bertha Olene. I never cared much for either name, but I’m closest to my paternal grandmother and prefer Bertha.”
“Olene. Is that Italian?”
Bertha shrugged. “I don’t know much about my mother’s family. I’ve never met Augusta Olene. I think, a long time ago, my mother told me she preferred to be called Gussy. Maybe my father told me, I don’t know.”
Madame Soccoro nodded slowly. “The children are not yours?”
“My neighbor is ill,” said Bertha. “I had to take her to the hospital.”
“You are helping her with her children. That is generous.”
Bertha shrugged. “There didn’t seem to be any other way.”
“Ah. I can see you are tired and have many other things to do. You tend to help people in need, don’t you?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Bertha asked, looking into Madame Soccoro’s liquid green eyes.
Madame Soccoro smiled. “Do you really need an answer for that question, Bertha?”
Bertha shook her head. She could hear Miguel rattling the newspaper behind her. The smell of the incense was growing stronger. A thin trail of smoke rose out of the hanging plant over the dark woman’s shoulder.
“Does your neighbor work?”
“Two jobs.” Bertha nodded. “No insurance, though.”
“Very common these days. Maybe the babysitter will give you a hand.”
“Babysitter?” Bertha said. “What babysitter?”
“If your neighbor works two jobs, someone is caring for the children.”
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 6
