Bertha turned toward the archway that led to the dining room. “Jerome,” she called. “Jerome, come here.”
Jerome stepped to the doorway, an exasperated frown on his face. “I’m building something,” he said.
“Do you have a babysitter?” Bertha asked.
“Megan,” he said.
“Does she come to your house, or do you go to hers?”
“She comes at four.” He tapped his foot impatiently.
“Today?” Bertha asked hopefully.
“All days,” said Jerome. “Can I play now?”
“Sure. Go on.” She turned to the woman across the card table and said, “Thanks. I don’t have much experience with kids. A babysitter hadn’t occurred to me.”
“You have a lot on your mind,” Madame Soccoro told her. “Now, please, shuffle the cards.”
Bertha picked up. “I need to ask some questions.”
“Of course,” said Madame Soccoro. “Why else would you get a reading?”
Bertha sat the cards in the center of the table. “I honestly didn’t come here for a reading.” She started to explain that she needed to find Sally Morescki but was interrupted.
“The answers are in the cards, Bertha.” Madame Soccoro picked up the deck and passed it back across the table. “Cut them into three stacks.”
Bertha made three stacks, and Madame Soccoro gathered them up. From the top, she laid three cards down, then several cards in a circular pattern around them.
“You are an honest person,” said Madame Soccoro. “At least you try to be.”
Bertha thought about honesty for a moment. It was the part of her new sobriety that gave her the most trouble. Her first inclination was still to lie. But she did try to be honest.
“I see a lot of blood,” Madame Soccoro said suddenly. “All around you.”
“That’s the reason I came today. A man was murdered in my office last night. Then, of course, my neighbor Rhonda Green—”
Madame Soccoro held up a hand. “There will be more. Some events you can change, and some you cannot.”
Bertha watched the woman’s hands move across the cards, touching first one and then the next. Her stomach tightened.
“I see someone close to you who is in danger.”
“Who?”
“I am not sure.” Madame Soccoro examined the cards closely. “It could be a man or a woman. Someone old.”
Bertha tried to tell herself she didn’t believe this stuff. But the atmosphere was hypnotic—enthralling. She felt herself drawn in.
“I see that money is tight for you right now, but a great deal of money will come to you soon.” Madame Soccoro went on.
“Wait a minute. Who’s in danger?”
“Remember, Bertha,” said Madame Soccoro. “Some things you can change, and some you cannot. You try to help everybody. You need to be more selective. Someone is using you.” Madame Soccoro tapped her crimson fingernail on a card. “This is the Fool. Because you are honest, you assume everyone is. There is an ominous circle of dishonesty around you and the people close to you.”
Bertha shut her eyes and sighed. “You’re talking in riddles.”
“I see a period of learning. This card is the Hanged Man.”
“Death?” Bertha looked at the card. It was upside down to her. She saw a tree and a rope. A man hanging by one foot.
“No. Not in this card. This card is about learning secrets. Self‑sacrifice leads to mystical enlightenment. The God, Odin, hangs by his foot, and from his sacrifice, he learns many secrets. At the threshold between life and death, where you can see both worlds, the secrets of eternity are revealed.”
“I’m not looking for the secrets of eternity. I’m looking for Sally Morescki.”
Madame Soccoro examined the cards, then looked at Bertha, seeming puzzled.
“She told me you sent her to me.”
“Sent her where?”
“I’m an attorney. Sally Morescki told me she had a reading and you advised her to get a lawyer.”
“For what?” asked Madame Soccoro.
Bertha was suddenly angry. “Are you telling me you don’t know Sally Morescki?”
“Remember the dangerous circle of deception around you. Perhaps she is part of it. I can’t reveal who my clients are, of course,” Madame Soccoro said cryptically. “This Morescki. Is it the murder that was in the paper?”
Bertha nodded. Her stomach churned. Her lips were dry.
“And Sally Morescki is connected to this murder?”
“Yes,” said Bertha. “Joe Morescki was the murder victim. Sally is his wife.”
Madame Soccoro was quiet. She looked at the cards, then at a spot over Bertha’s shoulder. “I see blood all around you. In the recent past or near future.” She hesitated, then added, “Is your mother alive?”
Bertha shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I see an older female. She is close to you. There is the karma of three lifetimes between you.”
“My Grandma Addie,” Bertha supplied. “She practically raised me. We’re very close.”
The dark woman shook her head. “Those who are close to you are also in the circle. Be careful for her.”
“Is she the one in danger?” Bertha felt angry and a little scared.
“All I can see is an older person. Is there another old person you are close to?”
“No. I don’t think so.” She wanted to leave. She wanted to drive to Grandma’s house and make sure she was all right. She jumped when a phone in the back of the house rang.
Madame Soccoro stood, said, “Excuse me,” and left the room.
Bertha heard her pick up the phone and say, “Yes. I have been expecting your call.”
She’d said that when Bertha called earlier. Did she say it to everyone?
Bertha stared at the cards spread in front of her. Her eyes were drawn to the Hanged Man. She wasn’t even sure if she believed in the tarot or psychic powers, though Grandma could forecast the weather with her bunions and Aunt Lucy could tell if a man was cheating with tea leaves. She’d always accepted their beliefs. The more Madame Soccoro told her, the more questions she had. If Madame Soccoro hadn’t sent Sally Morescki, then who had? Did Sally actually murder her husband? Where the hell was she now? According to the phone message Pop Wilson found on the body, Sally had lured Joe back to the Lambert Building with a story about a meeting with Bertha. Why would Sally need to get Joe up there to kill him? There had to be a hundred other places—
“I’m sorry.” Madame Soccoro sat down across from Bertha again. “I usually leave the phone off the hook when I am doing a reading, but today I am expecting an important call.”
“Do you always answer the phone like that?” Bertha asked.
“Like what?”
“I have been expecting your call.”
Madame Soccoro flushed. “Do you think maybe sometimes I do expect people to call?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
A scream pierced the silence. Bertha jumped and turned. Miguel had a cat by the tail and a large scratch on his arm. He looked at Bertha and started wailing. Bertha crossed the room and swept the child up in her arms.
Madame Soccoro picked up a scrap of newspaper and swatted at the cat. “Bad pussy.”
Bertha surveyed the room. There were tiny scraps of newspaper everywhere. She knelt and started to clean up the mess.
“No. No. Don’t worry about it,” said Madame Soccoro. “Why don’t you take these boys home and come back again when we can talk alone?”
Bertha stood awkwardly with the whimpering child on her hip. “How much is this session?”
“We didn’t get to finish,” said Madame Soccoro. “Can you come back tomorrow night at nine o’clock? I know that is late, but I have a family dinner. My daughter is in town. I will meditate on your question. Sometimes the answers are there but are hard to interpret.”
“I’ll be here,” said Bertha reluctantly. She was tired and ready to let the polic
e solve the Morescki murder. If it wasn’t for the uncomfortable feeling that someone wanted her involved, and the dark woman’s warning that the trouble wasn’t over, she would have insisted on paying up and forgetting the whole thing. All she wanted to do was get home, check on Grandma, change her shirt, and turn the boys over to their babysitter for as long as possible. The image of her quiet, air-conditioned bedroom was enticing.
In the dining room, Jerome had built a sharp, cold structure with blue blocks. Around the base of the structure was a circle of red.
“It’s time to go, Bud.”
“Do I have to?” Jerome whined.
“What a beautiful tower,” said Madame Soccoro. “I will leave it standing as long as I can.”
“Forever?” asked Jerome.
“As long as I can,” said Madame Soccoro.
Chapter Eight
After several rings, Grandma answered the phone. “Yello.”
“Hi.” Bertha tried to sound calm but was out of breath from lugging Miguel up the stairs to Rhonda Green’s apartment. “How’s your day going?”
“I had a nice dinner,” said Grandma. “This is Elder Power day, so Lulu came and fixed me a bowl of chicken-noodle soup and a Velveeta cheese sandwich with catsup. She brought her little girl with her. I tell you that chile wore me out.”
“You didn’t have potato chips, did you?”
Grandma loved potato chips but usually had a mild gall bladder attack when she ate them. Yet Lulu, a skinny white girl, always brought junk food.
“Are you riding shotgun on my lunch?” Grandma sounded indignant.
“No,” said Bertha. “I had one of those witchy feelings, and I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“You and your mama and your witchy feelings.” Grandma fussed at her, but Bertha knew she respected many things unnamed and unknown.
In her own way Grandma had respected Sarah Brannon. Bertha didn’t remember much about her mother. Grandma told her she was one of those “high yaller” gals who was too young for Bertha’s daddy and too good for the rest of the family.
Bertha said, “I’m going to be at home later today and the rest of the night. If you need anything, call me. Tomorrow I’ll probably be at the neighbor’s. That’s where I’m calling from.”
Bertha gave Grandma Rhonda Green’s phone number and explained a little about the situation. She told Grandma she was helping with the neighbor’s children for the weekend.
“That’s nice,” said Grandma. “Neighbors are important. As good as family sometimes.”
Grandma started talking about her own neighbors, and Bertha listened while she watched Miguel take Tupperware containers one by one from a lower cabinet.
Finally Bertha asked again, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Honey, I’m fine,” Grandma insisted. “Now if you don’t want nothin’ more, my favorite show comes on in a few minutes.”
“Tell you what,” said Bertha. “I’ll check back with you later. In the meantime, don’t talk to any strangers.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes, honey. Nobody’s gonna get me.”
“She didn’t leave the bag, did she?” asked Bertha.
“Who? What bag?”
“The potato chips.”
“The little girl ate most of them. Now don’t worry about me. I feel fine. I am fine. If anything changes, I’ll call.”
While waiting for the babysitter, Bertha gathered everything in Rhonda Green’s bedroom that was soiled. When she pulled the crimson-stained sheet off the bed and found a similar stain on the mattress, she remembered what Madame Soccoro had said about blood. In the basement Bertha ran cold water in the deep utility sink and added a generic detergent. The water quickly turned bright pink.
*
Megan was a young, pregnant woman, about eighteen or twenty years old, with skin the color of caramel. She had a round face and freckles across her broad nose. Her hair was done in one of those fashionable weaves, swept back on the sides, gathered up high in the back and tapered to a “V” down past her shoulders. She was tall and slender, except for her belly. She arrived promptly at four pm, and Jerome and Miguel were happy to see her. She came up the stairs without knocking and was surprised to find Bertha instead of Rhonda Green.
Jerome immediately started in on a long story about his sick mother, the hospital, the box of balls, and the witch. Bertha waited, nodding and smiling weakly. When he took his first breath, Bertha extended her hand, introduced herself to Megan, and explained that Rhonda was sick and needed to spend the night in the hospital. She asked Megan how long she could stay.
“I usually watch the boys until midnight on Saturdays,” said Megan. “I can spend the night, if that helps. I think I can stay till noon tomorrow. I need to call my mom and let her know where I’m at.”
“That would help me a lot,” Bertha said. “I’m not used to children. These two have worn me out.”
“Is Rhonda going to be all right?” asked Megan.
“Sure. It’s just one of those female things.” Bertha wanted to avoid the details.
Megan cocked her head suspiciously, but Miguel turned over something in the kitchen, and she was distracted. When Bertha left the apartment, Megan was sweeping cereal off the kitchen floor, and Jerome was at the computer, booting up his favorite game. Miguel waved at Bertha shyly and smiled as she left.
*
By five, Bertha was in her shower, letting the steaming needles rain down on her back. She stood there for a long time, not wanting to move, hypnotized by the warm comfort. Her thoughts spun through the events of the previous twenty‑four hours, stopping first here, then there, in some exhausted effort to make sense of it all. Finally the water got cold, and she turned it off. She wrapped herself in a bath towel, closed all of the blinds, stepped over the Tylenol that was still scattered on the floor, and slipped between the cool, rumpled sheets. The last thing she remembered hearing was the familiar sound of Jerome’s video game from the apartment upstairs.
*
Something woke her. Her room was dark, and for a moment she was confused. Bertha thought it might be raining again. Wind was rattling the rusty awning on the neighbor’s carport. Maybe a trashcan had blown over. She made her eyes focus on the clock. The red digital numbers said 11:57. She rolled over and closed her eyes but couldn’t go back to sleep. After what seemed like a long time the phone rang. She reached for it automatically.
A man’s voice said, “Bertha, this is George.”
“George?”
“I’m sorry to call you this late. Don’t worry. Everything’s quiet in your office. I remembered something that I think might be important. It didn’t occur to me until I got here tonight and saw mailboxes.”
“Mailboxes?” Bertha realized she was talking to the security guard at the Lambert Building. “You mean something about last night?”
“Yeah. I don’t know if this is important, but when I came in—I guess you’d already called the police by then—right at midnight. You know, I saw your Jeep out front and wondered what you were doing in the building.”
The line started clicking. Another call was coming in. Bertha shook her head in disbelief. “Wait a minute, George. I got another call. Can you hold on?”
“Why don’t you call me back? I’ll be here all night. I’m not even sure if this is important.”
“Will do,” said Bertha, and she hit the switch hook.
“Bertha,” said Grandma. “There’s a fire.”
Bertha sat straight up. “What? Where?”
“It’s Latch’s grocery store. I had a stomachache and couldn’t sleep. The windows are open—there’s a nice breeze from the west. I wouldn’t have bothered you this late, but you seemed so worried earlier.”
“Are the fire trucks there?” Bertha asked.
“No,” said Grandma. “The alarm’s going, though. They should be here soon.”
Not in that neighborhood, thought Bertha. “I better call them. Are you all right?”
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“Yes, I’m fine. I was sitting here looking out my bedroom window. The neighborhood is sure quiet this time of night—ever since those youngsters across the street moved out, anyway. I heard this loud ‘boom.’ Johnson’s dog started barking.”
“How do you know the store’s on fire?” It wasn’t a store anymore. Just an empty, boarded‑up building.
“I can see smoke rolling out from under the roof,” said Grandma. The windows are orange. I know a fire when I see one. There goes Edith Latch out on her lawn hollering like a crazy woman. Bertha, maybe you better call them. I’ll hang up.”
“You hang on. I can put you on hold, remember?”
“Oh, all right.” Grandma sighed. “I’ll hang on.”
Bertha hit the switch hook again and dialed 9‑1‑1. The dispatcher, who sounded familiar, told her that someone had already called. She was on her feet, gathering her clothes, when she hit the switch back to Grandma. There was only a dial tone. She dialed Grandma’s number again. The phone rang over and over while she paced the bedroom, pulling on her cutoffs and a T‑shirt. She told herself that Grandma had gone out to talk to Edith Latch or to get a better look at the fire trucks that must be there by now. She didn’t put the ringing phone down until she was ready to go out the door.
*
The closer Bertha got to the old neighborhood the more people she saw. Summer nights they sat on the dark porches of their unair-conditioned houses. Stereos boomed so loud the pavement throbbed. She couldn’t hear the words, but the bass was unmistakable. Teenage boys congregated around cars that were nicer than the one Bertha was driving. They called to her as she sped past. She heard the sirens several blocks away and felt a chill when she rounded a corner and saw an orange glow against the sky. This was a big fire.
A police car was parked across the intersection. An officer walked up to the driver’s side of the Jeep.
“Sorry, this street is closed.” Bertha recognized Toni Matulis beneath the black bill of her hat.
“My grandma lives down there,” Bertha said.
Nine Nights on the Windy Tree Page 7
