Nine Nights on the Windy Tree

by Martha Miller

  “Miss Brannon? Is that you?”

  “It’s me, and I’ve got to get by.”

  “Which house is your grandma’s?”

  “Third house down.” Bertha pointed. “The green siding.”

  “They’ve been evacuated,” Toni said, raising her voice over the siren of a second fire truck. “With this wind, a spark could land on any of those roofs.”

  “I’ve got to get in,” Bertha insisted again.

  Toni swung her flashlight and indicated the opposite corner. “Park over there. I’ll let you walk in. Can’t let anyone drive over those hoses.”

  Bertha put the Jeep in reverse, backed across the intersection, and double-parked next to a white station wagon. She re-crossed the street, running. She could see Grandma’s white neighbor, Edith Latch, in a housecoat, standing with a group of neighbors.

  “Mrs. Latch, you seen my grandma?” Bertha called to her.

  Edith Latch turned. Her face was pale, streaked with soot and tears. She squinted and said, “Who is your grandma?”

  “It’s me, Mrs. Latch, Bertha.”

  “My God, Bertha. What’s happened to your hair?”

  Bertha remembered she’d left the ball cap at home. After the shower and several hours of restless sleep, her hair would be sticking out in all directions. She heard a loud crack and watched part of the burning building’s roof collapse. Sparks shot skyward. The heat and stench made Bertha’s eyes water.

  “You seen my grandma?” Bertha pleaded this time.

  Edith Latch looked around at the others, then turned back to Bertha and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about her. She could have gone down to the Johnsons’. Some other folks have. Power’s out on this side of the street. See the flames licking at those wires back there?” Edith Latch pointed through the space between the burning building and her own house, back toward the alley. The wires were down—both power lines and phone lines as near as Bertha could tell. No wonder Grandma hadn’t answered the phone.

  Bertha turned back toward Toni Matulis. If she was here, Pop Wilson must be here too. She considered looking for him. A fireman was telling them to get back across the street. The wind changed, and suddenly she and the others were enveloped in thick, suffocating smoke. Bertha’s eyes stung and watered. She backed up with the others a few steps. The minute the fireman went back to work, she turned and walked toward Grandma’s house. Behind her she heard another loud crack and the crash of collapsing beams. Sparks whooshed into the air. Bertha was sure no one saw her step up on the porch of the little avocado house.

  The front door was locked. Grandma never locked the door during the day. To lock it at night made sense, and Grandma always locked up if she was going to be gone for a while. Maybe she’d gone down to the Johnsons’. Bertha pulled her own ring from her pocket and fumbled to find her old key. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used it. The wooden screen door screeched behind her as she stepped into the cool, unlighted living room.

  “Grandma?” she called. “Hey, Grandma, it’s me.”

  Bertha wished she’d brought a flashlight, a match, anything. She moved in the general direction of the bedroom, bumped into a chair, and stepped around it. From where she stood she could see the bedroom window. The night was alive with flashing red lights and the bright orange glow of the fire. She could see smoke floating in the air inside the bedroom. It came through the open window. The little house seemed to let the smoke in and hold it there.

  “Grandma, you in here?”

  “I’m here.” Grandma switched on a small flashlight. She was sitting in a chair near the window with several boxes on the floor around her.

  Bertha said, “Grandma, you got to come with me.”

  “I ain’t goin nowhere.” Grandma switched off the flashlight, and for a moment Bertha lost her.

  Bertha swallowed hard and stepped forward. She felt her way across the room, and when her toe hit a box she slowly sat down on it. She could see the whole scene outside. For a moment she watched it with Grandma. Finally she fanned the air.

  “Pfew. It sure is smoky in here. Maybe we should watch the fire from the yard.”

  “And what if this house goes next? Look out there. The roof on Edith’s front porch is burning.”

  Bertha imagined herself picking Grandma up and hauling her out of the house, the old lady beating on her shoulders and cussing. She was a big girl and was pretty sure she could overpower the old woman, but it was the last thing she wanted to do.

  “Grandma,” she said, “you can’t stop the fire by staying in the house.”

  “Everything I have is in this house. My whole life. I tried to sort it out, but there’s too much. When you get to be my age, the most important things are in the past, not the future.”

  “I’ll carry out anything you say. I’m strong.”

  “No,” Grandma said firmly. “It’s going to rain soon. They’ll get the fire put out. And if they don’t, then this is it for me. Tell you the truth, I’m okay with it. I had a good long life, and I ate potato chips right to the end.” Grandma held up a half-empty bag, shook it at Bertha, and then dropped it back into her lap.

  Bertha felt for the arm of the chair and found Grandma’s thin cool hand. She had to think of a way to catch her unaware.

  Grandma grasped her hand and pulled it to her face, nuzzled it, and said softly, “I love you, honey. I buried so many that death feels like an old friend. There’s grace in making your own decisions. This decision is mine.”

  Bertha sighed and looked across the yard at the flaming building. She could hear the shouts of the firemen. There were low, hanging clouds. If the wind didn’t change, they’d be safe for a few more minutes. She decided to wait a just little longer.

  “So,” she said to Grandma, “you gonna share those potato chips?”

  Chapter Nine

  Rain came at first in large, intermittent drops.

  After Bertha pinched together the last crumbs from the bag of chips and sucked the grease and salt from her fingers, she stared out Grandma’s bedroom window waiting. She watched the bushes in front of the Latch house ignite while the firemen supported a hose aimed at the roof. The view was unsettling. Grandma’s dark bedroom grew warm, and the smell of smoke came and went with each wind change. Bertha fanned herself with a magazine and waited. She tried to remember where every piece of furniture was. Carrying the struggling old woman would be hard enough without tripping over a chair.

  A noise startled them. Though Bertha tried to sound calm, a jolt of adrenaline rendered her tone high-pitched. “What the hell was that?”

  “Sound like they turned the hose on us. They’re wetting down my roof.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good sign.”

  Grandma’s voice cracked. She coughed and said, “You should leave now.”

  Water cascaded down the side of the house and in through the open window. Bertha felt a few drops on her leg as a puddle spread on the linoleum floor. Then the spray stopped. The rain grew steadier and the firemen’s voices were farther away.

  A faint tapping sound startled Bertha. She leaned close to the open window but saw nothing.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Heard another noise.” The tapping turned to pounding. “I think someone’s at the door.”

  “Can’t be. No one knows we’re here.”

  “Maybe they’re just checking. I talked to Edith Latch on the way in.”

  “She all right?”

  “I’ve seen her better,” Bertha said, standing.

  A woman called Bertha’s name.

  “Come on. Let’s see who’s at the door.”

  “I’m not going to answer it,” Grandma said.

  Bertha listened as the door opened. A woman’s voice called, “Bertha, you in here?” A flashlight beam shot across the living room.

  “We’re in here,” Bertha called.

  Grandma took a swing at Bertha. Her open hand made a loud smack on Bertha’s moist
, bare arm. Bertha rubbed the stinging flesh, and the uniformed Toni Matulis stepped to the bedroom doorway, catching the two of them in the flashlight beam.

  “Damn police,” shouted Grandma. “Never there when you need ’em, but—”

  “What’s going on here?” Toni asked.

  Grandma grasped her walker and pulled herself to a standing position. Blinking slightly from the glare of the flashlight, she faced Toni. “The power’s out. I was sitting here in my bedroom, in the dark, with my granddaughter.”

  “Ma’am, you’ll have to leave these premises. There’s a fire—”

  “I know they’s a fire!” Grandma shrieked. “Don’t you think I can see?”

  “It’s not safe here,” Toni said.

  “This is my house, and I’m not leaving.” Grandma folded her arms across her chest, weaving unsteadily.

  Toni searched the expression on Bertha’s face.

  Bertha shook her head and shrugged.

  Toni said, “Ma’am if you don’t come with me peaceably, I will be forced to place you under arrest.” Toni slipped her handcuffs from her belt and glared at Grandma.

  Grandma turned to Bertha. “Are you going to let her do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Bertha nodded.

  Grandma held onto the walker and stamped her foot. “I think you better get some help if you intend to take me out of here.”

  “We need every able body fighting the fire,” Toni said. “How would you feel if someone got hurt because we pulled several men off their job to come in here?”

  Bertha could see Grandma thinking about that. Finally Grandma said, “Go on and fight the fire. Leave me be.”

  Toni squared her shoulders. Even though Bertha probably outweighed her by sixty pounds, Toni was still a lot bigger than Grandma. “Ma’am, you need to get out of this house right now. I can have two armed officers in here quickly. All I have to do is say the word.”

  “Come on, Grandma,” Bertha urged her. “If you won’t think of yourself, think of me. How’s it going to look for a lawyer to get in a fracas with the police?”

  “You can go if you want to.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  Grandma exhaled. Her shoulders slumped. She was quiet for a moment. Finally she pointed at Bertha and said, “Pick up that box you was sitting on.” She turned to Toni. “You get the other one.” The old woman picked up a quilt that was folded on the end of the double bed that she’d shared with Grandpa over twenty‑five years ago.

  The wedding-ring quilt was one Grandma’s mother had made and gave her as a wedding present. Sadness washed over Bertha as she watched Grandma hang the folded quilt across the bars of her walker and slowly, almost painfully, move toward the bedroom door.

  Bertha picked up the box she’d been sitting on. It was surprisingly heavy. She pulled Grandpa’s picture from the wall, waited for Toni to pick up the second box, then followed Grandma through the dark house. This time she didn’t trip on anything. Grandma knew the way.

  No armed officers waited outside. Everyone seemed to be down closer to the corner, where the fire had eaten away a great deal of the old structure. Charred beams loomed upward in the drizzling rain.

  Bertha looked at Toni as they stepped off the porch and said, “You could go to hell for lying.”

  Toni smiled. “I didn’t want to tackle your grandma. She looks pretty tough to me.”

  “How did you know we were in there?”

  “I saw you come this direction and talk to the neighbors. Then I lost track of you. When I realized you weren’t with the others and no one had seen your grandma, I figured you’d encountered a problem. It’s not so unusual, you know. I’ve seen people carried out kicking and screaming from worse messes than this.”

  Bertha nodded, blinked back tears, and croaked, “Thanks.”

  “How’s your arm? The old girl really cuffed you a good one.”

  “This is only the second time in my life she ever hit me.” Bertha tried to smile, but maintaining her composure was getting difficult.

  They set the boxes down on the tethered brick sidewalk that ran in front of Grandma’s house, and Bertha wiped her grimy hands on her cutoff jeans and looked around. There was some damage to Latch’s house, but the fire on the porch was out. The old grocery-store building was a heap of smoldering wood. Here and there Bertha could see orange embers and small flames.

  A television news van was parked by the police barricade, and a slender African-American man in a blue sports coat had the fire chief and Pop Wilson together. A young white man with a camera perched on his shoulder reminded Bertha of Alvin. The guy with the sports coat held a microphone in front of Pop. Several neighbors crowded under an assortment of umbrellas. Edith Latch in her soot-covered housecoat stood in the center of the group, her thin, white arm around Grandma’s frail shoulders. Bertha wondered how Grandma had gotten in the thick of things so quickly. She noticed that the old woman had on the same faded housedress she’d worn to the grocery store that morning. At least under Edith’s umbrella she was keeping dry. Grandma clutched her family quilt to her chest, and Mrs. Latch held onto Grandma. The two women had been neighbors for more than fifty years.

  Suddenly Grandma pulled away from Edith and stepped forward between Pop Wilson and the fire chief, kind of shoving them out of the way with her walker. She shook her finger at the newsman in the blue blazer. At first he smiled at her indulgently; then his expression changed. Grandma pointed at Edith Latch and then the smoldering remnants of the building. She shook her finger at the young man again. The newsman turned to Pop Wilson and asked a question. He held the microphone close to Pop’s double chin. Grandma looked at Pop and waited.

  Bertha started toward the scene.

  Toni Matulis touched her shoulder. “Let her go. This is her neighborhood. She’s upset.”

  Bertha stopped, not sure what to do. She was too tired to think about protocol. The cool rain was soaking her T‑shirt. A drop ran down her forehead and into her eye. She longed for something to blow her nose on. She stepped toward the group slowly and stopped within hearing range. Nobody was saying anything. The newsman stood with the microphone at Pop Wilson’s chin, waiting.

  Pop Wilson seemed to choose his words carefully. “I can’t confirm that. There will be an investigation.”

  The newsman thrust the microphone toward the fire chief and asked, “Is it possible that this fire was arson?”

  The fire chief looked at Pop Wilson nervously and then at Grandma, who seemed to be waiting. Finally he said, “It’s too soon to say. These old buildings go up pretty fast. We haven’t determined the cause. Our first concern was, of course, extinguishing the fire.”

  Grandma reached for the microphone and pulled it down to her. “There was an explosion. I heard it. Someone set that fire.” She glared at the fire chief and added, “If this rain hadn’t started, the whole neighborhood might have been leveled.”

  Pop held up his hand. “That’s enough for now.” He stepped between Grandma and the camera and turned his back.

  The man in the blue sports coat turned to the camera and said, “On the east side of town people are standing in the rain watching another building burn. The fire is the third one this year in the vicinity. A neighbor woman claims an explosion started the fire at 1901 East Grand, in what was the old Latch grocery store. Police are still investigating.”

  He then drew his finger across his throat, and the cameraman walked around Pop Wilson, filming first the crowd of neighbors, then the smoldering remains of the old store.

  Pop Wilson said, “Now, folks, it’s raining and the excitement’s over. I want anyone who has information about what happened to give their name to Officer Matulis over there. The rest of you go home and go to bed. Mrs. Latch and Mrs. Brannon, you come with me.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Henry,” Grandma said. “My things is sitting on the sidewalk in the rain. My mother’s quilt is getting wet. If you want to talk to me, come to my hou
se.”

  “Ms. Brannon,” Pop said. “The power is out and there’s too much smoke. Why don’t you take your mother’s quilt and sit in the police car?”

  Grandma turned and started moving toward home.

  Bertha said to Pop Wilson, “You can’t sit my eighty-one year old Grandma in a police car for several hours while you take a statement and the city reconnects her power. She’s already swallowed too much smoke, she’s wet from this rain, and she’s very upset.”

  “It’s for her own good, Bertha,” Pop said. “They don’t bring blankets and coffee and doughnuts to fires in this neighborhood. At least she’ll be out of the rain in my car.”

  Grandma called, “Bertha, please put my things back in the house.”

  Toni Matulis stepped in front of Grandma. “Mrs. Brannon, would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Get out of my way,” Grandma said.

  “We could all go to Joe‑Jo’s. It’s time for our break. I’ll buy you coffee and a sweet roll, and you can tell me about the explosion.”

  Bertha was surprised that a white woman knew about Joe‑Jo’s, a little café a few blocks away that stayed open all night serving breakfast to the folks who closed the neighborhood bars.

  Grandma looked at Bertha. “You coming with us?”

  Bertha nodded.

  “Put my things back in the house and lock the door.” She turned to Edith Latch. “You look like you could use some coffee. Nobody at that place will care if you still in your duster.”

  Edith Latch looked down at her housecoat, as if she realized for the first time that she wasn’t dressed.

  “Come on, Mrs. Latch,” Bertha said. “You can ride with me and Grandma and call your son from Joe‑Jo’s. He’s going to want to know what happened. You’ve got to talk to him before he sees it on the T.V.”

  Edith Latch turned her head slowly and looked up at Bertha. “I didn’t have nothing left in that building, you know. Jasper cleaned out the last of our stuff a week ago.”

  “That’s good.” Bertha was only half listening.

  Grandma stood by her boxes waiting as the rain grew livelier, pelting the sidewalk, stinging Bertha’s forehead.